Hard Strike

by Eric Thomson

  “Well... Actually...” Decker winked at Annear.

  She stood abruptly.

  “Prepare them for travel. We leave in half an hour. I must be in Howard’s Landing by sixteen hundred and you in Locarno by eighteen hundred.”

  A knowing expression crossed Talyn’s face.

  “That’s right. The annual Locarno Conference starts tonight. You plan on flattening the entire town along with five hundred of the Rim Sector’s most influential people?”

  “Slightly less than five hundred, Commander. Not everyone arrives in time for the opening cocktail party.”

  “Let me guess. The Coalition supporters who usually attend made it publicly known they don’t plan on getting there before tomorrow morning.”

  Annear gave Talyn an ironic round of applause.

  “Well done, Commander.”

  “Satanic.” Decker nodded with mock approval. “Eliminate your natural opponents by massacring them in job lots. It puts the fear of God into their families and organizations and opens the way for more Coalition influence. As a bonus, you can blame everything on the Democratic Stars Alliance.”

  “Not only the DSA, Zack,” Talyn said. “The Gendarmerie’s senior leadership as well for having failed to prevent the incident, the Constabulary for being useless and the Fleet for letting hundreds of MHX-19 bricks go walkabout. Who dreamed up this operation, Magda? You? It seems both more ruthless and more effective than any other Coalition operation we foiled.”

  “I wish I could take full credit, but Louis Sorne is the one who came up with this idea and sold it to our friends on Pacifica. I’m merely responsible for planning and carrying out its implementation.”

  “Friends on Pacifica being the Amali family and their acolytes?”

  “You know them?”

  “Better than they would like. What did the current family head do for you?”

  “Sadoc Amali’s people gave us the MHX. They also provided help in creating the DSA and spreading its influence over Rim Sector radical groups so rapidly.”

  Wilborg cleared his throat.

  “It’s perhaps best if you don’t reveal too much, Magda.”

  “You’re afraid they’ll escape? Who would believe them even if they managed such a feat?” She glanced at her timepiece. “The bomb is already in place, and good luck finding it.”

  “Please, Magda. No more details.”

  “Oh very well. You take the joy out of being an evil genius, you know.” Annear gave Wilborg a vexed glance. “Get them ready to travel.”

  She turned on her heels and left the dining room.

  Moments later, another woman with the same demeanor as Collette and Allyson entered, carrying a set of wrist and ankle restraints. The latter were of a type allowing the wearer to take regular steps but locking the moment he or she attempts to move any faster. Wilborg produced a small needler from inside his jacket and pointed it at them.

  “Hands on top of your heads, please. Stand when Fiona says so.”

  “If we’re going to die anyway, why should we cooperate like a pair of rookie troopers?” Talyn asked.

  “Because you’ll wake up in the suborbital shuttle’s cargo compartment and experience the worst migraine you can imagine before facing execution like a pair of mangy rats. Cooperate, and you can fly in a padded passenger seat, watch the scenery go by and walk to your deaths like proper Armed Forces officers.”

  Decker and Talyn exchanged looks. Her use of his code name, Rookie Trooper, was a question. Act now or play along? Singing out the last line of a Blood on the Risers verse would trigger an immediate attack on their captors, but he merely shrugged before placing his hands on his head.

  “I’ve always been partial to walking.”

  “Me too,” she answered, imitating him.

  Wilborg’s eyes momentarily narrowed, as if suddenly beset by doubt at their apparent willingness to go along.

  “Make no mistake. If we find it necessary to shoot or even kill you, it won’t change the outcome a single bit. We’ll mutilate your bodies so that previous gunshot injuries aren’t noticeable.”

  “Leaving a beautiful corpse has never been one of my ambitions,” Decker replied. “But I’d like to see Locarno before dying. I hear it’s one of the sector’s prettiest towns, a throwback to those of old Earth’s European Alps before the diaspora. A shame you intend to vaporize it.”

  “Locarno is a symbol of the old ways, Major Decker, and most conference attendees are firm partisans of the status quo which keeps humanity chained to its star systems instead of finding a fresh destiny in the wider galaxy.”

  “Great.” The Marine rolled his eyes at Talyn. “Another true believer. I think when everything is said and done, I still prefer power-hungry cynics like Magda.”

  “Stand,” Fiona ordered. Decker climbed to his feet, eyes still resting on Wilborg.

  “What do you mean power-hungry cynics like Magda? She believes in our greater destiny as much as anyone.”

  “Sorry, Hadar, old chum. Magda believes in Magda. She’ll toss you aside the moment your usefulness ends, just as she intends to dispose of the DSA by throwing it into a black hole. What you face here — hang on. Let’s let the young lady do her thing.”

  Fiona knelt beside him, put on the ankle restraints, and stood again. She tried to reach for Decker’s left wrist, but his height put it out of the shorter woman’s reach.

  “Hands.”

  Decker lowered his arms and held them out, fists clenched, wrists almost touching. After a moment of hesitation, she clapped one side of the manacles on his left wrist and secured the other on the right, effectively hobbling the Marine hand and foot. Then she did the same to Talyn, who offered her wrists in a similar, helpful manner.

  “As I was saying,” Decker continued, “Magda glommed onto Louis Sorne and his dreams of becoming the Coalition’s grand master in the Rim Sector so she could get back at her mother and her aunt for real or imagined slights. Absent those, I think she’d be following in the elder Annear’s footsteps and either preparing for a senatorial bid or taking over one of the family’s subsidiaries to succeed Bronwen as head of the zaibatsu one day.”

  “Bullshit. You can’t psychoanalyze someone over lunch.” Wilborg’s vehemence sounded slightly forced to Zack’s ears.

  “She’s a psycho all right, and you know it. No one in his or her right mind plans and carries out the murder of thousands as a way to become prime minister. Do sane people call their supporters useful idiots and plan to kill them if they don’t fall in line after they find out the truth? That’s weapons-grade cynicism right there, buddy. If I were you, I’d look at leaving this star system on the next transport.”

  “Forget it, Zack. Hadar has a thing for Magda. Not that she’d ever consider him as anything more than a hired hand, one without Pavel Yagudin’s wealth and good looks.”

  When he saw the growing fury in Wilborg’s eyes, the Marine chuckled. “Another direct hit. See, we’re what you would call students of human behavior. It’s a useful skill in our line of business.”

  Instead of replying, Wilborg nodded at Fiona.

  “Take them to the suborbital and make sure they’re secured. Magda won’t tolerate any deviation from the timetable today. Collette, bring our guests’ weapons and bags. We’ll leave them with their bodies.”

  Brilliant subtropical sunshine greeted them on the plaza where a sleek, vertical takeoff suborbital aircraft, a rich person’s toy, had replaced Wilborg’s ground car.

  “Pretty.” Decker studied its lines and realized it was armed beneath almost imperceptible blisters. “Must cost as much as I cumulatively earned in pay since enlisting thirty years ago.”

  “More. Thirty years of your pay and mine combined, multiplied by fifty,” Talyn replied. “I’ll bet this beauty is registered to Pavel’s zaibatsu and was a tax write-off when he bought it.”

  “Why does evil always live in luxury while those of us who fight for truth, justice, and humanity’s survival are st
uck traveling in steerage class?”

  “Because we serve the Commonwealth while evil is funded by third-party contributions, most of them either untraceable or tax deductible.”

  Decker climbed into the suborbital flyer.

  “Speaking of cynics. You and Magda would make a fine pair. Now this,” he added, looking around, “is what I call proper living. Too bad its owner won’t do much more of that. And look, there’s our old buddy Gudrun Mariano at the controls. Hi Gudrun! Didn’t know you could pilot one of these things.”

  Mariano’s expression remained blank as if Decker and Talyn were no more than unimportant cargo. Fiona pointed at Decker, then at a single seat on the starboard side.

  “You. There.”

  He sat and waited until Collette fastened him to the seat with practiced ease. She repeated the same exercise on the port side with Talyn.

  “Let me guess. We’re not the first prisoners you transported in this thing. What happened to them?”

  “None of your business,” Wilborg replied.

  “And what happens to us if we need to make an emergency water landing?”

  “You drown. No matter what happens today, you won’t live long enough to see another sunrise.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, buddy.”

  Wilborg, along with Fiona, Collette, and Allyson took seats around them, strapped in, and waited.

  Precisely thirty minutes after she left the dining room, Magda Annear, now wearing an elegant, yet practical dark business suit, climbed aboard, gave her prisoners a quick and silent once-over, and joined Mariano in the cockpit. Seconds later, the door slammed shut and thrusters began to whine in preparation for takeoff.

  — Thirty-Nine —

  Bonta stuck her head into Morrow’s office after a perfunctory warning knock.

  “Chief, the Navy gave us access to its satellite constellation just in time to witness a suborbital flyer taking off from Magda Annear’s hunting lodge. I checked with traffic control and its owner of record is the Yagudin zaibatsu.”

  “So they filed a flight plan?”

  “Yes. No choice if you’re entering controlled airspace. The flyer’s final destination is Locarno, with an intermediary stop at the Howard’s Landing spaceport.”

  “Locarno?” Morrow sat back and stared at her blank display. “Is Magda attending the conference? Why the stopover and where are Decker and Talyn?”

  “If you want, I’ll go to the spaceport and see if anyone gets off.”

  “Please and make sure Arno’s up to speed.”

  “Roger that, Chief.” Bonta withdrew her head and vanished.

  Morrow thought for a moment and then touched the screen embedded in her desk. She counted to ten before Maras’ adjutant answered her call.

  “What can I do for you, Chief Superintendent?”

  Though the inspector’s tone was carefully neutral, she saw suspicion in his eyes, as if he was wondering what fresh hell the head of the Rim Sector’s Professional Compliance Bureau intended to unleash this time.

  “Is the DCC attending the Locarno Conference?”

  Her question clearly surprised him.

  “As a matter of fact, she’s leaving at seventeen hundred today.”

  “Ask her if I can tag along. I promise to behave. I’ll even put on my uniform if she wishes.”

  Morrow’s offer to wear a uniform caught him by surprise. He stared at her for a few heartbeats as if searching for a catch. PCB members almost always worked in civilian clothes, except for the most solemn of occasions such as regimental funerals, because not wearing rank badges helped prevent overly unpleasant situations when investigating and arresting officers of higher rank.

  “The DCC will wish to know why.”

  “Locarno has come up several times in the last two days during our investigation, and perhaps by accompanying the DCC, I might be able to look around without attracting attention.”

  He didn’t reply right away and she pictured the gears spinning in his head.

  “Is the DCC putting herself in danger by heading to Locarno, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but people of interest are known attendees.”

  “Do you mean the high and mighty of the Rim Sector might be working with the DSA?”

  He sounded incredulous

  “Again, not that I’m aware of. But since Locarno came up more often than we can explain by mere coincidence in the last thirty-six hours, it’s become pretty much our only lead.” When he hesitated, she added, “Just ask the DCC, please, Inspector. If she says no, I won’t mention it again.”

  “Very well. Wait one.”

  His image faded from the office display.

  Morrow swiveled her chair to look out over a subdued city, wondering what made the two Naval Intelligence officers shut off their tracker beacons at the country residence of a prominent woman now on her way north aboard a luxury flyer. The chime of an incoming call startled her a few minutes later.

  “Morrow.”

  “What’s up, Caelin?” DCC Maras asked without preamble. “You never offered to wear a uniform in exchange for a ride with me, which is why we’re talking. I always figured it would take a direct order from DCC Hammett before anyone saw you in service grays.”

  “A notion, sir.”

  She explained what they’d uncovered about Magda Annear’s acquaintances and movements before telling her how Decker and Talyn ended up at Annear’s lodge, where their communicators’ tracking signals vanished. Finally, she mentioned the suborbital flyer and its flight plan.

  “Why do I think the Gendarmerie isn’t aware of this?”

  “Because our Naval Intelligence cousins are operating under trust no one rules.”

  “Do you agree with them?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve come to believe certain wealthy and politically connected offworld interests might be using the DSA as a front. These people are the furthest thing from wide-eyed revolutionaries with a special dislike of illegitimate plutocratic elites, and may well have allies inside the Cimmerian government.”

  Maras exhaled slowly.

  “Wonderful. You’ll find plenty of wealthy and politically connected offworlders in Locarno, that’s for sure. My aircar leaves from the roof at seventeen hundred. Wear your service grays and bring an overnight bag.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “On the way there, perhaps you can explain what your friends mean by these mysterious offworld interests. If that won’t violate any confidences.” Maras cut the link before Morrow could respond.

  She stood and walked over to the office closet where she kept a uniform and what Decker would call a bug-out bag, just in case she didn’t find the time or the inclination to go home and change. It was a protocol observed by most plainclothes Constabulary members, including her PCB crew, even though she couldn’t remember off hand the last time any of them wore grays.

  A quick check confirmed the uniform remained impeccable inside its protective sheath, the calf-high boots still shone, and her bag contained everything needed for a few nights away from Howard’s Landing.

  After a brief internal debate, she opened her gun safe and took out a small caliber, police-issue blaster, spare power packs and magazines, and a polished black gun belt, suitable for wear with the high-collared service tunic. On impulse, she stowed a less formal shoulder holster in her bag.

  “Did someone order a regimental funeral or are you testifying at a court-martial?” Inspector Arno Galdi asked, standing on the threshold of her office door.

  She turned away from the wardrobe.

  “I’m off to the Locarno Conference with DCC Maras, and service grays are apparently the dress of the day for Constabulary attendees.”

  “Got a bee in your bonnet, Chief? Magda Annear and her entourage? Bonta told me about the suborbital flyer and its flight plan.”

  “How does the old saying go? Once is happenstance?”

  “Twice is coincidence and three times means we c
rank up a new inquisition. I’d offer to watch your back, but my grays shrunk in recent months.”

  “Someone needs to stay here anyhow, Arno. In case a SOCOM unit appears in orbit looking for Super Spooks One and Two. Or the Super Spooks suddenly materialize on our doorstep.”

  “You don’t believe that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have sent Sergeant Bonta to the spaceport.”

  Morrow shook her head.

  “No. My gut tells me Decker and Talyn are aboard that flyer. But I don’t know whether it’s as Magda’s putative allies from Mission Colony or as prisoners.”

  “And Locarno?”

  “No idea. Yet.”

  “The DSA’s next deadline is noon tomorrow, which means you should enjoy a quiet evening hobnobbing with the most rarefied of the sector’s upper crust. It’ll give the corruption-chasing cop in you a chance to observe her prey in its natural habitat while sampling top quality hors-d'oeuvres.”

  “You almost sound jealous, Arno.”

  Galdi’s chuckle sounded like a volcano preparing to erupt.

  “Perish the idea, Chief. Finger food that would make me put on service grays and indulge in mindless small talk with the obscenely wealthy has yet to be devised by humanity’s finest chefs.”

  **

  Morrow was adjusting the black, collarless shirt she wore under the service tunic when her communicator, sitting on the desk, chimed for attention. She’d already donned gray trousers with black senior officer’s stripes on the outer leg seams and stepped into the calf-high boots.

  “Accept the call.” The communicator chimed again, in a different tone, to show the connection was live. “Yes?”

  “Bonta, Chief. We’re in a conference call with Inspector Galdi.”

  “Good. It’ll save me repeating the conversation. What’s the word?”

  “I used my credentials to mix in with the aerospace terminal crew. Annear’s flyer rode into one of the general aviation hangars. I talked my way inside and got a good view of Magda Annear disembarking. Alone. But I also managed a quick look through the flyer’s open door and spotted a man who resembled Major Decker’s cover identity as Piet Yorik. Based on what little I saw, they appear to have shackled him to his seat. No sign of Talyn, but I only had eyes on a small section of the flyer’s interior. Magda walked out the front door where an unmarked ground car picked her up.”