by Tom Kratman
“No,” Marko said, shaking his head, “I’m done with this. I won’t be a part of this madness.”
Ivey’s eyes grew hard, his voice dropping as he leaned forward.
“Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Saavedra—I will succeed in my mission. You can continue to live, or I can dispose of you as I would any other obstacle. You’re only alive at this moment because you may still prove to be useful.”
The guard’s pistol appeared in his hand, held at his thigh, pointing at the floor.
For now. Marko thought.
“You’ll notice I didn’t use the word essential.”
Marko felt his shoulders slump. Ivey was right, there was no option but to do what the man demanded.
For now.
“I’m glad we have an understanding, Mr. Saavedra,” Ivey said. “Please take Sabir’s feet and help me put him in the cooler.”
The young guard’s body was heavier than he expected, but they were able to wrestle it into the walk-in, locking the door when they were finished with Marko’s master key. Marko kept his eyes firmly on the young man’s belt buckle, and not the trail of blood on the floor. Or the guard’s eyes.
“There,” Ivey said, checking his clothes for any obvious stains. “Now, I need to visit the area immediately under the fountain itself. I’m sure you understand that you’ll be leading the way, and why.”
They made their way down the hall, following the beverage tubing running along the ceiling. Marko both prayed and feared that they would encounter someone while they walked. Discovery would absolve him of any wrongs, however, it could also mean his death at Ivey’s hand.
The insulated bundle of tubing took a sharp turn above a door, disappearing into the room beyond. At Ivey’s nod, Marko tried to open the door, his hand slipping on the steel knob. He wiped his palms on his pants, finally getting it open on the second try. He ignored Ivey’s smirk as he entered the room, closing the door after Ivey brushed past.
“Now, Mr. Saavedra, since I can’t have you do this part, I’m going to politely request you stand at the far side of the room, and raise your hands. Be assured that any attempt to move will be considered negative, and I’ll respond accordingly.”
Marko nodded, moving close to the shelving as far from Ivey as possible, and raised his arms above his head. The room itself was small, barely three meters end to end, and under two meters wide. The shelf took up most of its corner, haphazardly filled with cleaning supplies in large buckets and jugs. Ivey took one of the buckets from the middle shelf, grunting with the effort.
Marko felt the shelf sway slightly. He placed one hand on the top to steady it.
Ivey carefully placed the pistol in easy reach while reaching into his shoulder bag with the other. He removed what looked like a multimeter, two wire leads with alligator clips attached, and a roll of black tape. Standing on the bucket, he reached above his head to the bundle.
Short work with the knife, and he’d cut open the insulation, feeling around inside with one hand. A few seconds later, he produced two wires. In moments, he’d attached the device to the insulated bundle, several wraps of tape holding it in place. He then attached the clips to the wires.
“There. Now, Mr. Saavedra, we are free to leave.” He checked his watch after retrieving the pistol. “And still have time left before the deadline expires. Well done.”
Marko said nothing, keeping his expression flat.
“Oh, and just in case you’re wondering, the device can’t be removed without setting it off, unless you know the proper sequence to remove the wires.” Ivey said, again pointing the pistol at him. “I can see it in your eyes, Marko, that this is distasteful to you, and you’re trying to figure out how to stop me. Trust me when I say you can’t. Do you understand?”
Marko nodded.
“Excellent.” Keeping the gun steady, Ivey nodded towards the door. “Shall we, then? As much as I’m willing to die for my cause, it’s not high on my list of preferred outcomes.”
Marko stayed motionless, both hands raised, one still on the shelf.
“Mr. Saavedra, I would like to vacate the premises before the device detonates,” Ivey said, taking a step forward and lowering the pistol. “You may lower your hands now.”
Several muffled explosions came from above them. Ivey glanced upward. Marko pulled hard on the shelf, upsetting its balance and causing it to topple forward.
“Shit!” Ivey raised his hands instinctively to cover his face as hundreds of kilos of shelf and chemicals fell on him, knocking him to the floor. The gun hit the floor, skittering a few feet away. Lunging, Marko grabbed it and stepped to the door, stuffing the pistol into his waistband as he did so.
Marko threw the door open, barreling into the hall as fast as he could, heading for the staircase. Though the attendees and some staff would be outside watching the fireworks, the Shah’s palace would have at least a hundred others in the building for a reception of this size.
I need to clear everyone that I can. Marko’s thoughts were punctuated by more explosions. He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking up and down the hallway.
There! A fire alarm switch was on the wall about ten meters from his location. It may get anyone inside to vacate, and keep the crowd outside from re-entering.
He ran down the hall, covering the distance as fast as possible. The thought of not getting the warning out in time sent a burst of adrenaline through his veins. He yanked the handle down hard, the claxon-like warning buzzer immediately blasting through the formerly quiet building.
A crowd appeared at the far end of the corridor; kitchen staff by their uniforms. Human nature being what it was, Marko knew that if no one smelled smoke or saw fire, they would tend to ignore the alarm and stay put.
“This is not a drill!” he shouted, making “this way” motions with his arms. “You need to get out of the building immediately! There’s a fire in the basement!”
The group looked confused, not moving, and whispering amongst themselves.
“NOW, PEOPLE! I’m not kidding!”
Human nature tended to make people listen to someone that appeared to be an authority. As Marko was the loudest, and most commanding person in the immediate area, the staff started walking towards him on their way to the front door. A few men and women hesitated, looking back and forth between themselves. Marko started towards them.
“You lot, what part didn’t you understand?”
“It’s not that,” one young woman, her coat and apron identifying her as a chef, “It’s just that . . .”
It hit him as she trailed off.
“You all have children?” At their nods, he continued, “Are they in the building?”
“Yes,” the chef said, somehow becoming the group’s spokesperson. “We all do, and they weren’t allowed to watch the fireworks from the lawn.”
“Right,” Marko said, “get them and pass the word on to any others with children. But go quickly, I don’t know how long we have.”
He turned from the group and started running towards the ballroom. Ivey had said the device couldn’t be disconnected, but, there was a chance he was lying. The wires had been in the tubing bundle, which meant whatever he had planted was inside the fountain. Marko had made the connections himself, and hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, but Ivey had watched the process, and could’ve come back afterwards.
But what would trigger the device? What Ivey installed downstairs had no timer or readout that Marko could see.
A statement. He’d wanted to make a definitive statement. What would make the most impact?
Marko ran his hands over the fountain, thoughts churning. Obviously, it had to be related to the visiting dignitary. The Shah would want his guest to be impressed, and flattered by the thoughtful gesture. He looked at each tap—Which one?
Space voyage. Wine and liquor could be served room temperature. His eyes locked on the beer tap.
“I see you’ve figured it out,” Ivey’s voice came from behind him
. Marko whipped around to see the man walking towards him, limping slightly. The knife he’d used on Sabir was in his hand. Marko pulled the pistol from behind his back, hands shaking as he raised the weapon.
“You’ve never used one of those, Mr. Saavedra,” Ivey said, rolling his eyes. “Better men than you have tried to kill me, and failed. I’m almost insulted.”
Marko’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Mr. Saavedra,” Ivey said, continuing to close the gap between them, “while there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re capable of pulling the trigger, I highly doubt you’ll hit me.”
Marko’s hesitation allowed Ivey to take two more steps, stopping when Marko thumbed the hammer back. At four half meters, he didn’t think he could miss.
“Please, Mr. Ivey,” he said, trying to keep his hand steady, “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”
“Think about the consequences if you do, Marko,” Ivey said, standing almost casually. “Killing me puts your family at risk—my employers will consider their arrangement null and void.”
He was right. No matter what he did, the chance was there that he’d be implicated. Even if he was able to kill Ivey and remove the explosive, the Shah would consider him an accomplice that lost his nerve. Neither a long term in prison, or a quick execution, would be a desirable outcome. Not to mention what it would mean to his family’s name. His assets would be frozen, his property confiscated. Isabelle and the children would die as paupers.
As to the other group, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out who’d foiled their plans, especially if Ivey lived. Killing him would not be beneficial, as it would erase any doubt as to whom was responsible for the failure. Retribution would be swift, he was sure. The thought of living without his family crushed his soul. Marko lowered the pistol, shoulders slumping.
Ivey rushed forward, covering the distance between them faster than Marko thought possible. Ivey was on him before he could raise the pistol, a single shot plowing into the wooden paneling of the floor harmlessly several feet wide. Lights flashed before his eyes as Ivey’s fist crashed into his jaw, staggering him. He reeled, falling backwards onto the sculpture, it’s metal body the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor. Ivey’s knife blade pressed into his throat.
“Now, Marko, you have two options. Die, knowing that your death does nothing to stop tonight’s ‘unfortunate’ event. Or, live, make our escape, and see your children again.”
Steel pressed into Marko’s back, the sharp point of the dove’s defiantly raised beak close to breaking the skin. There was another option, one that would fulfill his agreement with the conspirators, and possibly shield his family from the Shah’s wrath. He raised his hands slowly.
“Good choice, Mr. Saavedra.”
Marko pulled sharply on the tap handle, honey-colored liquid flowing into the drain below it. Ivey’s eyes went wide.
Marko’s last thought flew through his mind as the explosion ripped through his body.
It poured perfectly.
INTERLUDE:
From Jimenez’s History of the Wars of Liberation
One of the problems besetting the United Nations’ efforts to suppress the liberation movements on Terra Nova was that not only was every movement initially unique as to temperament, time, and place, but every movement was also different as to technique. Thus, there was no perfect answer to the UN’s problems, while forces seconded from Earth’s armies tended to use whatever technique was in vogue back home, even if it was a supremely imperfect approach for the area to which they were deployed.
There were, basically, four different kinds of insurgency taking place on Terra Nova. In the area of western Taurania, amidst and adjacent to the colonies we now call “Cochin” and “Ming Zhong Guo,” the emphasis was on outgoverning the governments, on setting up entire shadow governments from criminal courts to tax collectors, and especially the latter, to support the insurgent companies, battalions, regiments, and the political cadres they advanced and defended. In Central Columbia, supported by the colonies that would someday join to form the Federated States, the emphasis was on establishing safe zones in which to build more or less conventional formations, relying on the sea and local agriculture for food, and then invade en masse. In Uhuru, it was from the beginning a campaign of terrorism directed at the UN’s bureaucracy and the UN-supporting farmers to get them to pack up and leave, leaving the reins of power in insurgent hands.
And then there were the places where there wasn’t much insurgency, where the UN saw one that wasn’t there, and where the UN’s actions created an insurgency where none had yet arisen . . .
10.
Wellington
Alexander Macris11
Roy Wyatt could see the shadow of the man through the doorway of the sheepfold. The rock walls were too high to see over, but he knew he was in there. He felt against his hip for the reassuring weight of the revolver. It was an Old Earth model, .45 long colt, double action, six shots. He fingered the hammer back and called out. “I know you’re inside, mate. Why don’t you come out? You won’t be harmed.”
There was no response from within. Wyatt looked over at Blake. The old sheep farmer had spotted the stranger that morning when he was heading towards the pasture. There’d been blood smeared on the door—enough of it cause Blake to get himself worked up. Now it was Wyatt’s job to sort it out.
“Listen. I’m local sheriff here at New Bend. The owner radioed me about a trespasser. Showed me the blood on the door. You hurt?”
“You with the UN?”
“The UN?” In New Bend? United Nations Peacekeepers seemed to be everywhere on Terra Nova these days, but they sure weren’t here. Secluded in a valley in the Cloud Mountains, New Bend rarely even got visitors at all. That’s why folks came to New Bend in the first place—to get away from the stifling crowds of Old Earth and find a place of their own. “No one here’s UN, mate. Not much need for the UN in New Bend. I don’t need PKs to stop drunks from fighting over sheep.”
There was a choked laugh from within. “Okay.” Then a pause. “I’m hurt.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’m going to come in. I’ll come in real slow and you keep it easy, okay? No shooting.”
“Don’t have a gun.”
“Good to know. I’m still going to take it slow. Here I am. Walking in.” Wyatt stepped into the doorway of the sheepfold. He could see the stranger clearly now. He was in his mid thirties. He had the brown skin and dark hair of a Maori, but his eyes were green and his nose was aquiline. The stranger had equipped himself with a hay fork, but looked to be using it as a crutch more than a weapon. A crude bandage, stained black with blood, was wrapped around his left thigh.
Wyatt showed his palms. He’d left the service revolver in its holster. “I’m Sheriff Roy Wyatt. You can call me Roy, or Sheriff. Or Wyatt. Most folks go with Wyatt.”
“My name’s Jim. Jim Geary. Didn’t mean to stuff things up for ya, Sheriff.” The stranger offered up a smile. Wyatt thought he looked embarrassed.
“No worries, Jim. Why don’t you come with me down to the station? We’ll give Mr. Blake his sheepfold back and my deputy can see you right.”
The man looked down at his feet for a moment, and then he looked up and gave a half smile. He started limping forward. Wyatt led him out. They passed Blake, still standing outside the sheepfold.
“Sorry about the blood,” said Geary. He shrugged ruefully.
Wyatt eyeballed the stranger. Geary was leaning back in the cell, feet up on the pallet, enjoying a sandwich and a fizzy drink. He had a fresh white bandage around his wound. Steve Remi, the deputy, had been an army medic back in New Zealand before the Old Earth demilitarization. Even with Remi’s training it hadn’t been easy to clean up Geary’s leg—the man had taken a hit from a 10mm flechette round, and it was a messy wound. That kind of high-tech ammo wasn’t exactly common in Wellington. It wasn’t even common on the planet.
“So what brought you to New Bend, ma
te?” Wyatt asked.
“Just passing through,” said Geary.
“Yeah. But passing through to where?”
“Well, I was heading south to the tunnel in Griffon Peak. To get some material. But I had to take a detour.” Geary massaged his wounded leg.
Wyatt frowned. The Griffon Peak tunnel went from nowhere to nowhere and was used by no one. UN planners had once envisioned a whole series of interlocking underground thoroughfares that would carry automotive traffic below the Cloud Mountains and protect the precious alpine biome above. Then the Old Earth bureaucrats had realized the colony didn’t have any automotive traffic. The project had been “indefinitely suspended” and the construction material abandoned in place. Nowadays the place was a ruin.
“Probably better off. Tunnel’s not safe to—” Wyatt was interrupted by the sound of the station door opening. A pair of dark-suited figures entered. The first was an icy blonde woman with cold blue eyes. Her companion was an Asian man with the bland face of a dentist, or a serial killer.
The blonde spoke. “I am Special Agent Nikita Bogin and this is Special Agent Vinh Hue.” She had a thick Russian accent, and it took Wyatt a moment to process her words. “We are here to demand extradition of prisoner James H. Geary.” She gestured at the jail cell.
Geary made a face, stomped a foot, and shouted “Haere noa!” Freedom. The agents affected not to notice and kept their icy stares directed at Wyatt. Remi cracked his knuckles nervously at his desk. Wyatt decided he’d better fill the silence before Geary decided to perform a haka from his jail cell.
“G’day . . . Sheriff Roy Wyatt.” He walked over and offered his hand to Bogin. She left him hanging so rather than let it get awkward he pivoted his hand to point back at the cell. “Mr. Geary here is my prisoner. Got him on charges of trespassing over at the Blake farm. What do you need with him?”
“Mr. Geary is wanted on charges of resisting arrest, subversion, destruction of government property, and hate speech,” said Hue. “He’s a known terrorist.” The Asian man read off the litany of charges with a condescending tone that made Wyatt grit his teeth.