by Richard Fox
The young woman bounced onto the balls of her feet and smiled brightly. "Thanks! That was sweet of you to say so. The reason I’m seating you is because I'm the hostess, of course. Are you two from out of town?"
"You could say that," Hoffman said.
"That's exciting. We don't get many travelers who’re actually from out of town," Barbie said, seeming slightly confused for a second and a little bit sick. “I would never take a trip like that. It’s such a weird idea to even mention. You won't tell anyone, right?"
"Tell anyone what?" Hoffman counted the people in the room and saw that several of them looked to have some sort of tactical experience. He didn't see uniforms and assumed they were off duty or maybe retired, though they looked young.
"That I talked about people from out of town. Don't make me say it again," Barbie said. “I think about it sometimes, but I really don’t want my friends thinking I’m a weirdo.”
Hoffman smiled reassuringly. "I was kind of joking, Barbie.”
"Oh, right. I get it. Amanda will be right over. Did you say you wanted water?"
"That would be fine," Booker said in a slightly lower voice than Hoffman was using.
"That was strange." He knew this was an Ibarran experiment, but he hadn't stopped to think about what the procedural programming would do to the test subjects. How long could they resist their natural instincts in an environment this complex?
"Ibarra said they were made to never want to leave. I'd assume they had some sort of implanted memories of past trips,” Booker said.
Hoffman considered her hypothesis. "They probably do. There's bound to be glitches."
Barbie didn't come back. Amanda, a dark-haired young woman in equally tight-fitting clothing, brought the water and a pad of paper to take the order.
Music played in Hoffman’s pocket, causing Booker and the waitress to stare at him expectantly. His team medic, sangfroid as ever, seemed at a loss—unable or unwilling to offer advice.
“Are you going to answer that?” the waitress finally asked.
“No. I’m just getting my jam on,” Hoffman said, wincing at the heavy-metal tune. “That’s what people do in this time frame, right?”
“Sure. I mean, why answer your phone when it rings?” She closed the order pad. “The special today is meat loaf with garlic fries. Interested in an appetizer?”
“We give you our order…” Booker touched the pictures of food on the menu, surprised when it didn’t automatically order.
The waitress glared, clearly annoyed she probably wouldn’t be getting tips from two crazy people.
“The special sounds great. We’ll take two,” Hoffman said in a rush.
“What’d you want to drink?”
“Beers?” Booker asked.
“Water,” Hoffman snapped.
“I had to try.” Booker shrugged.
“That’s why I’m ordering.”
Amanda raised her voice. “Specials and water. Coming right up.”
“Everyone drinks beer in a place like this. We need to blend,” Booker said.
“Excuse me,” said a man with a two-month beard and callused hands. He looked like a hard worker with a slight beer gut. “I just wanted to thank you for your service. I know you probably don’t get enough of that. Me and my family, we appreciate your sacrifice.”
Hoffman shook the proffered hand, standing to address the man respectfully. Booker also got to her feet, tense and ready to spring into action.
“Oh no, sir. You don’t have to get up. I don’t want to bother you all right before you eat.”
“How’d you know—”
“I know the look folks have when they get back from downrange. Just wanted to make sure you know we’re all praying for you back home.”
“Thanks,” Hoffman said. “We appreciate it. Stay safe.”
“You too. God bless.” The man tipped his ball cap and went back to the table where his family was eating.
Hoffman's phone rang again.
"You really should answer that," Booker said. "What are you thinking?"
"I didn't realize that music meant I was getting a call. By the time I figured it out, it felt dumb to answer it.” Hoffman lifted the device to his ear, awkwardly thumbing the answer button. "Go.”
“Why didn't you answer the first time, LT? Max was starting to get worried,” Garrison said. “Do you need us in there?"
"No, we're good. Give me a sit-rep," Hoffman ordered.
"There's not a lot of access roads to the asylum. We did a physical scout and talked to some people on the street, just making conversation. Can’t find anyone who knows much about the place. It's always a story about someone who knew someone who had someone related to them who went to the asylum,” Garrison said. "There's a very negative stigma associated with the crazy house. Local security isn’t friendly. Surprise surprise. We’re keeping it vague when people ask where we're from."
"Good call. Keep up the good work and I'll get back with you soon," Hoffman said, then ended the call.
One of the many televisions played something that looked like a news broadcast, while the rest were various sports involving ball throwing and a lot of dynamic camera angles.
"Is that a news broadcast? Could be useful," Booker asked.
"You have to remember that everything in this microcosm is fake news. Worthless," Hoffman said.
Hoffman and Booker finished their meal, watching everyone in the room for another incident. “I think that was an innocent encounter. If I remember my history, there was a long war near the beginning of the century.”
“I think you’re right. A big mess that only got bigger by the time we were around,” Booker said.
Hoffman and Booker left the sports bar almost thirty minutes later, full of good food and regrets. Garrison and Max crossed the street, causing cars to stop abruptly and honk their horns. Max held a roll of something.
“Look at this thing," he said. "An actual newspaper. I feel like I'm in a museum. This is weirder than the low-tech environment on Eridu.”
“You’re such a geek, Max,” Garrison said.
Hoffman took it all in, watching the constant flow of ground cars. Navigating the city was proving more difficult than expected. The streets were congested and the distances he needed to cover were long. “I'm used to jumping from LZ to LZ in a Mule.”
“Except on Koen. Be thankful you weren't with Duke on that one,” Booker said. “Between his nicotine addiction and steam rooms…”
“Syracuse also had its moments,” Hoffman said, shifting his attention to his breacher and commo specialist. “Give me an update, Garrison.”
“We’ve got a ways to go,” Garrison said. “Do I smell hot sauce on your breath, LT? How could you?”
“We needed to blend,” Hoffman wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “And now we need a vehicle.”
“Hotwiring these antiques shouldn’t be too hard,” Max pointed to an alley where a car had just parked. A tired-looking man in a disheveled suit got out and removed groceries from the trunk. “Looks like he’s going down for the night.”
“Good,” Garrison stretched his arms to his side, “‘cause I’m tired of walking.”
Chapter 19
“Calm down, Gor,” Duke said. “All we have to do is EVA from the Keyser Soze to the Breit. Stick to the plan. Once I’ve taken out the antenna array, communication between the planet at this dry dock will be impossible. Then we just have to lock down the Breit and wait for the team to bring Valdar and the crew.”
“Do you enjoy this?” Gor’al asked, sounding nervous.
“It’s a living,” Duke said. “What’s the problem? Afraid of drifting into the void?”
"I know how to perform an extra vehicle activity—I am merely saying I don't like it.” Gor’al shifted uneasily.
Duke waved off the comment. "Nobody likes it. I wasn't criticizing you. I was just doing a safety check. Now you check my gear."
"Yes, of course. That is sensible. Perhaps while I
check your gear, you could admit that you were covertly consuming chewing tobacco on the bridge,” Gor’al said as he inspected Duke’s void gear.
"I don't know what you're talking about. The crew chief is signaling us. It's time," Duke said.
"Very convenient," Gor’al said. “Whenever there are hard questions to be answered, some emergency gives you a card of free jail.”
“You’re killing me, Gor. It’s a get out of jail free card, not free card of jail.”
“I don’t see the difference. Are you having me on?” Gor’al asked.
“Not this time, Gor. Trust me.”
The porthole was small and heavily reinforced and Duke thought about telling Gor’al that he'd never seen one used on an operation like this. Portholes weren’t made for tactical deployment. He didn't think the information would improve the mission, though, so he kept quiet.
Crew members depressurized the room, then locked themselves out, essentially turning it into a makeshift air lock. The subterfuge was necessary to deceive anyone watching the Scipio as air locks were the obvious points of deployment. The porthole Duke had chosen was on a different section of the ship and not likely to be monitored by enemy surveillance teams.
Duke nodded to his Dotari partner, who gave him the thumbs-up. They activated their stealth cloaks and crawled through the opening into the void.
"Duke for Gor, how copy?”
“Very clear. I am reading you almost as well as I am not seeing you," Gor’al said. “It is reassuring to know we are in this together and that you would not keep secrets from me or tell me lies even when we are invisible.”
"Fine, I put a dip in while Marc was schmoozing that security officer. Happy?” Duke asked.
"Why would that make me happy? You did not share. We could get lost out here, just float around unseen and unfound forever. And all I would think about was how my most trusted friend betrayed me.”
"You make me tired, Gor. Most people are happy when they win an argument. What the argument was about really doesn't mean anything."
"Humans are very strange,” Gor’al muttered. “How long must we drift?"
Duke adjusted his stealth cloak. When he positioned it, the high-tech garment stayed in place since there was no atmosphere or gravity to change its orientation. So long as he remained motionless, it stayed right where he put it, ensuring complete coverage. "Not long. It's time to start maneuvers. But remember, the less you use the hand jet the better."
"Yes. Of course. I don't want to somersault into the void," Gor’al said. “Is my cloak covering me adequately?”
“I wouldn't be able to see you if I didn’t already know you were here,” Duke said.
He used the same auto-regulation techniques to lower his heart rate that he used for making a precision rifle shot—deep breath in, hold, slowly let the breath out until his heart rate dropped and became steady. He engaged the hand jets at their minimum setting, steering toward the hull of the Breitenfeld. To his surprise, the Dotari Marine stayed right behind him with no overcorrection or other mistakes.
The Breit, dark as the moon it was hidden behind, loomed closer as they approached. Duke prided himself on being able to judge distance, but in the void, everything was strange and vague. One moment it seemed they would never arrive, and the next moment he was forced to blast the hand jets to prevent a violent collision. He aimed his hands down the side of his legs toward his feet, holding his arms rigid so that he would land standing.
"Hand jets. Brake! Brake! Brake!" Duke shouted. “Anti-grav liners!”
"Now you tell me!" Gor’al yelled back.
Duke counted the seconds, not sure what good the information would do if he were dead, but needing something to work on. If he knew the duration and speed of his flight, he could calculate the distance for his logbook and maybe learn how to estimate it for a future mission.
If he survived for a future mission.
Gor’al passed him, unable to slow sufficiently for a proper landing. "I think this is going to be a hard one.”
"I'm right behind you. I'll scrape you up and put you in a bag for your funeral," Duke said.
The Dotari Marine grunted as his boots struck. His body crumpled, causing him to do a partial roll until the mag liners in his boots and gloves caught on the ship’s surface.
Duke arrived a second later, immediately checking his friend. "Gor, are you OK?"
The Dotari Marine’s response began weakly but grew in strength. “I live.”
Opening the hatch was simple. Gor’al applied the code, opened the small maintenance door, and leaned away from escaping atmosphere—only a small burst, but the air jet was still dangerous. He ducked inside, confirmed their location, and leaned out to explain to the human sniper that all was well.
“Good to know,” Duke said. “Get to the engine room. I don’t want to wait out here forever,” Duke said.
“But you will wait?” The Dotari Marine pointed at the Terran Strike Marine to emphasize his point.
“I’ll be here. Don’t have any place else to be. Keep in mind, if I get killed because of you, I’m canceling our friend card,” Duke said.
Gor’al followed a map on his HUD. The layout was simple and familiar. He’d worked with Terrans for years. If this went well, he would finally earn the respect of the legendary sniper. As trusted friends and equals, they would share things like coffee beans and dip equally. Not that he was thinking about these things now. Well, only for a second. Because…goals.
“What am I doing out here thinking like a human?” Gor’al muttered privately. “Maybe I need a transfer after this mission. Just a nice Dotari woman not too low on the Lists. A gar’udda farm in the country.”
“Status,” Duke asked, his voice scratchy in Gor’al’s earpiece.
“Almost there,” Gor’al said, checking a hallway to be sure it was clear before crossing into the engine room. “I will soon be victorious and may we all rise on the Lists.”
He moved quickly through the dark area, trying not to stare at the engines of the famous ship. “Yes, yes, I am almost there. My HUD says I should be right next to the control terminal…aha. I merely needed to turn around.”
“Too much information, Gor. Just get it done.” Duke sounded tense. “These antenna arrays have a lot of armor. Going to take a perfect shot to disable one of them. Marc made it sound like they were ripe for the plucking.”
Gor’al reviewed the mission outline in his head. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“You do your job, I’ll do mine,” Duke snapped.
“Does your job involve distracting me with your bad human attitude?” Gor’al asked as he removed the oversized data slate from his backpack, then connected it to the terminal with three cables. Systems checks began scrolling across the screen, then stopped.
“Maybe it does,” Duke grumbled, his words scratchy with interference.
“There is a problem,” Gor’al said.
“What problem? We’re on the clock, Gor. The longer you’re in there, the more chance you have of being discovered.”
“I know this. I am not a fetga! Something is keeping the engines from coming online. It is like it has a restraint boot—like that time Garrison was supposed to have a car ready on Xaxter and the local law enforcement people disabled it until he paid the fine,” Gor’al said, working through the problem and thinking of various solutions as he chattered.
“Way too much talking and not enough getting shit done,” Duke said. “I’m looking for an antenna array that’s not fortified like a gun turret. Kind of busy on my end. I’m void walking, remember?”
“Yes, how could a Dotari forget? Especially when a Dotari’s human partner has become a box of chatter.” Gor’al checked the slate. “This will take at least a half hour to get spun up and ready to go.”
****
Garrison turned the corner without slowing and hit the brake halfway through the maneuver, causing the car to lean violently to one side and shake its passengers. Tires sq
uealed and brakes complained.
"I think it’s someone else's turn to drive,” Booker said. "You smacked my head into the window on that last maneuver.”
"Sounds like a personal problem," Garrison said. "If you’d develop more core strength, you’d be able to stabilize better and not get pitched around."
"I've been in TIT landings that were less traumatic," Booker complained.
Hoffman didn't disagree with his medic. The best he could say for Garrison's land-car navigating skills was that he was enthusiastic. None of that mattered to him right now because he finally had eyes on his target. "Park it, and let's walk in."
The building looked old, a fact Hoffman found ironic considering what he knew about the city. The Ibarrans had tried for authenticity, including old structures mixed in with new. He wondered if pre-Xaros North America had been such a haphazard mess. There was no rhyme or reason to which buildings were allowed to remain despite their deteriorating condition.
The mental institution was three stories, with bars added to windows long after the original construction. It was painted a pastel yellow and the roof was some sort of red ceramic tile. There’d been a retaining wall around the inner courtyard, but this had been supplanted by a tall razor-wire fence along the perimeter.
"That's definitely electric," Max said. "The camera coverage may not be perfect, but it's pretty good. I think it's wired with cables rather than Wi-Fi—or whatever they have in this day and age. Either way, it's about as modern as they could get without ruining their experiment. Let me run some tests and see if they have anything working behind the scenes, so to speak."
"We can't just stand here," Hoffman said, eyeing a police cruiser that was rolling slowly past them. "We probably look like we're about to do a carjacking or something."
“Who would steal one of these things?” Booker asked, rolling her head to loosen her neck muscles, then twisting at the waist. "How did people from this century not have constant back pain?"
“Garrison, lead the way. Find us an observation post, close but not too close,” Hoffman said.