by Gem Jackson
“You clever little bastard, Starflight. That was amazing.”
She dropped him and he allowed himself to laugh. A wave of elation washed over him. They had done it. Outnumbered, maybe, but not outgunned and not outmanoeuvred.
“Where are they now?” he asked. He scanned the board again. Sleet found the ships first.
“They are on the far side of Titan,” she said. “The smaller ships are making off at speed back to Titan. She walked over to him and shook his hand. “You did it, Starflight. You damn well pulled it off.”
He nodded. “Maybe. What now, though?”
They stared at the optical feed, still showing the two remaining hulks. There was no fire anymore, just an expanding cloud of shimmering detritus, and in the background, Saturn itself.
“If anyone is interested,” said Hail. “The Cronus is on the other side of that moon. It was one of the ships that got away. Do we go after it?”
Leon shook his head. He thought about the bishop and the knight and his uncle’s king. “No. I think we’re done here.”
Chapter 28 – Anton
Anton stalked the corridors of the orbital facility, occasionally pausing to lift his head, listening for footsteps approaching the other way. How much did September Long know? That was the question. It didn’t matter much either way, but it would make his job a damn sight easier if she was still in the dark. She was the only troublesome aspect of the work remaining. Get her out of the way and he was home and dry.
Two years he had been working on the project. Two years and now war had been declared. It was beautiful. A job well done. The fight between the Aggressive and the Titan fleet was a bit of a puzzle, but it was brilliant PR nonetheless. APSA fired first, abandoned ship and then presumably left a few officers on-board to spring the trap when Motion and his cronies closed in to take the ship, blowing the fuck out of two capital ships in the process. More than enough justification for a nice war. That would be the line he would put out, anyway. Who knows what the mad bastards on Titan would choose to go with. They would screw it up one way or another. It was anyone’s guess as to what the hell had happened on the ship after he left. The Jackdaw’s Straw had docked not long before it kicked off. Maybe it had something to do with the two crewmen who had flown in from Ceres? That seemed unlikely. They had both been on the job because they were wet behind the ears. Still, all’s well that ends well.
Voices. Footsteps. Coming from ahead, around the corner. Absently, he wiped at his shirt again. It was still a mess. He looked like an extra from a low budget horror flick. It didn’t matter. He turned the corner.
It was Long and Ramachandran. They stopped dead at the sight of him. He did the same.
Agent Long had a good poker face; she gave little away, though her stance was strong and defensive. If the eyes are the gateway to the soul, then Long had built a concrete wall around hers. She was giving nothing away. She bore her usual expression; a look of disgust, as if she had caught you with your trousers round your ankles with an inflatable animal pressed against your hips. In short, it was nothing new.
By contrast, Ramachandran was an open book. She had wide, wild eyes that matched her hair. She took a step behind Long and tucked her chin into her chest, instinctively protecting her neck from a perceived threat. Anton loved civilians; you can have all the brains and qualifications in the world, but once that sympathetic nervous system kicks in, they didn’t mean a damn thing.
Anton smiled broadly and lifted his head. “Ladies. Good to see you. I wish you’d have told me you were coming here, we could have travelled together.”
“That’s a shame,” said Long. “We were just leaving.”
“Really? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you find what you were looking for?” He took a step toward them. They took a step back. Twenty feet stood between them. They were too close to the corner they had just come around. If he went for the gun, they could easily bolt. Long moved slowly, measuring each action carefully. There was more to her than met the eye. He was sure of it. It could be implants, or drugs or something else. Maybe she was an ultra? It would explain a lot. He had seen too much on Ceres to take risks. A physical fight with her was a bad idea. She remained calm where Ramachandran panicked. If things went badly, then taking her down could be very difficult indeed.
“Yeah, we did as it happens. Enough to keep the investigation moving. You know how it is.”
He laughed. “Oh aye, I understand. So what did you discover?”
Ramachandran looked at Long, silently imploring her to say or do something. That didn’t bode well.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to share information at this point,” said Long. “Given your connections on Titan, it could jeopardise things.” She took two steps towards him, the scientist trailing behind reluctantly.
“I don’t know about that,” said Anton, also creeping forward. “I’ve never been a fan of doing things properly. These connections, on Titan, that I may or may not have? You say I have them because I’m—”
Long finished the sentence, “—a diplomat.”
“A diplomat, that’s right.” Ten feet between them. Almost there. She knew who he was. The game was up. It was just a matter of time until the charade fell apart. If they could just hold it together a little longer, then this could be over before it really started.
“He knows!” cried Ramachandran.
Fuck.
Anton reached behind for the gun. They ran. Long ducked low and shoved the scientist ahead of her back round the corner. With an ear-splitting snap, Anton managed to get one shot off before they disappeared. It missed, leaving a hole in the thin, composite wall. He ran after them, rounding the corner only to find himself flying backward and crashing to the ground. His chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Was that a punch? A kick? Was she armed? Whatever it was, it hurt. Maybe two or three broken ribs. He managed to fire another two shots in the direction of his assailant, but by the time he re-oriented himself it was clear they had gone. Nine rounds left.
“I should have brought a fucking shotgun.”
He limped after them, pressing his free arm into his chest to ease the pain. He took the next couple of corners gingerly, gun outstretched, finger on the trigger.
“Little pigs,” he called. “Where are you? Come out, come out, little pigs.”
He passed a doorway that had been left ajar. He nudged it open with a toe and listened. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurrying down a ladder.
Of course, it had to be a ladder. His ribs hurt just thinking about it.
He stepped inside to a labyrinth of gantries, steel pipes and industrial containers. In other words, it was a nightmare. He had arrived at the orbital reasonably confident with his two advantages; the element of surprise and a gun. Now he’d lost the element of surprise and at this rate he was going to run out of bullets too.
“Where are you going, agent Long? We should talk about this.” His voice reverberated around the large, open space and faded away. He listened carefully for a response.
Nothing.
Cursing, he started down the ladder, struggling with the shifts in gravity between the T-circuited walkways. It was like the worst parts of Ceres jumbled together, all poor lighting and interrupted sight lines. Hits like this were the invariably messy, and he avoided them where he could. Everything should be straightforward. Get in, bang-bang, get out again. Done. Nice and clean.
The hum and clatter of machinery made hearing difficult. After a few seconds, and with some concentration, he determined the direction they were moving and set off. They needed to leave the facility. It wouldn’t do to stray too far, they would have to loop back. Eventually. He just had to be patient.
He crept along the walkway, staying as quiet as possible. A short distance away he spotted a bulkhead wall. The occasional noise from his quarry came from his left, where the bulkhead at which they entered ran. They were cornered.
“Agent Long, I don’t know what you b
elieve you’ve uncovered, but it’s not what it looks like.” He climbed a set of steps awkwardly, avoiding putting weight on his weak hip. “Let’s talk about this, I’m sure we can reach an arrangement.”
“Fuck you, Biarritz.”
The shout came from the middle distance. They had figured out they were cornered. He leaned in the direction of the voice, peering through the pipework, past gaskets and metal grills. Just the slightest movement, that was all he needed.
“Don’t be like that. And I don’t know who this Biarritz person is, either.” Just one clean shot on Long. It wasn’t much to ask.
“You’re screwed, you know, Biarritz.”
Anton craned his neck. They were hiding behind a large engine of some kind. It was six feet high, or so, and about the same on each side. There was no way in hell he could shoot through it, and getting on top of it would be hard too. So long as they weren’t armed, he could just storm round and would be a massacre.
“How am I screwed, agent Long?” He braced himself for the assault.
“I know who you are. I’ve got a name and a face now. And data to back it all up. You’re finished, Anton.”
He took a step out and took aim around the corner, just in time to see the barrel of a gun pointing in his direction. He snapped backward instinctively, firing the gun and losing his footing in the process. Long’s gunshot smashed into a steel panel just behind him. He looked at the gaping hole blasted through the steel. Whatever she was shooting, it was a cannon.
“I know what you are,” he called. “You’re an ultra, right? Gen-modded at birth.” He laughed. “That explains so much, Long.”
“Oh, Anton. Is that the best you can do? I expected so much more from you.”
Another gunshot split the air and slammed into the same metal panel, leaving a second hole.
“Anton, put down your gun and we can talk. I’d rather not have to kill you.”
“Strong words for someone hiding in a corner.” He looked around the other side of the engine block. That was no good. If he went that way, he would turn the corner only a couple of feet away from her. He wasn’t confident that she wouldn’t get the drop on him from that distance. He needed her out.
“So what am I supposed to have done, agent?”
Another gunshot flew overhead and ricocheted into the distance.
“I’ve got plenty of ammunition back here, Anton. How many rounds have you got in that gun of yours?”
She had a point. Eight rounds.
“I’m serious, what’s the charge?”
“Mass murder.”
“Mass murder? You’ve got to be kidding? Doesn’t it seem a bit odd that if I committed mass murder, you’d be out here apprehending me on your own? You’re full of shit, agent Long.”
“You’re good, don’t get me wrong,” shouted Long. “I mean, you started the war. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? The Enigma? Lancaster Orbital? Whatever the hell you did on the Aggressive. I presume you’ve been paid to trigger this conflict? Right?”
“Come on, you can’t be serious? You think one man, me, could trigger a system-wide conflict? Alone? You’re off your rocker, agent. You’ve lost it.”
She was right, though. He couldn’t stop smiling. He was one man, working alone, and yet he had bent the entire Solar System to his will. There wasn’t another person in a billion kilometres that could do what he did. He was a god. Not a very nice god, he would be the first to admit that. But what else could he say? Empires would literally rise and fall at his word. Still, it would be humiliating if he were to be killed in a boiler room.
“I understand why you’re pissed,” she said, “why you’re here trying to fuck us up. It doesn’t count as winning unless you get away with it.”
His smile disappeared.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she continued. “I’ve got your name, I’ve got your face, hell, I’ve even got your fingerprints. Transferred them from a bottle of Blackstar you had at the meal.” She laughed.
“I will admit to one killing,” he said. “Your partner, Abbas. I can help you solve that mystery.”
No response.
“He cried. Did you know? When I did it. And not just because it hurt—and it really fucking hurt, by the way. I made sure of that. You should be thanking me.” He knelt down and took careful aim at where he anticipated she would appear. “He was spying for me the whole time he was working with you. Did you know that?”
“That’s a lie.”
“I had him sending reports to me about your work. He was my mole.” He let that sink in. “When you found out that name, Biarritz, a few months ago? It was from an engineer you interrogated, wasn’t it? He told me all about it.” He steadied himself. “He thought he was protecting his family. His kids. Can you believe that? I turned him, I used him, then I killed him. I enjoyed it too. He was a weak man. Very malleable.”
There was movement—an arm with a gun—then a body appeared. He fired twice at the body, dodging the gunshot, but missing the body as it ducked behind the corner again. It was too late that he noticed the body he was shooting at had a mass of platinum hair; it was too late that he noticed the second figure flying toward him from the other side of the engine block. It was all he could do to swing the gun around and fire before her boot made contact with his chest, knocking him back over the stair-rail from where he had come. The gun went off again, more by accident than design, but he kept hold of it.
An instant later he found himself sprawled across the floor, ears ringing and his whole body throbbing. He recognised the feeling of disorientation; he’d been knocked unconscious. If he was lucky, it was only for a few seconds. Enough time for them to make good their escape. He struggled to hear them; no footsteps, no shouting, just faint murmur of speech in the distance.
He didn’t understand why he was still alive. Surely she would have put the boot in and finished the job? Grimacing, he propped himself up onto his elbows. He felt something trickle down his forehead and brought a hand to his face. It was blood. He was covered in blood. He did a quick check—no cuts or gashes. It wasn’t his blood. It was Long’s. She had been shot when knocking him down the stairs.
“Fuck!” he shouted to no-one in particular.
It took considerable effort to get back to the main passageway. He squinted as he left the gloom and returned into the brightly lit corridor. He looked in the direction of the shuttles and slammed a fist against the wall. They were too far ahead to catch. However, he was close to the main control room. There might still be an opportunity to tidy things up.
He limped his way there and crept in. As expected, everyone inside was sleeping. He hurried over to a console, logged on and deftly navigated the system to access the docking controls.
“C’mon, c’mon. Dammit.”
They were gone. Shuttle One from the Aggressive was already away and returning to the ship. There was no point giving chase. He needed a new plan.
Be flexible, be agile, be determined.
He ached. His limbs felt heavy, as if someone had turned up the gravity a couple of fold. Long’s escape had hallowed out his sense of victory. Sure, he would get paid, and he was pretty confident that Long wouldn’t be able to track him down even with everything she had acquired, but it didn’t feel right.
“A pyrrhic victory,” he muttered. “No rest for the wicked.”
He re-attached the suppressor to the pistol—five rounds?—and walked softly to the front of the room. It wasn’t hard to find Aspen. The clumsy-looking engineer had played his part supremely well. In reality he was a Titan plant, working undercover as part of the plan to take the Enigma. He was one of the few individuals working at the Titan end of the operation that Anton had any respect for. He was a professional. Anton knelt down and nudged him awake.
“Jesus,” said Aspen, staring at Anton’s blood soaked clothing. “What the fuck happened to—” Anton hushed him.
“Never mind. It’s a long story. There was an APSA agent on the stati
on,” whispered Anton. “Did she come here?”
Aspen nodded.
“She knows about me?”
Another nod.
“She knows about you?”
“Only that I was involved. She doesn’t know who I am.”
“Good. What about them?” Anton indicated the other half-dozen people around them.
“They heard her kick-off at me about something or other. Accused me of being a terrorist. Something to do with the Enigma.”
Anton rubbed his chin. “That’s a shame. Are you going to put it in your next report?”
“Your call.”
“What the hell, leave it in.”
In one fluid motion Anton placed a hand over Aspen’s mouth, leaning in to bring his weight onto it, and drew the knife from his pocket across the spy’s throat. He did the same to the closest sleeping man and stood up. It took just a few seconds to dispatch the others using the pistol.
He stretched across the bodies to find some clean clothing. He took a set of work overalls from a tall engineer whose proportions suggested a suitable fit. Using a t-shirt, he scrubbed his face and neck to remove as much blood as possible before stripping down and putting on the new clothing and transferring his belongings from the old trousers and jacket. He had cracked ribs for sure and the pain left him wincing every time he stretched or moved awkwardly. There were plenty of bags around and so it was a simple, if frustrating, job to pack away his old clothes to dispose of later on.
He left the control room, following a thick blue line marked on the wall which led to the orbital ring transport loop. He took out the small portable radio.
“Catesby. Are you there, Catesby? This is Fawkes.”
The passageways were long and quiet, but the clean air, unsullied by blood, sweat and fear, was a welcome change. There was no rush anymore. He allowed his mind to drift while he awaited the response over the radio.
For the first time in many months, he allowed himself to think of home—his real home, on Earth. He thought about the expanse of grey skies above the house and fields; clouds slowly making their way east or south from the sea and over the mountains. Closing his eyes he could feel the cool, salty air whip and buffet his face, stiff and unyielding. It wasn’t the most hospitable place on Earth, or the warmest. It didn’t have the most spectacular views, and it wasn’t alive with wildlife; but in that place he had peace and space and solitude.