by Jim Graham
46
River Line
Cummings put his hand in the air and stood still, head cocked, listening for something over the rush of water. Behind him, one of the Farm guards slipped, grabbed hold of Sparks’ arm and then cussed.
‘Filthy stuff,’ the guard muttered, sucking humid air into his under used lungs. ‘All this fuss, just for one man!’
Cummings clipped him around the side of his head with the back of a hand.
‘Shut up! And it’s three.’
Sparks smirked and shot a knowing look at Franks. That probably hurt more than my ankles.
As Cummings pushed on, he caught the sound again. It was another aircraft. It was coming from further downriver. He looked along the trees, waving everyone under cover. A few seconds later, a green light flashed past, this time a lot slower than the first. It banked, and disappeared behind them over the clearing.
Stepping out of cover, Cummings again looked for the tree that should jut out into the river. It would not be far away but he could not see one to fit the description.
The net came to life again.
‘ISRA is claiming ignorance, Cummings.’ It was the local head of security; one of Petroff’s direct reports. ‘All of their ORF assets are accounted for. They’re saying the interceptor isn’t theirs. And they aren’t green.’
Cummings was not buying it. He stopped wading. He waved at Sparks and the others to catch up.
‘I hear you, sir, but there are two of them now. Another one just made a pass. Mr Petroff was convinced something like this might happen.’
‘Well, I hate to say this, but he’s wrong. Earth didn’t even know the rebellion is underway: our messages weren’t getting through.’
‘How can that be?’ Cummings asked incredulously. ‘It’s been two days since their first strike.’ He tried to make a more accurate calculation. It was at least 36 hours.
‘Maybe so, but given a whole line of buoys went missing—both here and elsewhere—its no surprise. But look, Cummings, while ISRA works on the network, Welwyn’s police commissioner is sending a couple of First Response Teams your way. And he’s made something very clear: when they arrive, it’s their show. And be careful: they’ll want to know why the rebels are targeting the Farm. Spin them a yarn. A good one.’
As Welwyn spoke, Cummings continued to caste his eyes up and down the river, hoping the tree was close. He was getting angry. He didn’t like what he was hearing. Police? That did not help. He wanted to find Scatkiewicz and squirrel him away so Petroff could to talk to him directly, and privately: not under some human rights-mandated caution. And they would have to keep the police out of the Farm’s lower levels. No one was meant to know about them. No one. Petroff would have his butt served on a sizzling hotplate if its purpose leaked out. He stumbled, steadied himself and pushed on.
‘What about this second aircraft?’ he asked a little testily. ‘Can’t you track it? Pick up their transponder code?’
‘We aren’t getting anything, Cummings. There’s only the ISRA code that Muldrow picked up, and we’re guessing he only picked that up because they wanted us to know about it. But—hang on ... we’ve got the regulator on the other line ...’
There was a short pause.
‘Looks like they were testing some new GCE Furtives over on Alba ... they say they might look green in normal light ... but they’re a hundred light years away and they’re not ftl enabled.’
Cumming’s mind raced. Alba? The Asians? Then it clicked.
‘Bounce a message back to Petroff. Tell him the V4 headed for Alba and that it might have come back. Ask ISRA to follow up. And if that RAV of mine hasn’t left yet, make sure they’re wearing sonics and glass plate: front and back. They’ll be useless to me without them.’
The head of security did not get a chance to respond. Cummings cut the link. He could hear Muldrow screaming again on the other frequency: he was going down. Immediately afterwards, the Farm’s watch commander was shouting at him through his other earpiece: a second aircraft was hovering along the forest’s edge and they were taking laser fire from above.
Cummings slapped the water in frustration and then broke off the search. He showered Sparks with river water as he surged past him and waded back towards the clearing.
‘Follow me, and at the double.’
47
The Tree Line
There was a slight thump. The rear door sprang open. A disoriented Smithy fell out into a patch of flattened grass. He found his footing and stumbled into the forest, clutching his PIKL to his chest.
Bales watched Day’s impressive display of suppressive PIKL fire. The compound’s rooftop weatherproofing began to smoulder under the barrage of laser strikes. An occasional pulsed-energy strike caused blue fingers to run along the balcony railings and arc across the open space between the compound and the outer fencing. There was only a single blue line of defiance, and it came from the main gate, a hundred and fifty metres away. It bounced harmlessly off the cockpit glass in front of him.
Bales engaged the downward thrusters and aimed the nose of his Furtive at the Main Gate. He raised his left flightcontrolskin and pressed the middle finger against the thumb. He pressed down for a short 2000-round burst, pulling his fingers apart as quickly as he could.
The main gate disintegrated into an expanding dust cloud. Large chunks of concrete flew off to bounce across the roof and into the clearing. A breeze then pushed the cloud towards him, obscuring the view.
Bales lowered his left hand and allowed the Furtive to settle back onto the ground.
Day was right. The rail gun was a beaut. He marvelled at how the GCE had engineered something so powerful—yet so smooth, quiet and with so little kick-back. The Furtive had hummed as he fired; it barely vibrated.
He checked behind him. The rear engines had powered up in synch with the rail gun to steady the ship. The edge of the forest smouldered. Perhaps he should have warned Smithy about that. He hoped he was OK.
Bales looked up the clock. 30 seconds. No movement out front that he could see, but then the dust cloud was making its way across to him. He raised the nose again and gave the main gate another short burst. The dust cloud thickened. He looked back over his left shoulder at the forest. Nothing.
45 seconds. He looked again. There was still no sign of Smithy, just the smoking trees and a thin dusting of powdered masonry.
50 seconds. There was a rap on the side of the hull. He looked up at the monitor. It was Smithy with another much taller man, both of them holding their hands over their mouths. It must be Goosen.
He popped the rear door.
‘What about the other guy?’ Bales shouted over his shoulder.
‘Couldn’t make it,’ Cummings replied, PIKL arm outstretched. He leaned in and held the end of the barrel just behind Bales’ head. He flicked the switch to maximum power. Bales froze when he heard it whine in his right ear. ‘Hands where I can see them,’ Cummings ordered. ‘And kill the engine.’
48
Killing Fields
Goosen had lowered himself directly into the water below the tree. He was too tired to climb through the mangrove, and in any case, he was not that agile. It was Bing who had told him to make himself scarce, pssting repeatedly at him as he headed off. On following Bing’s finger, he saw the Lynthax crew standing along the river line, facing back upriver. He sank to his neck and moved slowly under a tangle of low branches.
He watched them head off, and decided to follow, but he could not keep up. They were in a hurry, racing towards the sounds of an aircraft at the hover, and the thundering cracks of concrete exploding apart. Eventually the security team pulled out of sight.
As the trees thinned out, Goosen broke away from the river and into the forest but not by much. The canopy was silent, the water clearer. He wanted to keep things that way.
He glanced around to get his bearings. He saw the airbed, but it was afloat, spinning in slow circles as the floodwaters pushed deeper into the forest, swirled between th
e trees and washed the hidden pools clear of blood.
There were no other markers. Goosen did not recognise the place. It looked like he would have to find where Rolf had entered the forest: from there he could work out where he had scooped him up.
He must have lost the transponder there. If not there, then he had no chance of finding it again. He did not have the energy to traipse all the way back to where Rolf had stolen away in the night.
The unnatural noises out front died away, leaving only the sounds of urgent shouting. Goosen put a huge tree between him and the source of the shouts and waded very slowly towards it. Kneeling in water at the base of the tree, he took a breath. He trembled. He reminded himself he was unarmed and unprotected. He had to be careful. He steadied himself, took a last look behind him and up at the forest canopy. Then he leaned out.
There was an odd-looking aircraft—more a discarded specimen jar—sitting on the long, scorched grass some twenty metres or so out from the wood line. It faced a rocky area a few hundred metres further out in a large clearing. Its rear door was open. Someone was lying face down in the shallow water at its rear. An impressively built guard was issuing instructions over his radio while pointing a PIKL at the back of the man’s head. He was favouring one of his legs. There was pain in his voice. Another guard was pulling someone out of the aircraft. Three others stood back, covering them.
A flash caught his eye. He looked further out into the clearing. He saw the small concrete structure on top of the rocky outcrop. An occasional blue line scythed across it. Every few seconds there was the crackling pop of a pulsed-energy strike. He looked up but could not see a second aircraft through the forest overhang. But there had to be one.
Goosen did not know what to make of it.
He watched the limping guard stoop down and grab the man on the floor by his scruff. The guard dragged him to his knees, let go and then ordered him to get to his feet. As the man rose, the guard pushed him towards a colleague.
Another guard waved them forward and they disappeared around the front of the aircraft.
Goosen got to his knees and crawled further up the wood line to get a better look. He passed the rear of the aircraft and noticed the trees behind it were charred. He moved on a few more metres, looking for a place with a view. He was no longer wading. The water was not so deep here, but it was still rising.
He found a fallen branch. Peering out from under it, he searched for them again.
This time he noticed the red hair and recognised the walk.
It was Smithy!
He stared at the back of his friend’s head for a few moments. Then it sunk in. Scat had come back for them!
Goosen’s face lit up.
He could hardly contain himself.
Without thinking, he slapped the ground with a hand. It splashed in water. The noise checked him. He looked up to see if any of the guards had heard.
Nope.
He looked back into the forest, wondering where the transponder was.
But then it dawned on him. His friend had come back only to be caught.
He looked out at the clearing again. The guards were moving off. They were walking away, towards the rocky outcrop. And they were taking Smithy and his friend with them.
Then there was a screeching-from-hell sound and the rocky outcrop exploded into a tonne of dust. An aircraft dropped down from the sky and nosed its way closer to the guards. A guard fired his PIKL at it. The aircraft fired back.
The rescue, if that was what it was, was not going that well.
Day stopped rail gunning the compound and manoeuvred lower to face the group crossing the clearing. He laid down a line of PIKL fire across their path, then rotated the Furtive towards the compound and hammered it again with another line of solid shot. The right half of the building disintegrated into concrete powder. A returning line of PIKL fire bounced harmlessly off their cockpit glass.
Khan tried to speak. He had not fully appreciated the rigours of air combat. His face was almost white. His eyes had sunk into his skull. There was vomit down the side of his seat. Then there was the knowledge he was sitting atop a 250,000 rounds per minute rail gun and all its ammunition. But when he saw what Day was up to he had to find his voice.
‘Please be careful, Alf, won’t you?’ he implored. ‘They may not understand what it is you want them to do.’
‘They will,’ Day replied.
He yawed the furtive back to face the security team.
Below them and only 40 metres away, the security team edged uncertainly forward, pushing the two rebels ahead of them.
Again Day trained the PIKL across their path and fired a series of low energy shots out towards the river. He then swung back towards the compound and again let the rail gun rip. This time the far corner of the compound exploded into dust.
Franks and Sparks stopped in their tracks. There was no cover close by. Their PIKLs had no effect on the vicious glass bullet in the sky. Cummings waved them on, increasingly annoyed at their hesitation. He looked up at the aircraft and saw it swing back to aim itself at them for a third time.
This time the laser strike hit the ground close to his feet. He jumped back and swore. He grabbed Smithy more firmly by the collar and held him closer. The aircraft rotated back to the compound and took yet another chunk out its roof. This time the firing continued for four or five seconds. Dust billowed up to obscure the compound completely.
‘They’re sending us a message, sir.’ Sparks noted, crouching in the grass, but not quite kneeling. ‘We ain’t supposed to go that way.’
‘I get that, Sparks,’ Cummings replied, sounding somewhat vexed. He looked up at what remained of the compound’s top structure and then back at the Furtive. ‘But the two of us can play silly beggars.’
He pushed Smithy down onto his knees.
‘Let’s see if they know how to play chicken. And who eats the most red meat.’ He pointed his PIKL at Bales and looked up at the Furtive. ‘Bring that one over here, Sparks. Quickly!
Sparks dragged Bales across. Cummings grabbed a handful of shirt and drew him close. Sparks stood behind them both. The Farm guards backed away.
Franks saw what Cummings was going to do. He looked up at the Furtive and hoped it would get the hint and back off. But it did not move.
‘Sir, you can’t do that,’ he implored. ‘It would be murder.’
Cummings looked over to him, his face reddening with anger and pain.
‘Don’t question me, boy. Just follow my lead.’
‘But you can’t, sir.’
‘I can. And I will. Do as you’re told and stay where you are.’ Cummings looked back up at the Furtive, staring it down. He stepped back from Smithy a short distance, dragging Bales with him. He brought his PIKL up and aimed it at Smithy’s back.
‘No, sir. You can’t.’
Cummings caught sight of Franks taking a couple of steps towards him. He turned to face him and pointed his PIKL at him in warning. Franks saw Cumming’s PIKL coming around at him and instinctively raised his own. Cummings fired.
Franks dropped to the floor as though the ground had opened. Blue arcs shot out from his body and into the grass, setting it alight. Cummings swung back to point the PIKL at Smithy’s back.
Enough of this nonsense!
Khan turned in his seat.
‘My God, Alf. You should pull away. He’s going to do it, isn’t he?’
Day watched the tall guard bring his graf up to his mouth. A voice sounded over the ISRA net.
‘Whoever you are: don’t doubt me. I will shoot him. You’ve five seconds to pull away.’
The man stepped forward, pushed Smithy to the ground with a foot, and took a step back again. Day saw Smithy lean forward onto his two hands and hang his head.
‘Please don’t,’ Smithy said, quietly. ‘Please don’t.’
Cummings could not hear him over the sound of the Furtive’s engines, but he did see his head turn and his mouth move.
‘No
use pleading, rebel. Your life is in your friends’ hands now.’ Cummings looked up at the Furtive, again counting down from five. ‘Time’s up,’ he noted.
Smithy hung his head again, this time to hide his moistening eyes. He wiped them into the crook of his arm. The ground in front of him was clearer now. Everything was in focus.
The grass grew in twisted clumps.
Little insects ran between them; insects he had never seen before.
The earth beneath him was yellow in colour.
He noticed the freckles on the back of his hands.
It was odd he should notice these things now.
Behind him, he heard Bales pleading for his life to be spared; the whine of the PIKL over the roar of the Furtive’s engines; the crunch of a boot grinding on stones.
So these are the last things I’m going to see and hear—
Then there was nothing.
‘Oh, my God!’ He did it.’ Khan said to himself. Below them the guard put his PIKL to Bales’ head in a dramatic gesture of defiance. Khan grabbed Day’s arm. ‘Pull away. Pull away!’
The guard grew increasingly confident. He made Bales kneel, looked up at the Furtive and made a shooing motion with his free hand.
Day weighed up his options. There were few. He could rail gun them all to dust, but the result would still be the same. Bales would die. He looked at Khan.
‘Maybe we should. For now, eh?’ He swung the Furtive to starboard just as a proximity warning sounded off. ‘We’ve got company, anyway.’
Khan did not hear him. He was still looking at Smithy’s prostrate body in the burning grass. Then the g-force pushed him back into his seat and snatched the view away. Day’s voice sounded distant.
‘Three bogies, inbound. Let’s go find that other chap.’
Goosen watched the aircraft fly off. It took a few seconds for him to appreciate what might have happened. But he could not trust himself. He was tired. He had hallucinated at least once in the past few hours. He shook his head. He looked again.
The aircraft was leaving. There was now only the one prisoner. They were leaving the other one behind, lying somewhere in the grass.
Goosen crawled from cover and out into the clearing, groping his way forward over sharp stones and tangled weeds.
He found his friend lying face down, water just beginning to lap at his boots. He dropped down to kneel next to him, placing a hand gently on his scorched back. Slowly, Goosen began to rock back and forth, breathing increasingly jerky breaths. He felt a rage welling up inside of him. It was a disturbing sensation. There was also the intense frustration of being unarmed, alone and helpless.
He roared and then bit his lip.
He rose up off his haunches and looked out across the grass. No one had heard him. No one up ahead was looking back at him.
He sat back and continued to rock. This anger and frustration was a heady mix. He felt himself losing control. For the first time in his life, he really did want to kill someone, and this time not to protect a life but to avenge it. He wanted to race out and put his hands around that man’s neck. He wanted to crush the man’s throat, watch his face go blue. He wanted to take the beggar to-and-from hell several times before finally sending him on his way. He swore it.
Then he remembered Bing and Rolf. He stopped rocking and looked up at the sky. He still had two people to get out of harm’s way before making good on his promise.
He sucked in deeply and prepared to move.
He rose slowly, but this time he felt strong. He threw Smithy over his shoulder; he did not feel heavy. He trotted back into the forest; his legs no longer ached.
Vengeance drove him on.
So this is how Scat does it, he thought. This is how he became unstoppable. I wonder if he sees the world through a red mist all of the time.
Goosen shook his head. It did not matter. There were things to do: he would find the transponder; he would get Bing and Rolf out of the forest; and then he would come back here.
He would come back to settle a score.
He would come back to kill.
49
The Forest
Goosen dropped Smithy’s body onto the discarded airbed, slapped the lid closed and pulled it across to where he thought Rolf had entered the forest. He dropped to his knees, and thrust his hands into the water. Behind him the bed began to drift slowly away.
He continued grabbing grass, the occasional root, the odd drowned rat. Goosen dared to pick one up. He noticed how incredibly light it was, even though it was wet. He looked into its still open eyes and then looked it over. More like a warm-blooded spider, he thought, with fly-type eyes; no eye lids. Its small mouth was peeled back in a snarl exposing a vicious set of teeth. The front two legs were built more for clamping; the others ended in small web-like paws. Well, it might not be a spider, but it certainly was not a rat. This thing gave rats a bad rap. He tossed it over his shoulder and plunged his hands below the water again.
Nothing.
He adjusted his position and felt something under his knee. He felt for it and pulled it up. It was a glove. Inside of it were the remains of a hand. He dropped it in disgust.
He shook his head. This was getting him no where. He stood up and looked around. The transponder was designed to float. Perhaps it had been swept away. He tried to follow the flow of water through the forest. He looked for anything with a shine to it, anything man-made.
A dull glint of metal beckoned him across to the base of a tree some ten metres away. He waded across to it, knelt down, and peered into its tangled roots. There was the glint again. He reached in and pulled out a flat, notebook-sized transponder, trailing a foot of wire. He turned it over, looking for a switch. The red light was already blinking.
He dropped it into his breast pocket, buttoned the flap down and raced across to the airbed.
‘We got it, Smithy,’ he said quietly, looking over his shoulder as he hauled the airbed along. ‘We got it. We’re on our way home.’
50
Dragon Park.
Goosen heard it as he broke out onto the river. He then felt its downdraft. Above him a shiny green aircraft edged closer, slowly getting lower as it turned its nose away. A cable whipped around below it. A man stuck his head out of its rear door. He was waving.
‘Hook it on. Hook it on,’ the man shouted, almost inaudibly.
Goosen grasped at it, saw it had a hook on the end and wondered where to attach it. The bed had no grips.
The man above him made a weak, looping motion around his waist. Goosen understood, but he was not going to leave Smithy behind. He fed it under the bed and hooked it back on itself.
As soon as the cable was attached, the bed rose from the water. It hung at an angle and spun, Goosen clinging to it with a leg tucked into the line just below the hook.
Eventually, Khan’s face stared at him, his skin ghostly pale, and his eyes almost completely unfocused.
‘Hop on,’ Khan said, trying to pull at him. ‘You’ll have to ditch that, though. Sorry. We have very little room, as you can see.’
Goosen pushed him aside as he clambered on board and found a place to kneel at the back of the Furtive. He shook his head.
‘It’s Smithy. Help me get him out of there.’
The body was not easy to drag across. And, when Smithy was on board, they took turns trying to free the bed. It would not unhook and kept spinning. Goosen quit trying. He looked at the base of the winch and found the cable release button. Pulling a weak-looking Khan clear, he pressed down. The bed dropped into the river, disappeared, bobbed back to the surface and drifted downriver, dragging with it a hundred metres of ultra fine cabling.
‘Where’s Bing?’ Khan asked as they closed the door.
Goosen tried to orientate himself. He leaned forward over the back seats and looked through the cockpit glass. He pointed.
‘In that tree—there.’ He nodded hello to the pilot and then slapped Khan on the shoulder. Khan winced.
‘Wh
at the hell’s wrong with you, Khoffi?’ Goosen asked. ‘You look like crap.’
Day cut the celebrations short.
‘Take a seat, please, sir. Things to do, still. And I need my flight attendant up front. We’re a little heavy in the butt, if you get my drift.’
Khan struggled over the back seat and dropped into the co-pilot seat. He buckled up.
‘Do it Birdie and quickly,’ he advised. ‘Alfie, here, doesn’t fly in a straight line.’
Bing had not killed Rolf. They had been talking or at least Rolf had rambled on through a high fever. He still was.
‘Listen to him, Birdie: sounds like he’s confessing all of his sins. If you listened to his blathering you’d think he was a regular guy, family and all.’
Rolf’s condition looked hopeless. Inside the Furtive, Goosen had tried to set up an IV but could not find a vein. The man needed fluids but water just poured back out of his mouth, almost drowning him. He needed pain killers as well, but there were only tablets. As they waited for the Bright Star to appear, Goosen sat watching the man die. He was taking a long time.
Rolf opened his eyes and tried to move his head. He sensed Goosen’s presence.
‘Did you get it?’ he asked, weakly.
‘Get what, Rolf?’
‘The Farm.’
‘The farm?’ Goosen asked. He had not seen a farm. It must be more of his ramblings. He humoured him. ‘No, not yet, Rolf. We’ve been busy. It’s next on the agenda. We’re going back to collect a few things. Then we’ll go back and “get” it.’
Rolf stopped trying to move. He was propped up between the back seat and the rear door. It had been a hellish ride into orbit and everything hurt. He spoke slowly. He was bathed in sweat and still shivered.
‘OK. Later, then. Pity. You know, Goosen, I can feel my chest drying up. The skin’s crackling when I breath. I’ve seen it before.’
‘Seen what, Rolf?’ Bing asked.
‘This.’
‘This what? The infection?’
‘Yes. The way the skin starts to die. This isn’t because I drank infected water. It’s no tummy bug. I’ve seen it before: here on Constitution. It’s always fatal.’
Goosen could not respond to that. Rolf’s body was shutting down. The infection that had taken hold through his wounds was running riot. All Goosen could do was try to give him some hope.
‘We’ll be on the Bright Star soon, Rolf. Try hanging on for a while longer, eh? Someone can take a better look at you.’
Rolf tried to shake his head.
‘Thanks, Goosen. They can try,’ he replied. He waved a hand weakly in front of him. ‘It won’t matter, though. But, look, while we wait for that, how about I dish up some dirt on Petroff?’ He gasped in some air and put a hand on Goosen’s leg. ‘If you promise to pass it all on to my two girls, I can give you stuff on Lynthax as well.’
Goosen did not understand.
‘You want me to tell your wife and kid about Petroff?’
‘Yes. I mean personal stuff ... about Petroff ... but also the Lynthax stuff—stuff they’d rather forget about.’ His head dropped, but came back up quickly. It looked as though Rolf was digging deep, though a lot of pain. ‘Let the old girl know, eh? She’ll find a way to get a few pounds of flesh out of him.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘It was meant to be our pension. But she doesn’t know about it, see? Nor why I worked for him. So you’ll have to set the record straight, OK, Goosen. Do you promise?’
Rolf’s voice trailed away then sprang back in a panic as it dawned on him there were no second chances. He had to finish; he had to say it all. Goosen crabbed closer and placed his ear a few inches from Rolf’s mouth.
‘And promise you’ll keep my family safe. ... Keep the beggar away from them’
‘I promise.’
‘And you’ll be careful how you use it.’
‘Of course.’
Rolf nodded slowly, smiling to himself. He was as close to peace now as he had been for a decade or more.
‘I wrote it all down ... Kept logs ... Different places.’ He said, looking up at Goosen. He then offered him the biggest prize of them all: ‘Let’s start with the Farm ...’
51
Buoy Network, Constitution
Khan floated through the backdoor nudging Goosen aside before spinning off to bounce against the Starflyer’s rear bulkhead. Scat followed his travels, looking somewhat amused. Bing went to stop him bouncing around any further.
‘Doesn’t fly well, does he Birdie?’ Scat noted, making way for a couple of rebels to pull Rolf from the rear door well. They threaded him feet first into a silver heat wrap and then hauled him into the small passenger cabin. Goosen watched him go before answering.
‘He does alright, Scat. I think Day was trying to impress him on the way down, that’s all. It was a remarkably smooth ride back.’
‘OK. So! This Rolf character: he’s been talking. Let’s hear it.’
Goosen rattled off the basics, outlined his medical condition and finished with the Farm.
‘It’s everything you wanted, Scat. It’ll cause Lynthax irreversible damage. It’s in an out-of-the-way place so no civilians get in the way. It hits Petroff right where it hurts.’
Scat nodded.
‘No chance this guy is slipping us a split condom, is there?’ he asked.
‘None. I can tell when someone’s acting, Scat. Even if this guy was a dedicated corporate, he’s too weak with fever to make this all up, and then stay consistent. No: the guy wants Petroff. He wants the man hurt. He’s given us the means to do it.’
Scat let out a long breath, blowing out his cheeks. Goosen could see it was a heavily disguised sigh of relief. Up and until Rolf had let on about the Farm, the trip to Constitution was nothing but a failure. Scat had over-stretched and he had lost assets: a member of the original rebel crew in Smithy, and a fairly decent pilot in Bales. All they had to show for it was an ISRA starflyer and its one remaining interceptor. They certainly had not dealt Lynthax the mortal blow he had anticipated. That blow was aimed at its information. Without it, Lynthax was an also-ran company. But now ...
‘Fair do’s, Birdie. We’ll jump back in and take the place out. Day’ll need a new co-pilot, though,’ he added, looking over his shoulder at a semi-comatose Khan. ‘Are you up to it?’
‘Try holding me back, Scat. I’ve got a score of my own to settle as well. Smithy was ... well, he was ...’
‘A good friend.’ Scat finished for him.
‘A good drinker, Scat. Had an impeccable palette. I’ll never know a 15- from 18-year-old whisky. Smithy always made sure I was drinking the right stuff.’
‘And he was a good friend, Birdie.’
Goosen looked at the floor.
‘That as well, Scat.’
Goosen squashed himself into the front seat. Day was busy bashing the dashboard to keep the display working.
‘Is the man-with-the-name-I-can’t-mention up for it, Birdie,’ he asked, ‘or do we need to sign a mission statement, make a written case, rehearse a presentation and book the briefing room,? By the way,’ he added, ‘why does he insist on being named after a pile of poop?’
Goosen chuckled.
‘His full name, Alf, is Sebastian Scatkiewicz, and we’re good to go. Scat’s usually quick to rule on these sorts of things.’
‘Splendid. I’m taking a shine to him already. Just don’t ask me to pronounce Scatkeskit, or whatever. Or call him ‘Poop’. Doesn’t seem right.’
Goosen grinned.
‘Just finish with the fuel and ammo, Alf. We’ll be off as soon as we jump back in. Scat’s just a little wary of the local starflyer. We may need to lengthen our approach a little.’
Day pointed to the electronic message board above their heads.
‘Yes. I see. I’ve been reading their correspondence. Looks like ISRA’s got its knickers in a twist. Doesn’t know whether to hold our hand or to take us out. ... Oh!’
Goosen looked up.
‘I
t appears they’ve made up their minds, Birdie. That last message was our final warning. Next time we show our faces, we’re dead meat.’
Below them there was a sudden roar. Goosen almost jumped out of his seat.
‘Nothing to worry about, Birdie,’ Day shouted over the noise. ‘That’s just the re-load.’
Goosen settled back down. Scat then leaned over between them. Goosen did not know whether he was supposed to vacate the seat.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not coming,’ Scat said, patting Goosen on the shoulder. ‘Just want to wish you luck. And Day: sorry about Bales.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to pass that on.’ It was said without a hint of sarcasm. Day meant it. He obviously had every intention of speaking to his ex-sergeant again. ‘We’re ready when you are.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Scat said. ‘Bring up the planet.’ Day worked the flightcontrolskin on his left hand. Constitution appeared on the cockpit glass. ‘Pull out.’ Day zoomed out. Scat pointed to a satellite. ‘We’ll meet you there in two hours. So, mark it and keep a track of it. Two hours should give you more than enough time to loiter, dodge a bullet or two, and get the job done. OK, Day?’
‘Absolutely ... sir. I like even numbers.’
‘And I’ll send Bing back to brief you on any of the last minute stuff once we’ve jumped back in and looked around.’ He slapped Goosen on the shoulder again. ‘You go on my order only. Come home in one piece.’
52
The Farm
Cummings hobbled across the rubble-strewn clearing and over to the Roland Assault Vehicle. Behind him, three Welwyn police officers accompanied a heavily bruised Sergeant Bales to a waiting police helicopter.
It did not matter that the police did not believe Cummings when he claimed the rebel’s injuries were related to the arrest. Although Bales was claiming brutality, Cummings simply denied it. He would deal with the inquiry when it came up. By then everyone would be on the same page, including Sparks.
Bales had offered nothing up. He even claimed it was a rescue mission. Finally, and out of time, Cummings had given in. Now it was just a matter of keeping the Farm’s secrets safe from ISRA. He had pandered to the police’s every request but refused them entry to the compound’s lower levels. In the meantime, as a precaution, and as a temporary measure, everything was boxed up and readied for the short trip to one of the Park’s other abandoned farms. He expected the police to return with a warrant. They were intrigued as to why the rebels would want to attack an abandoned farm, and why it was protected by such a large security detail: it was not listed as a commercial facility, just as a rural retreat. Yes, they would be back, unless Petroff could pull strings.
Even ISRA was asking questions. It did not help that they were also dithering over what to do about their rogue starflyer, despite it dropping into and jumping out of space around the wrong planet.
‘Ready?’ Cummings asked, leaning on his stick, peering into the RAV’s passenger cabin. It would be a tight squeeze. The boxes were piled high. There was room for maybe three or four people.
‘Just a couple more, sir,’ Sparks replied from just inside the door. ‘They’re on their way.’ He pointed behind Cummings to a couple of the station staff who struggled across the clearing carrying a box each.
‘Good. They’ll be back. That Bales character was lying through his teeth.’
‘Yes, sir. What about the rest of them?’ Again Sparks pointed to the two carrying boxes. ‘We’ve room for four at a squeeze.’
There were the 10 regular staff and 20 security personnel if you did not include the newly arrived troopers that had flown in on the RAV.
‘I’ll send them into the woods, Sparks. They’ve sonics. We’ll send this thing back for them when we’re done.’
Sparks looked over towards the river. It was still swollen.
‘That’ll be some comfort to them, sir,’ he said, slightly sarcastically. ‘Are we leaving our rad-armour behind? It’ll help a few of them.’
Cummings inclined his head. He did not speak.
‘OK, sir. I guess not.’
‘They’re doorstops, Cummings. They’ll find a place to take a nap and they won’t know anything about it.’
‘And ours?’
‘Sparks, why are you so interested? You’ve got a seat. Be grateful. I can’t conjure up assets out of thin air. This is it.’
‘Yes, sir. Just clearing my conscience. That’s all. Are we taking him?’
Cummings spun around. Matheson was half walking, half running across to them.
‘Good,’ the older man said as he arrived. ‘Enough room, I see.’
‘Not for you, Matheson. My guys only,’ Cummings replied. ‘The company will send transport out for you a little later.’ He turned away and watched the last of the boxes go on board.
‘Actually, Cummings. I know Petroff personally. We’re club members, him and me. We always get to ride, even if it means bumping someone else.’
‘I don’t think so, Matheson. Not on this occasion.’
‘But I do think so, Cummings.’ Matheson edged in closer and turned his back on Sparks. He spoke quietly. ‘You do want someone to speak highly of you when this thing is done with, don’t you? Someone of rank, that is. From what I see, it’s been a right mess. You might just need a little talking up. I could be your insurance policy, Cummings. A word in Petroff’s ear could go a long way.’
Cummings pursed his lips and held his stare. Under the circumstances it would not hurt to be talked up. He certainly would not want to leave this beggar behind only to rubbish him if he survived.
‘Sparks. Get me a couple of the yellow-coded boxes. Bring them out here.’
Sparks kicked two boxes out onto the ground beside the Roland, just as its engines started to turn.
‘Mr Matheson, sir, please pull them further away,’ Cummings requested, making it obvious he could not very well carry them himself.
Matheson pulled the two boxes a few metres from the RAV and walked back. Cummings waited until he was clear, and unslung his PIKL. Seconds later both boxes gave off gases and then burst into flames.
Cummings gave Matheson a reluctant look and inclined his head towards the RAV door.
‘Hop in. And be quick,’ he told him.
He was in a hurry to get away.
53
The Farm
The Furtive loitered unseen some 20,000 metres above the Farm. Day and Goosen studied a series of stills from the surveillance camera mounted alongside the PIKL cupola. The constant banking was making Goosen feel sick.
The compound was a pile of rubble. Several aircraft had set down outside the compound perimeter. Two of them looked like standard police patrol helicopters. The other was a Lynthax security Roland Assault Vehicle.
Goosen pointed at the heads-up. He could see three policemen walking to one of the choppers. There was a man in the middle of them, his hands behind his back.
‘Your man’s still alive, Alf!’
Day had already noticed. He smiled.
‘I expected nothing else, Birdie. He’s probably done another deal. You know, he adapts very quickly to changing circumstances. He has the talent—’
‘Hold, it Alf,’ Goosen said, interrupting him. He pointed to a man in the right-hand top corner of the screen. ‘Can you bring him in a bit?’
Two men stood next to the RAV. Someone was throwing something out onto the ground.
Goosen leaned in and looked more closely at one of the men: the taller one.
‘Is that a walking stick?’
Day squinted. He tried adjusting the magnification.
‘Can’t say, Old Bean. You’ve good eyes. It could be.’
Goosen leaned back. It was a stick. He was certain of it. A man with a bad leg needs a stick. What were the chances there were two of them in a place like this?
He doubted there were.
The next still image flashed up. The man was gone, something was burning, and the RAV was leaning forward
, just clearing the right of frame.
‘Expand the image, quickly.’
Day expanded the fingers of his right hand. The camera pulled out to show the surrounding area.
The RAV was airborne. The man was definitely gone. Lynthax was abandoning ship. The beggar who had killed Smithy was on his way back to civilisation.
‘Right! Take that RAV out. Do it now!’ Goosen demanded.
‘But we’re after the Farm, Birdie, not some 10-year-old Roland.’
‘We come back for it.’ Goosen replied. He stared at Day, waiting for a response. Day looked uncertain. ‘Get a move on!’ Goosen urged. ‘Get the beggar before he slips away.’
Day looked back at him. He cocked his head in query.
‘I want that bastard, Alf,’ Goosen explained. ‘He’s the one who killed Smithy.’
Day nodded, appreciating why Goosen’s priorities had changed. He would do the same for Bales, but Scat had made it clear not to engage anything other than Lynthax’ assets. Nothing civilian and no police—not even ISRA’s interceptors, should any appear. Day’s own man, Bales, was destined for a cell and there was nothing he could do for him.
‘Very well, Birdie. I’m happy to oblige. Hold on to something.’
Day tipped the Furtive into a dive. Goosen felt his cheeks ripple as the G-force pushed him into his seat. The ground rose to meet them. He tried to say something.
‘Jeeeeze ...’
In seconds, the Furtive swung back to the horizontal, skimming the forest canopy. Goosen’s innards dropped to his legs. He blacked out for a few seconds. The pressure suit was not especially useful. As blood found his head again he leaned forward and threw up.
‘Sheeee ...’
Day pulled hard to port and fell in behind the RAV as the awkward looking aircraft continued to gain altitude. He slowed abruptly. Goosen flew forward against his seat restraints.
‘Faaaar ...’ It sounded like a grunt.
Day unleashed a second’s worth of solid shot. The Furtive quivered. The air out front misted. The top blew off the RAV’s rear end.
Goosen was again pushed back into his seat. They shot passed the RAV as it wobbled and rolled to starboard.
‘Is that it, Alf? Did it go down?’ Goosen asked, weakly, unable to look out of the window.
‘If you had your eyes open Birdie, you’d have seen we winged it. I’ll wait and see what happens next. There’s no point in wasting ammo, is there? There’s still the compound.’
Goosen opened his eyes and nodded. The ammo was lined up solid shot first, high explosive, or HE, next, and incendiary last. From what Rolf had told them, they needed to drill a long way down to reach the vaults.
‘Then use the PIKL,’ Goosen suggested.
‘Can’t, Old Boy,’ Day replied. ‘Pointless. That Roland might be a crappy air-rider, but at least it’s hardened.’
Day flipped the Furtive over in a tight loop to bring them in to face the RAV, head on. It was losing altitude over the forest, but it was still under control. Whoever was driving the thing was doing a fine job of it.
‘It’ll need another clipping, Birdie,’ Day observed. ‘Pity.’
They flashed past and looped back again. This time they came in closer, but slightly higher, on its tail.
Goosen could see inside the RAV’s rear compartment. Its cargo was shredded. There were holes all the way through to its underside, some of them large enough for a man to drop through. It trailed a line of broken boxes and loose debris behind it. Still, the RAV flew on.
Day dropped the nose for a second and fired another burst. The right side of the RAV blew away.
‘Now, I defy that thing to stay in the air after that,’ Day declared, sounding very satisfied with himself.
It didn’t. The RAV’s forward speed bled away. It stalled and dropped towards a cutting in the canopy. The nose went down and it picked up speed. As it descended towards the canopy, the nose began to rise again. But it was too late.
Day applied the air brakes and followed it down.
‘It’s ditching on water,’ Day noted.
‘Strafe the thing again, Alf,’ Goosen said.
‘Sorry, Birdie. We’ve to go after the Farm. Time’s getting on. They’re down and they’ll stay down. They aren’t going any where. Next time, perhaps.’
Day did not wait for Goosen to object: he pulled up to the vertical. Goosen stayed silent. This time they headed up. There was nothing in front of them but a blue sky. They headed up for what seemed like a very long time. The sky darkened slightly. Then Day flipped the Furtive over and headed down.
‘Hold on, Birdie. As tight as you like. But keep your eyes open this time. You’ll see a wondrous thing.’
Goosen grabbed the bottom of his seat. He promised himself that this time he would keep his eyes open. Day was promising a spectacle and it would be a shame to come all this way and not see it.
As the Furtive headed down, Day engaged the rail gun.
Below them, the rocky outcrop exploded under a continuous onslaught of solid shot. It continued for what felt like a long minute, although Goosen knew it was only 20 seconds. The target disappeared in a huge and growing cloud of grey-white concrete dust.
There was a short delay before the rail gun opened up again. Goosen then saw tens of thousands of violent explosions in amongst the concrete dust. They merged into one continuous shock wave that burst from underground, lifted water from the surface of the river and shook the trees from the tip of their roots right through to the canopy roof.
‘We don’t seem to be moving much, Alf. How come?’ Goosen asked, marvelling at the destruction.
There was another short lull. The concrete dust began to disperse. The rail gun opened up again. This time a single spot began flashing red. 80000 mini incendiaries exploded deep inside the compound at a too-quick-for-the-eye-to-perceive rate of 4000 rounds per second.
The dust changed to an oil-fire black. It thickened and formed a quivering column, driven upwards by a continuous jet of super-heated air. At the tree tops, the wind then snatched at it and pushed it across the river.
The rail gun stopped. The air in front of the cockpit stopped misting. The Furtive lurched forward again.
‘Ah! Looks like we’ve got company,’ Day observed. ‘ISRA interceptors ...’ He pulled up and turned tightly. He then rolled, dove and then pulled up into the vertical. Goosen saw black, his head rolled to one side and he heard no more. ‘Sorry, Birdie. What did you say?’
54
Above Constitution
Scat pulled the rear door open and floated over the Furtive’s rear bench. He slapped Day on the back, smiling broadly.
‘Well done, Day,’ he said. ‘Excellent work.’ The smell of vomit hit the back of his throat. He tried to avoid the floating strings of bile
Day nodded, modestly.
‘Well, I did tell you she was good for the job,’ he replied, patting the dashboard gently.
‘You did,’ Scat replied. ‘And I never doubted it, which is more than I can say for this one.’ Scat looked down at a semi-conscious Goosen, his arms floating out ahead of him: had it not been for the vomit on his chin and upper lip he might have mistaken him for sleeping.
Edlin squeezed beside him. He reached over Goosen’s head to grapple with his seat restraints. They were difficult to unclip without getting puke or bile in his face.
‘Crikey, boss. He’s a mess,’ Edlin said, turning his face away, still fumbling with the clip.
‘Yes. Well,’ Day replied, a little embarrassed for the big man. ‘Not every bird can fly ...’
55
Dragon Park
Sparks reached down and pulled at Cummings’ collar. The life raft spun awkwardly. It took two attempts before Sparks could find a good enough grip. Twenty metres upriver, the RAV slipped slowly below the surface, river water swirling across its roof.
Cummings slipped to the floor of the raft and onto his back, cursing.
‘Help me up,’ he growle
d.
Beside them, and closer to the river bank, another raft bobbed up and down. Matheson was calling out.
‘This one’s leaking, Cummings. It won’t stay afloat.’
Cummings looked over at him. The Roland’s pilot knelt at the rear of Matheson’s raft, looking for tears in the inflated fabric. He quickly sat down as the raft began to sag in the middle.
‘He’s right, Cummings. It won’t hold for long,’ the pilot shouted. ‘The blooming thing’s riddled with holes.’
Cummings looked past them to the nearest river bank. No way were they going to set foot on shore: the dino-crocs were sliding into the water; their tails were already flicking like whips.
‘Make your way over here, then,’ he shouted back. He stabbed a finger at the bank, making it clear they should hurry.
Matheson turned to look and then froze. The pilot started paddling. The raft began to fold and water poured over the sides. They lost headway and fell behind.
‘Bail the bloody stuff out, Matheson. Make yourself useful,’ the pilot said, desperately holding both ends of the raft apart.
Matheson got up. He turned around, looking for a way off the raft.
‘Don’t stand up, you fool. Start bailing.’
Instead Matheson started waving and shouting, causing the raft to dip left and right.
‘Cummings. Cummings. Come get us. Come and get us,’ he bellowed.
‘He’s going to tip them over, sir,’ Sparks noted, glancing back at the dino-crocs. They were getting closer. ‘We should do something. Perhaps distract them?’
‘And how the ruddy hell do we distract a friggin’ dinosaur, Sparks?’
‘Dunno, sir. But if we don’t, they’re goners.’
Cummings leaned forward and grabbed a paddle.
‘So help me, Sparks,’ he said, sighing. ‘Start paddling then. When we get alongside, grab it.’
Sparks paddled as furiously as he could, but it was difficult: they were going back upstream, and Cummings was paddling much stronger than he. They began to turn.
‘Keep up Sparks. Keep up!’ Cummings urged.
Sparks paddled harder, looking up to see how far they still had to go. Just behind the second raft he caught sight of a tail reaching up and then slashing down. It just missed Matheson’s raft but it drenched it with water.
On the leaky raft, Matheson cowered. He stopped bailing.
‘Grab it. Now!’ Cummings ordered as the two rafts bumped together.
Sparks leaned over and grabbed the raft. Matheson tried clawing his way across, threatening to capsize the both of them. Cummings pushed him back.
‘Easy, you dim-wit. You!’ Cummings shouted at the pilot. ‘Get over here.’
The pilot crawled across from the back of the raft, staying low on his stomach. Once he was on board, Cummings pushed the leaky raft away.
‘What are you doing?’ Matheson screamed. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing?’
His leaky raft slipped further behind.
‘Claiming on that insurance policy, Matheson.’ Cummings replied, waving goodbye. He turned his back on him and sat down at the front of the raft. He picked up a paddle and plunged it into the water, quickly easing into a steady, even stroke.
Sparks and the Roland pilot stared back, helpless.
Matheson yelled some more, and fell into the back of his raft. It dipped below the surface. He snatched at the forward end, and scrambled to pull his feet clear of the water. He looked around, appearing to be of two minds: to stay on board or to jump into the water. It looked like he made up his mind when he picked up a paddle and waved it, frantically, at an unseen danger. He was threatening something. He did it again. And again.
Then the surface of the river seemed to well up and part in a curtain of spray. A tail flickered into the air, reaching up until it was almost straight. It slammed down, striking Matheson’s raft with a glancing blow. Matheson lost his grip and slipped backwards over the side.
A huge plume of water burst from the surface as yet another great tail slammed down next to him, dragging him under. It then shot back up, to hurl Matheson skywards. As he hit the surface again, he screamed, flailing at the water in a forlorn effort to stay afloat.
More tails rose and fell in violent slaps, until it rained river water. Glistening, scaly heads rose and dipped in circles around him, pushing bow waves before them. One head broke from the pack, sliding directly towards him. It slipped onto its side opening its jaws. Very carefully, almost gently, they closed around Matheson’s shoulders. It held him there, gnawing unhurriedly, making sure of its grip. Then there was an explosion of water as the Dino-croc shook its head from side to side in a series of violent, blurry-to-the-eye movements. The other dino-crocs darted in. There was a flurry of movement. Then Matheson was dragged from his world and into theirs.
Further upriver, Sparks gripped the side of the raft and watched the water settle and run smooth again, erasing any sign of Matheson’s fight for life. There was nothing left of him. No evidence. Not a ripple.
Until, the river did what it always did when it rained: it ran red with blood.
Cummings knelt at the prow, maintaining a steady stroke, counting to five before switching from left to right, from right to left. His fellow survivors took turns to paddle at the rear. No one spoke. Cummings looked to be on edge and easy to rile. They let him be.
After a few hours, Cummings increased his natural anaerobic threshold to ward off the cramps and then dug his paddle deeper, more urgently, into the river. Sparks thought it best to stay silent. The pilot merely shrugged and did his best to keep them in a straight line using his oar as a rudder. They felt somehow safer, at least easier, in being ignored.
Cummings was lost in his thoughts. With every stroke he imagined digging a knife deeper into the heart of a man called Scatkiewicz: the man who led the rebellion that was killing his career and had already spoiled his sport. He fantasised about throttling the cry for freedom from corporate rule and that absurd call for democracy: that messy, chaotic and dysfunctional form of government that threatened his livelihood and stifled orderly progress.
It was only a matter of time. The sea was only 100 kilometres away. Half a day’s paddling. No more than a day. From there they would find a kelp farm and call for help. Then he would be free to take his revenge, and earn his redemption.
He swore it.
Epilogue
Interstellar Space
Goosen and Bing looked on as a couple of the rebel crew transferred Rolf’s body from the Bright Star’s refrigeration unit and into the V4. The infection that had laid Rolf low was contagious so they were being careful: the bag was sealed. And Scat had insisted they both remain on the starflyer until their blood results came through. Goosen’s skin crawled. He was desperate for a shower.
Despite the enforced rest, Goosen still felt weak. His ride in the Furtive, on the back of so little food and clean water, had taken its toll. He was due a deep, deep sleep, untroubled by rats, scaly monsters, and unseen microbes, though he doubted he could count on Lynthax leaving them alone for long enough. Not now.
He glanced at Bing. The man looked insecure. He fidgeted. His eyes darted about. It was an effort for him to hang still. Goosen knew why. He no longer knew where he stood.
‘Don’t worry. It worked out in the end. We got what we wanted, right? Lynthax lost its library; you got your memory back. And we’re still good. Right, Bing?’
Bing looked fleetingly at Goosen and then watched Rolf’s body bag disappear. True. Bing now had all of his memories—or at least all of those that mattered, so he thought.
‘Sure, Birdie. It’ll be fine,’ he agreed, somewhat half-heartedly. ‘I’m sure.’
‘So long as you are. Remember what I said about this rebellion? It’s like all the others that have gone before it. Relationships change. Attitudes change. Friends become enemies. Enemies become friends. And as our priorities change, the world changes with it. What we’re doing now is putting
our daily lives on hold, and our differences aside. We’re coming together to fight an evil.’
‘Very insightful, Birdie. Really. And afterwards?’
‘Well, afterwards takes care of itself, Bing. Until then, there’s now. And we pull together now, until the job is done.’
Bing nodded. He felt a little better. But there was still Scat. And, when word of his past finally got out, there would be the matter of everyone else’s trust: something that was easier to lose than it was to gain. And if lost, it was rarely regained.
Scat appeared at the V4 airlock and floated across to them.
‘Your blood work is clear,’ he said, grabbing the pair of them by their shoulders. ‘So! Now you’re done with your weekend trip away, I can use you for some real work.’
Goosen held a hand grip and shook Scat’s hand. Bing shrank back a little. As Goosen had flown over the Farm, Bing had given Scat a wide berth. Bing had no doubt, whatsoever, that once Scat and Goosen had had the time to chat about his background, Scat would want to drill much deeper. And he did not want that time to come any sooner than was necessary.
Scat mistook Bing’s coolness for a quarrel between the two.
‘Anything I should know about?’ he asked cocking his head and staring directly at Goosen. ‘You two OK?’
Goosen chuckled.
‘It’s nothing, Scat. I was just telling this one he needs a shower. He stinks.’
‘He does a little, doesn’t he? But then have you stood next to yourself recently?’
Bing smiled, still a little nervously.
‘Obviously not, Scat,’ Bing agreed. ‘He smells like cat crap.’
Goosen gave Bing a shove and then wrapped an arm around him.
‘Thanks, Pug. But no, Scat, we’re fine; better than fine, actually. There’s nothing like a weekend away to help with the bonding. All we need now is a good kip.’
‘Good,’ Scat replied. ‘But that sleep with have to wait.’ He eyed Bing. ‘Bing, I’ve prepared a message for Paul Irwin to pass onto the Council and I need you to drop the message into the Trevon publicnet on our way into Prebos space. I’ll give you the details once you’ve got yourself up to the command cabin.
‘Birdie, I want you to stay here on the Bright Star for our flight to Prebos. Watch over Day. Make sure he doesn’t sell this thing back to the Asians.’
Goosen smiled.
‘Prebos?’ he asked.
‘Yep. We’ve got to go get ourselves some equipment and a whole lot of metal plate. Briefing room in 30.’ He pushed off the wall and headed for the airlock, leaving Goosen and Bing to make what sense they could of that. ‘Come on Bing,’ Scat added, speaking over his shoulder. ‘It’s a long message.’
Goosen gave Bing a helpful shove.
Unseen by either his friend or by Scat, Bing breathed a massive sigh of relief.
He was genuinely for the rebellion and he was a keen independence advocate. Nothing he had told Goosen was a lie. He had just left a few things out, that’s all.
He was pleased his friend Goosen had accepted him, baggage and all, and it helped that Goosen now seemed unlikely to raise the matter with the boss. He needed Scat to accept him at face value, for surely he would not if he knew what Goosen now knew. Scat was less trusting and less naïve—a whole lot more sceptical.
It mattered that they trusted him. Indeed, trust was vital. It was crucial if he was to remain close to the centre of the insurgency.
Possessing everyone’s trust was the only way he could keep his promise to Ambassador Cohen—to update him on how well the rebellion was going.
Which reminded him: he needed to slip a message within a message: to make his first report.
The end. ...
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Other Stories by Jim Graham
Scat
Scat’s Universe Book 1
(The foundation for all my stories)
It has taken Sebastian Scatkiewicz seven years to get his life back together again after the US Marines dumped him onto world of mass unemployment. But now he’s finally gotten himself some well-paid work on one of the New Worlds in the Outer-Rim, hundreds of light years away from an over-populated, climatically-challenged and resource-poor Earth. Now he’s building a new life for himself; something he wants to protect.
Only nothing in the Outer-Rim is as the brochure says. The company’s mandate to rule is under threat; the 3rd generation residents are agitating for independence; and the day-to-day politics is both muddy and murderous. Scat keeps his head down: these are things best left to the locals. He's going to ride this one out by sitting on the fence - this isn't his fight.
If only people would listen.
Join ex-Marine killing-machine Sebastian Scatkiewicz as he takes on the biggest corporation of them all in the biggest land-grab ever.
For independence. For freedom. For revenge.
Get your copy from:
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Army of Souls
Scat’s Universe Book 2
“If flesh came into being because of the spirit, it is a wonder. But if spirit came into being because of the body, it is a wonder of wonders.”
Ancient text discovered near Nag Hammadi, Egypt, December 1945.
Believed to be the Gospel According to Thomas 24:1
Man’s soul is little more than collateral damage in a struggle between our daemons and demons. As Man succumbs to the soul-harvesting Haraan and the seven Vices pursue the four Virtues in a brutal and one-sided conflict, Scat must travel the Other-Worlds to free our souls from Purgatory.
But Man is allied against him. The Soul Army is on the rampage. And the Demon Master is a single victory from reigning supreme.
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Amazon.uk
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About the Author
Jim was born in Bushey, Middlesex, England and grew up in Hatfield, Hertfordshire where he spent his early years mostly covered in mud and grazes, either stirring up the neighbourhood wasp nests, or being gated to the garden where he would forage for the earwigs and spiders he needed to make snacks for his baby brother.
He passed selection for the 21st Special Air Service Regiment at age 17 and was later commissioned as a Second Lieutenant into the Queen’s Regiment with which he served for several years in Northern Ireland.
Since leaving the army in 1986, he has lived and worked in Malaysia, South Africa, Belgium, Singapore and Hong Kong.
He is married and has two children.
Birdie Down is Jim’s second novel.