by Piers Platt
“We don’t have any other options,” Lonergan pointed out. “Certainly not this late in the game.”
“Why don’t you trust them?” Ricken asked Rath.
“I had a mission here, back during their civil war,” Rath said. “The team I worked with crossed me the first chance they got. I barely got away, and my car was targeted by a missile strike … I ended up in a medically-induced coma for a few months.”
“Will they remember you?” Ricken asked.
“If he’s still alive, there’s a guy called Major Ikeda who would probably shoot me on sight,” Rath said. “But I’ll be using a new cover identity, so I’m not worried about that. I’m just worried they’ll try to screw our plan, too.”
On the viewscreen at the front of the bridge, a view of Jokuan appeared – a dark sphere backlit in orange and white. They were approaching the planet’s night side, the sun setting low over the curvature of the planet ahead of them.
Ricken rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m dismissing your concerns, Rath,” he said. “But I don’t see any other way to achieve our plan. We need the Jokuans.”
“Jokuan Space Traffic Control, this is the Rampart Guardian,” a crew member announced, speaking into a head-mounted microphone. “Requesting entry path and landing zone guidance.”
As Rath watched, the sun dipped fully beneath the horizon, and the ship passed into the planet’s shadow. Jokuan loomed, dark and large on the viewscreen.
“Roger, good copy,” the crew member replied to his headset. “We’re beginning our descent.”
Ricken stood up. “Let’s head down to the cargo bay,” he told them.
Rath and Jaymy stood, still holding hands. Rath glanced over his shoulder a final time at Jokuan.
“Hey,” Jaymy said. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Rath said. “Just got a bad feeling about this.”
20
It was fully dark when Atalia and Beauceron arrived at the landing field on Jokuan, panting and sweating from their jog through the woods.
“You okay?” Atalia whispered hoarsely.
Beauceron nodded, and wiped his sweat-streaked forehead against his sleeve. Atalia led him to a mound of mossy boulders; they clambered partway up the outcropping, and then lay down on their stomachs, peering at the open field ahead of them. The field was ringed with floodlights, and a wing of aerial drones lined one edge of it, parked in a neat row. Technicians hooked a drone to a small cart as Beauceron and Atalia watched, and then dragged it across the field and up the ramp of a small spaceship. The Rampart Guardian sat at the other end of the field, its landing struts thrust into the soft earth like talons gripping prey. The ship’s wide ramp was down, and Beauceron and Atalia could see into the massive cargo bay. Atalia took several photos of the landing field with her binoculars, and then zoomed in on the Rampart Guardian.
“I see a couple crew on the ground,” she told Beauceron. “Looks like they’re refueling the ship.”
“Anyone inside?”
“No, I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“Can you see the high energy prototype?”
“No,” she replied. “There’s a bunch of stuff wrapped up under tarps, though, could be any of those things. But I can’t tell from here. You want to try to get closer?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “This feels close enough.”
She laughed, and patted his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” She turned back to the field, and raised the binoculars. “… as long as none of those soldiers have thermal imaging.”
“Should we call Jesk, report it in?” Beauceron asked.
“Not here,” Atalia told him. “That would definitely blow our cover. I can pretty much guarantee there’s a sensor somewhere on that field scanning for interstellar communication signals.”
“Inbound,” Beauceron commented, glancing off to his right.
Atalia shifted on her elbows, and trained the binoculars on a medium-sized air transport approaching the field. It hovered in for a landing not far from the Rampart Guardian, and then dropped a boarding ramp. Half a dozen soldiers trotted down the ramp, and stood waiting outside the ship. An older man in an officer’s uniform followed them, but Beauceron could not make him out.
“Who’s the VIP?” he asked.
Atalia squinted through the binoculars. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the commanding general himself.”
“Yo-Tsai?” Beauceron asked.
“Looks like it. There’s somebody coming out of the Guardian now.”
Beauceron could just make out a group of people as they appeared on the ship’s expansive ramp.
“Martin, you magnificent bastard,” Atalia breathed.
“What?” he asked, looking over at her in the dark.
She stayed focused on the field, shooting more pictures with the binoculars. “Anders Ricken just walked out of the Rampart Guardian. You were right.”
“Somebody who looks like Anders Ricken,” Beauceron whispered back. “It could be another guildsman simply mimicking him.”
“Could be,” she agreed. “He’s got an older man with him, don’t recognize him. And a younger guy and a girl. They’re walking over to Yo-Tsai and his crew. Here.” She passed the binoculars to Beauceron, who took them.
“That does look like Ricken,” Beauceron said. “He’s even wearing an antique IP uniform. He’s shaking hands with General Yo-Tsai now.”
“Wonderful,” Atalia noted. “An ancient terrorist with a weapon of mass destruction is getting friendly with a military despot. Just what the galaxy needs about now. Do you recognize the others?”
“The two men? No.” Beauceron shifted his aim, and then sighed in disappointment. “But I recognize the young woman. That’s Jaymy McGovan.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“A nurse from Scapa, who had a romantic relationship with Rath. I think there’s an excellent chance one of those men is Rath himself.”
“The old guy or the young guy?”
“Or the one that looks like Ricken,” Beauceron mused. “God knows why he would do it, but Rath is certainly capable of taking on Ricken’s likeness, if he wanted to.”
“Technically, this Jaymy woman could just be Paisen in disguise, for all we know. Right?”
“Right,” Beauceron admitted.
“Hell, you could be Rath, for all I know. This is just getting insane,” Atalia said. “What the fuck did you drag me into, Detective?”
Beauceron looked over, and saw her smiling in the darkness. “I don’t know,” he replied. He handed her back the binoculars, and she studied the group on the field. At a signal from General Yo-Tsai, the group from the Guardian followed him up the ramp, disappearing within.
* * *
Rath could feel the auto-pistol in its thigh holster, thumping reassuringly against his leg as he followed General Yo-Tsai and Ricken inside the transport ship. But carrying a weapon again did little to dispel his uneasy nerves. The ship had been converted from a troop carrier into a mobile command center, with staff officers seated at multiple workstations lining the outer hull of the ship. General Yo-Tsai barked a command.
Yo-Tsai took a seat at one of the stations, swiveling the chair around to face the center of the ship, and gestured that the others should do the same. He was a stocky man, with greying black hair and a cruel twist to his mouth that hinted at an old battlefield injury, never fully healed. Rath had expected a typical military dictator, dress uniform liberally covered in ribbons and medals, but Yo-Tsai wore a simple utility uniform, unadorned by any badges aside from his rank. Overall, he gave Rath the impression of brutal efficiency.
“Mr. Ricken,” Yo-Tsai said. “I’m honored. I had been wondering who our mystery client could be. I should have guessed that such an unusual request could only come from one man.”
“Nice to meet you, G
eneral,” Ricken replied. “I only hope your ships are up to the task we’ve set you.”
“They’ll handle it,” Yo-Tsai promised.
“Would you mind showing us your plan?” Ricken asked.
Yo-Tsai turned to the workstation behind him and typed on the keyboard. On the viewscreen above his station, a star-map of the galaxy appeared. A series of paths appeared on the screen, blossoming out from a central point.
“This delivery simulation assumes that Jokuan is the starting point,” Yo-Tsai told them. “You’ll need to give me the location of the drones before we can update the plan.” He indicated the screen, where several paths had stopped moving, and the nearby star had turned red. “Red indicates the drone is delivered. Simultaneous delivery isn’t possible, but we can have all drones in orbit around their respective planets within eighteen hours of each other,” Yo-Tsai concluded.
“Can I get a copy of that simulation?” Lonergan asked.
Yo-Tsai frowned, but nodded.
“How long will it take you to take on the drones at the depots?” Ricken asked.
Yo-Tsai shrugged. “That depends on a number of factors, some of which are beyond my control.”
“Such as …?” Lonergan asked.
“Such as availability of docking space at the depots, whether the release paperwork is correct—”
“It will be correct,” Lonergan growled.
“So you say,” Yo-Tsai said, evenly. “We’ve assumed two days to load up, to be safe. From there, it will take my fleet at most ten days to have all drones in position. Potentially sooner, depending on which depots you’ve picked to store the drones.”
Ricken and Lonergan shared a look. “Looks good,” Ricken told Yo-Tsai. He handed over a small data drive. “Depot locations and down payment,” Ricken explained. “I’d be obliged if you could have your ships standing by for our signal to launch.”
“Of course,” Yo-Tsai said, with a tight smile. “We await your orders. And the shuttle you requested is being prepped for take-off as we speak.”
They stood, and Ricken and Yo-Tsai shook hands again.
“May I ask,” Yo-Tsai enquired, “what you hope to accomplish with these drones?”
“I’d rather not say,” Ricken said.
“Of course,” Yo-Tsai replied. “But my ships may be identified as having delivered them. I’d like to know a bit more about what we’re getting ourselves into. You understand, I’m sure.”
Ricken shook his head. “I’m sorry, but our terms were clear – no questions about the operation. If I recall correctly, you increased your fee substantially as a result of that clause in the contract.”
Yo-Tsai frowned. “Let me ask you this, then: will you be starting another war, Mr. Ricken?”
He’s stalling for time, Rath realized. Why?
“No more wars, General,” Ricken replied. “I think the galaxy has had enough of them. Surely a man with your experience would agree?”
Yo-Tsai nodded. “War is a terrible thing. Sometimes, it is a necessary thing. But always terrible.”
One of Yo-Tsai’s aides appeared at the top of the transport’s ramp.
Yo-Tsai smiled at Ricken. “My aide tells me I’m running late. If you have no other questions …?” he gestured at the ramp.
“None,” Ricken said. “Thank you for your time.”
* * *
Beauceron expected the craft to take off, but after several minutes, it still remained in place.
“Doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere,” Atalia observed, unnecessarily. “They’re just having a little conference on board that transport.”
Beauceron grunted, and glanced over at the Rampart Guardian. “I wish we had a deep-space tracking device.”
“I wish we had a company of police officers in full tactical gear,” Atalia shot back. She flipped a small tripod out of the base of the binoculars, and spent several seconds setting them up on the rock in front of her, pointed toward the field. Next she pulled a clump of moss over the top of the binoculars, effectively camouflaging them from sight. Last, she took out her holophone, and linked the binoculars with her phone’s data connection.
“Is that streaming visual to your phone?” Beauceron asked.
“Yeah,” Atalia confirmed. “So we’ll have eyes on the field, as long as they don’t find the binos.” She pushed herself back from the edge of the rock formation, and wiggled downward out of sight of the field. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Head back to town, call Colonel Jesk?” Beauceron asked.
“Mm-hm. If they hang out here for a couple days, IP might be able to get a ship here in time, and we can tail the Guardian if it leaves.”
21
Dasi waved to Lefev from the doorway of his office.
“Morning,” she said. “Lab results in on the lifewater sample yet?”
He shook his head. “They promised to put them at the head of the queue, said it should be sometime today. But I don’t know when.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be looking over the finance documents if you need me.”
At her own desk, Dasi set up her datascroll and logged in, chuckling at herself.
It’s funny, I never thought of my datascroll being slow. But now that I can access everything in my internal computer, and control it by thought … this thing is a dinosaur. Okay, Six: any new insights into the Church datasets?
>>>I reviewed Senator Foss’ campaign finance filings again, but I found no sign of the two donations the Church claims it made to his senatorial campaign.
Okay. I still think Jace is looking for something more substantive than that, but it’s a start.
>>>The Church’s finances contain another curiosity: the organization owns a controlling stake in a small pharmaceutical company.
Most churches have endowments, right? Dasi asked.
>>>Correct. The NeoPuritan Church does not disclose the size of their endowment, but it is estimated to be several billion dollars. Exor Davy did not have access to the full endowment details, but his files did include some of the investment reports from that endowment. Like other institutional investors, the Church invests their endowment money in a wide range of investments, including private equity ventures.
Okay, Dasi replied. So they’ve got a bunch of money – that they basically stole from their members, in return for letting them drink their lifewater every week – and they invest that money. Why did this one company catch your eye?
>>>According to my research, it is unusual for an endowment to invest so heavily in a single company. That exposes them to a high level of risk should anything happen to that company.
Maybe they just made a bad call buying so much of that company? Dasi suggested.
>>>That is possible. But it is also unusual for church endowments to invest in pharmaceutical companies in general. Pharmaceutical companies are often seen as ethically questionable investments, given they make money by selling drugs to people who are sick.
Hell, the NeoPuritan Church makes money by selling drugs to people who are sick, Dasi pointed out. But okay, I’m on board. Let’s look into this company some more.
On her datascroll, Six pulled up a company website. Shibuden-Klein Pharmaceuticals, Dasi read.
>>>The company is privately held, so it does not report earnings publicly.
Dasi tapped on the screen, following a link to the company’s Products page.
Six, they only make one drug: Fenoxal. I’ve never heard of it.
>>>It is a generic anti-psychotic serum, administered orally. Six pulled up a webpage from a physician’s association. In controlled trials, Fenoxal was shown to be somewhat effective in preventing psychotic episodes. However, it is rarely recommended, as competitor drugs tend to deliver superior results, with less serious side effects.
What side effects? Dasi wondered.
>>>Elevated heart rate, sweating, and fever, along with beh
avioral changes. Patients report feelings of deep contentment and exaggerated levels of self-confidence. As a result, it can be highly addictive.
Dasi leaned back in her chair. Six, do you realize what you just described?
Lefev stuck his head in the doorway to the office and rapped politely on the frame. “Lab results are in,” he said. “Come on over to Jace’s office.”
“Coming!” Dasi said.
She followed the older man, and took the seat next to him, facing Jace’s desk. The district attorney was peering intently at his computer screen. He turned it sideways, so that both of them could view it, too. Dasi saw a complicated visual chart, along with a molecule diagram.
“Lefev, what the hell am I looking at here?” Hawken asked, sighing.
“Lifewater,” Lefev said. “The sample that Dasi obtained for us.”
“Well, I know that,” Hawken said, frowning. “Pretend for a minute that I spent most of biology class flirting with the sorority girl in the seat next to me.”
Lefev shook his head. “This is chemistry, Jace. Though I’m sure you flirted through that class, too.”
“Didn’t even bother taking it,” Hawken grinned. “Please explain, in plain English.”
“The short version is this: lifewater is ninety-nine percent purified water. But it contains traces of a chemical compound whose full name I won’t even try to pronounce.”
“The Church has always maintained that it gets the lifewater from some mystical well near Simi Quorn’s birthplace,” Hawken said. “Is there something contaminating that well?”
“Highly doubtful,” Lefev said. “The compound itself does not occur naturally – it is man-made.”
“So the lifewater is drugged?” Hawken asked.
“Without question,” Lefev replied. “As Dasi can attest, from her own experience. The compound is the active ingredient in a drug called …” Lefev squinted at the screen, searching for the name.
“… Fenoxal,” Dasi finished for him.