by Richard Fox
King and Steuben saluted and moved away in legionnaire armor and stealth cloaks. They'd been over this plan dozens of times, even more than normal. No one wanted to be the one who let Valdar down.
Booker, Max, and Garrison fell in stride with him as they walked a trail leading into the city. "Stay alert, but look natural. We can't have anyone thinking were a bunch of Strike Marine commandos on a hostage-rescue mission.”
His infiltration team murmured agreement. They had done undercover plainclothes work before, but it had been a while. The last time, in fact, was on New Bastion, when they encountered Masha for the first time. That incident had set all their careers down a rocky path, to say the least.
He looked back, knowing he wouldn't see King or Steuben. Unrestrained by the need to blend in with the urban population, they'd be moving fast toward the hidden spaceport in stealth cloaks when needed.
****
King and Steuben came around a hillside, their dark armor blending in with the scrub forest. The microcosm city’s lights shone in the distance.
“It looks peaceful,” Steuben observed.
“Let’s try to keep it that way. The less shooting and killing, the better,” King said, tensing up and losing some of his nostalgia.
“Less killing because you don’t want to kill humans? Killing aliens is OK, but not people who look like you do?” Steuben asked.
“Maybe that sucks, but it’s true. I never thought twice about killing a Xaros drone or even a Sanheel,” King said. “We’re not here to spill blood. We’re here to save our people.”
“It must be a human thing,” Steuben said. “There are many other good reasons for not starting a huge gunfight. Numbers not being in our favor is the most obvious. I will follow your plan unless something goes wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong, and I’ve never used knockout gas before. I’ve been trained on it, but using it in a live op will probably be a lot different,” King said, parking in a cluster of evergreen trees a mile southeast of the spaceport. “Any closer than this, and they’ll spot us. It may look like they’re not paying attention, but I guarantee they are.”
Steuben pulled on his stealth cloak. “Agreed. Now we become ghosts.”
They unfurled a camouflage net and stretched it over the truck.
“Much better,” Steuben said. “Perhaps we could drive with this covering tied to the vehicle.”
“Maybe. I think it would just flop around and look ridiculous,” King said, checking his gauss rifle once before starting through the short evergreen trees. “We can save power for the stealth cloaks for a while.”
“I’ll lead,” Steuben said.
“Normally, I’d agree that you’re the best to take point, but this planet is so much like Earth, it might as well be Earth. I’ll go first for now,” King said.
“This is acceptable.” Steuben slipped into the shadows, disappearing even without the stealth cloak activated.
King stopped every twenty or thirty strides, crouching down to watch and listen. The animal sounds were slightly different than what he expected, but still very Earth-like. The wind felt different somehow—scents he couldn’t quite identify or some other quality that almost ruined the illusion this was Earth. He still felt homesick.
The perimeter of the spaceport was marked by a chain-link fence, which they checked for electricity or other countermeasures, then cut their way through.
“Easy-peasy,” King said. “I don’t like it.”
“They are relying on the hidden technology of the bunker. If your plan doesn’t work, then we will have difficulty,” Steuben said. “It is time for the cloaks.”
“Agreed.” King activated the stealth technology and moved quickly across the tarmac, but kept his stride smooth, maximizing the effect of the stealth cloak. Excessive movement could be seen as a blur or distortion in the air.
“I’ll take the two security towers on the north. You take the other two. Let’s synchronize our clocks and strike in exactly two minutes,” King said.
“This will be done. We will rendezvous at the bunker complex,” Steuben said, already heading toward the south end of the disguised spaceport.
King went to the first security booth, a squat tower that probably looked impressive to somebody from this era. With more time, this would’ve been easy because the guards left the towers to make rounds. With the two-minute deadline, he’d have to improvise.
He knocked on the door and waited. Inside, the guard checked monitors then tiptoed toward a window near the door, ducking to see through the screen that was open for ventilation. King rammed his fist through the screen, grabbing the man by the throat and pulling his face against the frame. He squeezed until the man passed out, then reached inside and opened the door. Once he was sure there were no other guards and that no alert had been sounded, he ran to the second guard post, hoping the stealth cloak could handle his speed.
The guard from the second post came running out, weapon in hand, clearly en route to see what had happened at the first location. King stiff-armed him, smashing him to the ground, and straddled him. He covered the man’s mouth with one gauntlet.
“This is all a dream. People will think you’re crazy if you say anything, but just so you know, you’re living in a failed experiment after aliens nearly wiped out humanity. Don’t try to send up the alarm or resist us.” King knocked the man out and zip-tied his arms and legs behind him.
“King for Steuben. Objective secure. Moving to rendezvous point.”
“I am already there. I was getting worried you had fallen prey to some easily avoidable human trap.”
King hurried to the bunker complex, examining the plain exterior. The gray concrete walls hadn’t been painted. The roof was dark-blue sheet metal, a recent addition by the look of things. There were no windows and the door was small and set back into the structure in a way that made it nearly impossible to force, even with explosive charges.
“What are we waiting for?” Steuben asked.
King nodded and removed a gas canister and a long, flexible tube that could be steered with a small remote-control device. He crouched in the shadows, staying to the camera’s dead zone, and ran the tube up the wall and into the building’s ventilation system. “Watch my back, Steuben. The view screen’s tiny and I have to navigate through some filters.”
“Of course.”
“The gas is very unpleasant, laced with oleoresin capsicum. They’ll probably try to escape before they pass out from the secondary ingredients. Make sure you grab the door before it closes,” King said.
Steuben muttered something in Karigole, but King didn’t have time to worry about witty banter with the big cyborg. He caught himself holding his breath as he wormed the gas deployment tube into the facility. The spool at his feet was running out. If he didn’t find his way past the final filter section soon, he’d have to roll it all back and start again.
He stopped. Gathered his wits. And tried again.
“Is there a problem?” Steuben asked.
“It’s like navigating a maze and solving a Rubik’s cube at the same time,” King said.
“What is a Rubik’s cube? Some puzzle for children?”
“Oh yeah, and almost impossible to solve without cheating,” King said. “I had to take mine apart and put it back together to get all the colors in the correct position.”
“Perhaps if you had not cheated, you would have learned something to better prepare you for what you face now,” Steuben said.
“Thanks. That was helpful,” King said.
“I thought it would be,” Steuben said. “I see nothing on the perimeter. No alarm has been raised as far as I can tell.”
“Made it. Deploying knockout gas. Remember, most of the people inside will pass out before they can do much, but we’re counting on at least a few stalwart individuals to make it through the front door,” King said.
“I am ready,” Steuben said.
Seconds later, the front door flew open. Ste
uben grabbed it and held it. King shoved the gagging technician sideways, where the man fell down and passed out, a gas mask held in one hand.
“No time to waste,” King said, rushing through the door that Steuben was holding open. The Karigole followed closely and peeled off to cover his tactical angles.
There weren’t many rooms, and the hallways were narrow. They moved quickly, finding several legionnaires lying on the floor near the weapons locker. King and Steuben zip-tied their hands behind their backs.
“I love it when a plan comes together,” King said. “Let’s split up just to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Steuben grunted and headed off down a hallway while King went the other way. This was a step a lot of tactical teams skipped and usually got away with, so long as their initial clear had been thorough. King liked doing things by the numbers—clear and re-clear as necessary.
A door opened on the other side of a corner King was approaching. He shifted to the other side of the hallway to get a better angle on the corner and went around it quickly.
A legionnaire, wearing his helmet but carrying no weapons, rushed him. Some of his equipment was off-kilter, like he had thrown on his gear just in time to avoid being overcome by the knockout gas. It looked like he might’ve vomited as he was putting on the helmet.
King aimed his weapon but knew it was too late. The man had positioned himself well and would have snatched the gun out of his hands if he had led with it around the corner.
“Do not resist, intruder!” the legionnaire shouted. “I’ve sounded the alarm. There are ten other legionnaires coming to help me.”
King shoved the man against the wall, then struck hard with his knee against the man’s leg. They were both in armor, equally capable of giving and receiving damage. “Not unless they can get out of their restraints.”
“You’re a Terran!”
King didn’t respond as the man threatened to overpower him. He twisted and sidestepped, using the stronger, younger man’s strength against him. Neither one of them would let go of the gauss rifle, so it became the leverage point of their struggle.
“Murderer!” the legionnaire roared as he muscled through an impossible disadvantage.
Older, wiser, and better versed in dirty street fighting, King stepped back quickly, feigning defeat, then twisted in a tight circle, flinging the legionnaire onto his side. He tried to mount him, but the legionnaire scrambled sideways, still refusing to let go of the gauss rifle.
King held on to the rifle, twisting it until the strap was around his forearm. It was a risk, but it gave him a superior grip. Yanking the legionnaire off-balance, he kicked him in one shin then the other, driving the strikes home with the strength of the pseudo-muscle layer under the armor.
The sound of repeated impacts echoed from his adversary’s armor. King kept the man’s hands busy and avoided his counter kicks, letting the bigger man drag and shove him, but always keeping his balance and continuing to strike.
Twisting his grip, he managed to lean close for an elbow strike to the man’s helmet, ringing his bell. The legionnaire faltered and King stomped on his foot. The legionnaire pulled it back and King kicked the legionnaire’s other knee hard.
They both went down again, but King landed on top, pressing the fore grip of the gauss rifle across his opponent’s neck and applying pressure until the man passed out.
When he stood up, he could barely breathe. “I’m too old for this shit.”
Chapter 18
Hoffman and his team cut across a field and onto a sidewalk leading into the city. Hoffman looked over his shoulder to the wilderness, and back to the city. It was like an invisible wall in the field had blocked off any thought of civilization from spreading any further from the strip mall they walked into.
Cars drove down the streets, stopping at lights and releasing smog into the air as they idled.
The smell of burning hydrocarbons was new to Hoffman. He straightened his arm behind him to signal a patrol formation, then snatched his hand back.
“Let’s just act natural,” Hoffman said.
The team looked around, slightly confused. Booker stuffed her hands into her pockets. Garrison whistled badly.
A crowd outside of a bar, standing in a low cloud of tobacco smoke, took more and more interest in the Marines as they walked past.
“Nothing to see here,” Max said quietly.
“Stop whistling,” Booker said to the breacher.
“Can’t,” Garrison said. “People are staring at us. What do you want me to do, sing and dance?”
Hoffman walked toward what seemed to be a pedestrian walkway, only slightly confused by the fact that there were virtually no pedestrians near the highway.
“The twentieth century makes no sense to me,” Booker said. “These streets are crap, poorly made and unorganized.”
They encountered more pedestrians as they came up on a park.
Garrison dodged away from a kid on a skateboard. “Watch it, you little jerk!”
Hoffman consulted the mission tablet Max carried, then addressed the others. “Keep moving. We should be near our objective. Valdar is being kept in a mental hospital with heavy security. The police station and a regular hospital are on the same grid block.”
“Should we spread out a bit? I feel like we’re bunched up,” Garrison said.
“This is an Ibarran microcosm, not the Kesaht home world,” Max said. “Relax. Try one of those hot-dog stands.”
Hoffman couldn't get used to the close proximity of the buildings. It was like none of the city planners had anticipated drone traffic or shuttles with repulsor engines. Once they started having city-level air traffic, this place would be a disaster. There were a lot of pedestrians and ground cars, far more than he was accustomed to.
“So much noise,” Booker said.
Hoffman nodded, watching for anything he missed as they attempted to blend. “Split up. Garrison and Max, cross the street and parallel us.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrison said.
Even though the Terran Union had rebuilt after the Xaros, populations were still much less dense on Earth. When the proccie farms shut down after the Hale Treaty, population growth slowed on every Terran Union world.
Exhaust fumes from the combustion engines gagged him, even though the hot-dog stands smelled delicious.
Aurora City could be defined by constant noise. It would take him a while to block out the inefficient air-conditioning units and power converters every building seemed to possess. The cars, because they apparently weren't loud enough already, had horns.
"Is there some type of rule book for horn usage?” he asked.
Booker turned in a circle as they walked, trying not to look like a complete tourist and failing. “I have no idea."
"What I really miss are the tactical comms. It's great that I can get a hold of Ibarra, but what about Garrison across the street? Is he really going to eat that?"
“You could call him,” Booker suggested.
“And walk around with this…phone…constantly held up to my ear? No thanks. I’m trying to blend, not look like I think the fate of the galaxy hangs on me being in constant communication with my friends.”
“Hmm…” Booker studied several young men and women walking around with phones to their ears. “Appears a lot of people are saving the galaxy around here. I’m not sure they even see us standing here.”
“Yeah, but I need my hands free. Remind me to fire our tech advisor,” Hoffman said.
Garrison and Max seemed intent on trying something from every food stand on the street. At first, they’d complained there wasn't beer. A bizarre local ordinance restricted that sale to inside businesses.
"Maybe they’re on the right track," Booker said. "I'm starving. I think it's the smell of the roasting meat."
Hoffman was pretty sure the aroma didn't come from the street stands but didn't want to say anything. "Do you have the money?"
"Same as you, but I'm not sure how
to use it. I was going to let you go first."
"Yeah, I kind of thought it was one of Marc Ibarra’s jokes when I opened it. My bundle smells like a sweaty armpit."
"Barbaric," Booker said. “I wonder if anyone did a bacterial scan. There was a documentary in school that said ancient money was rife with disease.”
Hoffman laughed, despite the tension of being on their most dangerous mission yet. "Let's wing it."
He gave Garrison and Max a hand sign, indicating they should rally at this location in approximately one hour. Max returned the signal.
"I'm glad they remember how to do that," Hoffman said. “I recall losing comms on the Kid’ran’s Gift and struggling to get back in the swing of nonverbals.”
"There are several restaurants facing the street. Which one?" Booker asked.
"I suppose they're all about the same."
Booker laughed. "We're on a highly experimental world eating the local cuisine. What could go wrong?"
Hoffman entered an establishment with a red and white rimmed sign. The lettering celebrated a day of the week for some reason. Booker followed closely behind him, immediately peeling off to the right as though clearing a room. She kept her hands in her pockets—making her tactical entry slightly less conspicuous.
"Tone it down," he said, realizing that several people had noticed their behavior. “I thought you were going to order everyone onto the floor.”
"Sorry. Habits are hard to break. My underwear is riding up my backside. Tell me again why we couldn’t wear the pseudo-muscle bodysuit under our street clothing?”
A very short blonde woman, barely an adult, with a lot of exposed cleavage and wearing very tight orange shorts, led them to a table before Hoffman could respond.
"My name's Barbie. Amanda will be your server and will be with you in a minute. Can I get you anything to drink?”
"If Amanda’s our server, why are you taking us to the table?" Booker asked. She leaned closer to the girl. “Does your manager know you barely have any clothing on? Come on, sister, you’re drawing the wrong kind of attention in the outfit.”