by Richard Fox
“They do seem polite,” Garrison said, watching a patrol car drive down the street. Both the driver and the passenger waved at kids crossing the street. “Looks like school’s out or something. Is this what people did in the twenty-first century?”
“Let’s keep the sociological studies to a minimum and just do our job,” Hoffman said, starting for the station. “Take all the time you need, but remember—we do have a mission clock. Slow is fast. Fast is smooth. Let’s get this done.”
Garrison and Max split up, heading toward two different crosswalks where they found places to wait unobtrusively.
Booker fell in beside Hoffman. “We’re not really going to tell them we lost a cat? We’ll wind up inside the asylum ourselves.”
“If I thought that was guaranteed to work, I’d go that route,” said Hoffman. “They probably wouldn’t let us keep our stun guns, however, and getting out might be problematic.”
He watched Booker looking over her shoulder and said, “Got a question for you, Booker.”
“Go.”
Hoffman chuckled. “Are we paranoid?”
“What are you talking about?” Booker asked.
“I’m just saying that four of us walked down the street, and two of us automatically fell into security positions. I don’t think any member of the team has gone more than three steps without checking what’s behind and above them,” Hoffman said, slowly surveying his environment.
“We have good survival instincts. Getting swarmed by bloodthirsty aliens intensifies the habit,” Booker said.
“I know why it happens. We’ve trained for that exact reason. Getting surprised gets people killed. I’m just saying we stand out.” The sounds of the city seemed to answer. The normalness of their current environment told Hoffman he was right.
“We’re not really built for the regular world,” Booker said.
She was right and Hoffman knew it. He tried not to think of Opal and how he literally wasn’t built for this world. “You know, Booker, I’ve never thought of what I would do if we won all these wars against the Kesaht and the Ibarrans…and basically everybody else in the galaxy.”
“We could all retire and open a bar someplace,” Booker said
Hoffman laughed. “That’s what every Strike Marine says.” He opened the door and let her go in first.
Hoffman felt butterflies in his gut as he went up the stairs with Booker by his side. People came and went from the building, some uniformed personnel and others who might’ve been cops but were dressed down. Mostly, however, there were citizens.
“Busy place,” Booker said, immediately turning right and moving down the wall two strides, her eyes scanning as though she was looking for a threat. Hoffman caught himself doing the same thing on the other side of the entrance, moving away from the fatal funnel that all doorways were for assault teams.
They made eye contact and both seemed embarrassed.
“So much for looking like a civilian,” Hoffman said, then called Max on the primitive cell phone. “Hammer Six for squelch,”
“Copy. Just use my name, sir. In case someone overhears your conversation,” Max said. “Like a real phone call.”
“Right. Good point,” Hoffman said. “Ignore everything on the right when you come in. That looks like their booking area, and a detention wing beyond that. The main room is multipurpose to say the least.”
He felt like half the people in the room were watching him. Holding the phone to his ear while he transmitted tactical information felt suspicious, but there were a lot of people on their phones. Thankfully, the acoustics of the place were bad and he couldn’t track their conversations without standing right next to them. He hoped the same worked in reverse.
The lobby was larger than he had expected. There were five rows of chairs that made him think of a waiting room in a train station or other mass transport. Stepping back toward Booker, he spoke in a lower voice, still cataloguing every detail of the police station lobby. “This room is connected to the jail. Some of these people look like they’re waiting for visiting hours. Nothing on the right side matters to us. Stay sharp, I’m talking to Max.”
She nodded and tried to act casual, but since she didn’t sit down like most of the people in the lobby, she just looked like she was waiting for a fight.
People sat in small groups, or alone, surrounded by an invisible field of desperation and misery. Hoffman wondered what brought these people to this time and place.
“You still haven’t told me what our story is,” Booker said. “We can’t tell them we lost our cat.”
Hoffman realized they were already at the point of no return. The line in front of the complaint desk that had seemed so long had suddenly evaporated. “Just go with it,” he said.
A tired-looking middle-aged man who was slightly thick around the middle looked him over and sighed. “Let me guess, you have a complaint. Is it against an officer’s behavior or your neighbor’s fence?”
Hoffman wasn’t sure what anyone’s fence could do but decided to let it go. “I…I lost my cat.”
The man glanced toward one of the armed officers guarding the room. “You know we’re really busy and understaffed, right?” the desk officer asked.
“I know,” Hoffman said, sounding apologetic. “She made me come here.”
This caught Booker by surprise. “What? I told you this was a stupid idea!”
The desk officer hit a button and spoke into the intercom. “Send me two officers for a domestic disturbance in the lobby. Not physical at this point. Yeah, dispatch, I’m ten-four.”
Hoffman glanced toward the door and saw Garrison enter. This was about to get dumb.
“Can I get some service here!” The breacher ripped off his shirt and started pacing back and forth.
“Did he forget the part about not actually getting arrested?” Booker asked.
“Apparently.” Hoffman checked for a reaction and was surprised not to see a small army of cops rushing toward the bare-chested powerlifter.
“You know, I call 911, and I call, and I call, and they just won’t send the cops. How am I supposed to be safe? There’s a freaking alien invasion about to happen. You know what the Kesaht do first, right? Scramble the atmosphere so comms don’t work! Then how will I get a cop to take my report? That’s all I want! I’ve been wronged!” Garrison lifted his hands to the ceiling as he spoke, most likely searching out camera positions but appearing more than a bit crazy.
“Can we just fill out some paperwork on our cat?” Hoffman asked. “We’re not going to argue. My…companion here was just worried that you’re too busy to handle something like this.”
“Your ‘companion’?” Booker asked, crossing her arms.
“Service! What are you gonna do when they come for you?” Garrison shouted then retreated, as what looked like a riot team boiled from a side door. They wore helmets and heavier body armor than the street cops and carried shotguns that might or might not be beanbag guns or something else nasty.
“It’s just a cat,” Hoffman said to the desk officer, trying not to watch Garrison’s overacting.
“Fill out this paperwork. We really don’t have time for this. Your companion knows what she’s talking about,” the desk officer said.
“Of course, of course,” Hoffman said, noticing in his peripheral vision that Max was walking down an unattended hallway on the other side of the more heavily fortified doors that presumably led to the jail.
Several of the men and women waiting for visiting hours stood and shouted Garrison down.
“You gonna get yourself in jail! You better settle yourself down,” a woman shouted. “We ain’t got time for this. Just get yourself out of here. And for God’s sake, put your shirt on! You know they always arrest the guy with his shirt off!”
Garrison backpedaled toward the door, turned, and ran for it. The riot team followed, slowed by their heavy gear. Through the glass door, Hoffman saw other officers bailing out of their squad cars to cut Garrison off.<
br />
“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Booker said. “Maybe we should create a distraction from the distraction to help him out.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It looks like Max has made his way into the office area. If he can find a computer, this was a success, even if Garrison has to take a few bumps and bruises.”
More of the local cops arrived in their squad cars, jumping the curbs and parking on the sidewalk to block Garrison’s escape. The breacher vaulted over the engine of a squad car and slipped past the blockers.
“Booker, you’re the timekeeper,” Hoffman said. “In five minutes, we get Max out of here and try to rescue Garrison. Is your stun gun ready?”
“It sure is. All I’m lacking is a full suite of Strike Marine armor and air support,” Booker said. “The clock’s running.”
“Help! Help! I’m being repressed!” Garrison shouted from the parking lot.
Hoffman glanced out the window and sighed in relief.
“He made it,” the lieutenant said.
“I wish Max would hurry up,” Booker said. “What did he do, climb the tower? He’s just supposed to hack a computer.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, clearly ready to get into a fight. Of Hoffman’s team, she had the most mixed-martial-arts training. If she’d been as big as Opal, she could’ve taken on the entire room. Of course, if they had Opal, the doughboy could’ve been tossing police officers right and left.
Max came back out of the hallway and gave them the thumbs-up. An officer with a clipboard stopped and stared at him.
“Sir, this is a restricted area,” the clipboard man said.
“Sorry. I was looking for a bathroom. I’ll show myself out,” Max explained.
“Let’s go, Booker,” Hoffman said as he followed Max out. “It’s a black-and-white parking lot out there.”
“That went well,” Booker said sarcastically as they hurried away from the station.
“Banter later, exfil now,” Hoffman said.
“There’s an access tunnel to the next building that used to be a courthouse, I think. They don’t use it for that anymore, according to the notes I skimmed through, but once upon a time, they walked prisoners over here to appear in front of a judge. The building’s been converted to storage and it’s pretty big. We can disappear and come out on the street from any of about ten different exits,” Max said.
“Good work, Max,” Hoffman said. “Give me the short summary of how we did.”
“I tinkered with the communication link between the primary control node of the Flagel 4000 and its subsidiary units—three in the city and eighteen in this region. You can thank me later for disabling the laser turret that would have popped up from the ground if we’d tried to cut the fence without taking care of the Flagel first.”
“What about Ibarran quick-reaction forces or post–Ember War guard teams?” Hoffman asked.
Max shook his head. “They’ll still be asleep in their bunks when we’re leaving the planet.”
“Outstanding. Things are looking up,” Hoffman said.
“I think one of those guys knocked out my favorite tooth,” Garrison said, opening his mouth wide and encouraging Booker to look. “What you see, Book?”
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Let’s worry about your dental hygiene later,” she said.
Max led the way down a set of stairs that opened to a parking garage with several levels.
“Look sharp. We’re not even close to being done with this mission,” Hoffman said.
Police ran around the nearby streets, speaking into their radios as they searched for Garrison.
“I think we’re going to make it,” Hoffman said. “Let’s get to the rally point and meet up with Garrison. Keep the mission going.”
****
"Time for the next phase of the operation," Duke said. He had identified several antenna arrays. One of the larger, better defended arrays had a maintenance box someone had left open, probably to make it easier to fix later and probably under the assumption there wouldn’t be Strike Marines running covert operations here.
“Are you listening, Gor?”
“Yes, of course,” Gor’al said. “Are you going to brag of things you have not yet done? My people do not do this strange talking of shit.”
“Sure they do,” Duke said. “I’m just setting the stage, making sure you understand I can’t be bothered while taking this shot. If I don’t disable these commo antennas, the Ibarrans on the planet will immediately warn their counterparts at our friendly neighborhood covert ship dock what we’re up to.”
“Yes, yes,” Gor’al muttered impatiently.
“And if they warn the security chief at the ship yard, we may not be able to reclaim the Breit without substantial loss of life. So it’s our duty to get this done.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“Just don’t interrupt me when I take the shot,” Duke said, sounding almost too relaxed. “And make sure none of these tube-baby Ibarrans do either.”
“Perhaps you should talk less to me and fly the scout drones with more vigor,” Gor’al said.
The point defenses on the exterior of the Breitenfeld were dark but ominous. The active defenses of the station were small compared to the legendary warship, but modern and deadly. He needed to disable them before anything important could happen.
“The drones will be shot down,” Gor’al protested.
"Maybe, but I doubt it. They're too small and they're unarmed. Not a threat to anything if not for the explosive shells we attached to them,” Duke said. "Cover me while I pilot this thing. I never thought I'd say this, but I really wish Max were here."
Once the Dotari Marine was set up, Duke hunkered down and unfolded the drone controls. The screen illumination was dim, but he knew that could be deceiving. In the absolute darkness of the void, anyone watching the exterior of the ship would see the glow of the screen, even if they didn't know what it was. He pulled his stealth cloak over himself and the small workstation he’d made and got busy.
"I can no longer see the drone. Also, you'll be glad that no one seems to be looking for us yet. All is well," Gor’al said.
“Outstanding," Duke said, watching the screen. He steered the drones around the antenna arrays, trying to confuse their point defense sensors.
“You are not a good drone pilot,” Gor’al said.
“You’re right. But hold on one second.” Duke sent the drones on a preset flight path, then lay down behind his sniper rifle.
He pulled in a deep breath, held it, calmed his mind. All his troubles faded. The only thing that mattered now was making the shot. He concentrated so completely that the shot was the universe. Nothing else could exist.
Point defense systems on the antenna arrays tracked the drones, which caused the panel he was looking for to move into view.
He pulled the trigger.
The gauss round slammed into the open maintenance panel. Nothing happened immediately, but after a time, he saw lights go out at the base of one antenna after another.
****
Masha strode to the police station, flashing her ID whenever necessary. She was in a local police uniform but completely unknown to the people who ran this bureau. The outfit had been thrown together at the last moment, and she realized now that it wasn’t perfect. Her boots were too high, for one thing. Several random admirers had asked her if she was on the motor unit, whatever that was. The helmet she carried under her arm had seemed like a good idea at the time—something to hide her face if necessary—except that no one but the TAC teams had helmets in this facility.
A man stepped from a hardened security booth near the prisoner area and approached her. She flashed her ID card, within which an infrared pulse had been embedded. It wasn’t necessary to show the identification, but no one questioned her odd behavior because each time she held it up, it triggered chemical responses in the procedurally generated subjects of this test cosm.
By the time she wa
s two rooms into the police station, everyone assumed she belonged there. “You, lower-level functionary, show me where this computer was hacked.”
“You don’t have to treat me like that just because I’m a noncommissioned civilian employee. We can’t all be tactic-cool SWAT guys,” the man said.
Masha flashed the ID card in his face.
“Don’t jab that in my face. I’m not one of the locals. I know who you are. Right this way.” The man led her to a small room off the main hallway where someone had been doing data entry not so long ago. “I could have handled your inquiry over the phone. This isn’t necessary.”
“I received an alert at my station. Someone pulled up my profile without access.”
“Really? Does it show any real information?” the man asked.
“No. The hacker was poking around, trying to find dirt on me or admiring my eyes. How would I know? It is unusual. If I find it was you or one of your people, there will be hell to pay. You might even find yourself explaining your deficiencies to the Lady,” Masha said.
“Should I order a search of the premises?”
“What are you not telling me?” she demanded, stepping so near him that he became uncomfortable.
“Nothing. It’s been a long day. We had a problem with some people who were angry about their lost cat,” he said defensively, retreating until his back touched the wall.
“Lost their cat?”
“Yes, Masha.”
“Really?”
“We decided they were crazy. We have an all-points bulletin out for them,” the man said.
Masha frowned at him, narrowing her gaze and scrutinizing his guilty body language. He wasn’t going to report the incident. The man was covering his tracks to avoid a bad report in his file, which was far too typical, she thought. “Thanks, you can go now.”
“Why would someone use this terminal?” the man asked.
“That’s above your pay grade. Can I get a little privacy?”
More than a bit unhappy with her disrespect but glad for a chance to escape, the man left the room, closing the door behind him.