by John Graham
Gabriel’s smartphone chimed, reminding him that it was almost 9am. Without a farewell or an explanation, he got up from his seat.
“Have fun at work.” Madam Jezebel waved him off with a smile.
Gabriel left the private booth and went back the way he had come.
Madam Jezebel Thorn had mastered the elegant, unassuming smile that she presented to the world, but it concealed a sociopathic contempt for others around her, particularly if they couldn’t help her schemes succeed. One wouldn’t know it from a single meeting, but she had made a sizeable fortune as one of the most ruthless colonial venture capitalists in the industry, providing the seed money for numerous outposts on the frontiers before pitilessly squeezing them for everything they were worth.
‘Vulture capitalists’ they were called, ready to seize export or import shipments to compensate for late payments or slash security meant to defend against corsair raids. Colonial outposts that were desperate enough to turn to vulture capitalist funders were effectively signing themselves into debt slavery.
Walking past the throngs of pampered parasites as they exchanged vapid gossip on the latest goings on, Gabriel was reminded that many of them had made or inherited fortunes from similarly amoral lines of business. Not all of them, to be sure; he also recognised the faces of tycoons in mining, robotics, shipbuilding, pharmaceuticals, heavy engineering, and consumer electronics. But there were more than a few vulture capitalists here – glorified loan sharks rubbing shoulders with the other sharks.
Here they all were, wallowing in self-indulgent decadence and luxury, feasting on the fruits of what were mostly other people’s labours; living in this well-feathered nest in the sky while tens of millions toiled in the squalid depths below. All of them were perfectly capable of stabbing each other in the back – and sometimes the chest – and had no doubt done so on multiple occasions in order to stay on top.
Gabriel felt few emotions at all. But there was one in particular that made its presence felt in his chest all the way back through the entrance hall.
It was Disgust.
THE DIRECTORATE
Every tower in the city tall enough to poke above the cloud line gleamed with pride, basking in the glorious rays of the bright-white star like conifers in the winter dawn. Every tower was a monument to the success of interstellar capitalism, a glorious testament to the incredible wealth which had financed their construction.
Every tower except one.
Amidst the shining towers of Asgard City, some distance away from the hyper-opulent city centre, stood a sullen fortress jutting out of the ground like an iron spike piercing up through the soil. The ‘Spire’ was surrounded by a half-kilometre wide dead zone of barren ground that was empty of comparable structures, as if to keep the gaudy neighbouring towers at a respectful distance.
The surface of the Spire was a made from a dark material which absorbed virtually all the light that touched it, adding to the dour contrast with the surrounding towers. Across the entire tower, not a single window was installed; such a frivolous sign of civilian comfort was a structural weakness, unsuitable for a building from which all intelligence activities in the sector were coordinated.
The headquarters of the Directorate of Naval Intelligence couldn’t be reached by public mag-rail. For people without clearance, it couldn’t be reached at all. Gabriel’s air-taxi touched down on an extendable landing pad, allowing him to alight before quickly returning to the skies. The biometric sensors flash-scanned Gabriel’s eyes, and the half-tonne door retracted silently into the wall to allow him access, sealing again once he was inside.
This section was called the ‘Office Block’, a bad in-joke by the architects, since it was a literal block of space in the middle and upper sections of the Spire given over to offices for analysts and other personnel. For a building with a staff of over 75,000, there were very few people to be seen in the concentric rings of hallways. Most of them were support staff flitting between offices; all of them gave Gabriel a wide berth.
Near the top of the Spire, Gabriel headed down a short corridor towards the spine of the building, stopping in front of a reinforced door emblazoned with the acronym ‘D.G.N.I.’. Passers-by who caught a glimpse of the acronym double-timed past it. The biometric sensors flash-scanned Gabriel’s eyes and the blast door slid open, granting him entrance to the most powerful room in the city.
The office of the Director-General of Naval Intelligence was part-office, part-command centre, part-throne room. It was a hemispherical space with a desk and a throne-like chair, surrounded by holographic screens, set atop a dais opposite the front door. The person behind the desk was reviewing a video file on one of the many screens, with the audio playing through the speakers so that Gabriel could hear.
“…my facility goes dark and the first thing you do is short my company and cash out?!” Gabriel recognised Darius’s voice bellowing in anger at his mother.
“Of course,” said the recording of Madam Jezebel Thorn, “you would have done the same if a project of mine ‘went dark’ without explanation.”
“It didn’t ‘go dark’, thus far it’s nothing more than a temporary communications loss–” Darius tried to splutter out an explanation.
“‘A temporary communications loss’, ‘a fault in the uplink array’, ‘space weather’, ‘regular weather’, ‘an act of the divine’,” Madam Jezebel sneered, “I’ve heard countless variations on all those excuses, and they’re always made up by incompetent fools to cover up the fact that they couldn’t keep their business under control.”
“You’re just trying to cut the venture off at the knees at the first sign of trouble!” Darius angrily accused his erstwhile business partner, “You think you can short my company and leave ME with the fleeking mess!?”
“You came to me for seed money for this little off-world facility of yours, and I gave it to you,” Madam Jezebel calmly reminded Darius, winding him up without raising her voice, “I even let you have full control over the facility’s activities, which is just as well, seeing as you probably didn’t register it.”
“Mind your fleeking tongue, or I might have it cut out!” Darius snarled dangerously, perhaps conscious that the walls might have ears.
“In any case,” Madam Jezebel continued, “the facility was always yours to own, and so are the consequences of whatever might have happened there. So I suggest you man up and stop making such a scene.”
“You slippery bitch!”
The recording paused at the exact moment that Gabriel had walked into the booth. The individual seated in the throne-like chair dismissed the video with a flick of her fingers and swivelled round to face Gabriel. He stood to attention and saluted, respectfully fixing his gaze on the opposite wall as he waited for her to speak.
The director-general wore a midnight black uniform similar to Gabriel’s, except that it bore a gold admiral’s insignia on the lapel, whereas Gabriel’s uniform had no insignia or identifying markings. She wore her raven hair in a tight bun and her face appeared locked into an expression of complete indifference to the world.
Her most eye-catching feature, however, was her right eye. It was a bionic implant, with a bright, laser-red iris, in stark contrast to her biological, hazel-coloured left eye. The obvious nickname ‘Red-eye’ had stuck, though no one with a sense of self-preservation dared utter it within earshot of her.
“Your integrity is beyond question,” the Director-General of Naval Intelligence said matter-of-factly, “the same cannot be said of Jezebel Thorn or Darius Avaritio.”
“I presume you want me to investigate Avaritio’s facility?” Gabriel asked.
“That is correct.” The director-general confirmed, “It’s a standard IRS operation. Check in with the medical staff and get yourself suited and ready. Your operational briefing will be forwarded to you on the way.”
“Understood.” Gabriel replied, waiting to be told why he was there.
Most DNI employees dreaded the prospect of b
eing called into the director-general’s office, not least because of her rumoured delight in playing underhanded mind games with her subordinates – like playing recordings of supposedly private conversations just to make them squirm with embarrassment.
Gabriel knew better. It was just a rumour; the director-general only called people into her office for important matters. She rarely summoned people to her office to give them their orders in person, and she certainly didn’t summon them to her office just to embarrass them. She had better things to do with her time.
“There is one other thing.” The director-general added, “For this deployment I’ll be placing you in command of a squad of five operators.”
Gabriel blinked, thinking he might have misheard.
“Normally you would be sent in alone, of course,” the director-general continued, “but given the size of the facility, I believe the support of a full squad is warranted.”
“…Understood.” Gabriel answered stoically.
“Expressing dissent is acceptable.” the director-general said, almost reassuringly.
“No it isn’t,” Gabriel contradicted his superior, “I’ve been given a mission and a set of parameters, and I intend to complete that mission within the stated parameters.”
“So you have no problem at all with working with a team?”
“None.” Gabriel lied.
“Understood.” Red-eye noted with a faint smile, perhaps noting the lie, “Dismissed.”
* * *
Whilst most of the Spire’s levels were devoted to regular office space, the lower levels were given over to research laboratories which formed the core of the DNI’s in-house tech empire: the ‘Rand Block’, as in ‘R&D’. Most DNI employees were restricted to certain areas of the Spire, but the biometric scanners granted Gabriel access to almost every part of the building, including the Rand Block.
Gabriel took the elevator down over a hundred floors to a special preparation chamber. Once he arrived, he stripped down to his underwear and lay down on the horizontal examination slab that awaited him. The robotic medical arms descended from the ceiling and bathed his body in sensory light, scanning him from head to toe. When the scan was complete, a holographic screen materialised in front of him.
“Voidstalker-1707,” said the doctor on the other end of the line, “Colonel Gabriel Thorn. All of your enhancements are functioning within normal parameters. No physical or cellular anomalies detected, although your REM sleep patterns last night were erratic.”
“It was another flashback,” Gabriel explained, “this time from void-exposure training.”
“I see,” the doctor noted, glancing down at his chart, “and how is family life?”
“Clarify.” Gabriel said with narrowed eyes.
“Last night, after you awoke from your nightmare you experienced a brief spike of anger followed by a round of sexual activity.” The doctor explained clinically.
“Clarify why that is any of your concern.” a note of danger crept into Gabriel’s voice.
“I ask because it appears that you had a mildly physical argument which was subsequently…resolved.” the doctor explained, unconcerned with the personal nature of the question, and unfazed by the threatening undertone in Gabriel’s voice.
“That is accurate,” Gabriel confirmed through gritted teeth, “what of it?”
“There is a clinically acceptable range of emotional coldness,” the doctor explained, “but it cannot be allowed to degenerate into sociopathy towards your loved ones. It is possible that Mrs Thorn goads you into these arguments in order to elicit affection from you.”
“Leave my family out of this.” Gabriel warned in a raised voice.
“Unfortunately, I can’t do that.” The doctor replied sympathetically, “Maintaining a stable and healthy family life is important for ensuring maximum effectiveness in the field, particularly for voidstalkers. And since aggression and arousal are the only two emotional responses which are not suppressed, it is a delicate balancing act.”
“I can handle my own personal life just fine, thank you.” Gabriel responded icily.
“The directorate has a direct interest in that being true.” The doctor replied.
“So, are we finished?” Gabriel asked, his defensiveness turning to abrasive impatience.
“Yes.” The doctor answered, “Good luck on your next mission, colonel.”
With that said, the holographic screen deactivated and a new set of procedures began, starting with the foot of the examination bed pitching downwards until it stood at a perfect 90 degree angle. Gabriel stepped away from the vertically angled slab, and forward onto a small platform, standing perfectly still.
A set of nozzle-equipped robotic arms descended from the ceiling and sprayed a gel-like substance across his skin from his ankles up to his neck, avoiding his feet, hands, and face. Gabriel resisted the urge to shiver with discomfort as the substance congealed into a light blue under-suit that hugged his skin.
Once the under-suit had fully congealed, a pair of armoured boot soles were placed on the floor in front of Gabriel, and he planted his feet on the cushioned soles, digging his toes into the material until he had settled comfortably into them. Once his feet were firmly in place, the robots did the rest.
The robotic arms put on the secondary armour skin first. Made from flexible plates of carbon nanotubing, it formed a dull grey, full body layer of protection over the gelatinous under-suit, including covering his feet and hands. This layer of armour was for absorbing and dispersing the effects of energy weapons as well as providing an extra layer of protection against extreme temperatures and excessive radiation.
Finally, the primary armour was installed. Instead of flexible carbon nanotubing, the primary armour plates were totally rigid, and were manufactured from custom-forged metallic composites strengthened with carbon nanotubing, increasing the tensile strength and impact resistance by an order of magnitude.
The armour had to be fitted piece by piece, each part interlocking with the others until it formed a vacuum tight suit of armour covering Gabriel’s entire body all the way up to his neck. Apart from his head, he was now virtually invulnerable. A robotic arm politely handed him his helmet; he took it without looking and attached it to his belt for later.
Now that he was dressed for battle, a holographic video image of Gabriel appeared in front of him, acting as a mirror. His armour was a deep crimson colour with black trimming; traditionally, the colour scheme would be some form of khaki, eschewing any sort of easily identifiable colour. But in an age of advanced sensors and combat armour that could turn an ordinary man or woman into a walking tank, camouflage was a quaint concept.
Gabriel had no sense of vanity of which he was aware; but he looked like the angel of death with a Human face.
* * *
Below the Rand Block was the ‘Under-block’: a maze of bombardment proof chambers and corridors stretching dozens of levels below ground. It had various purposes, many of them pertaining to various doomsday scenarios, but one of them was to house much of the DNI’s massive stockpile of weapons, munitions, and other essential supplies.
The Under-block also housed a mag-rail station for the exclusive use of the military, with high-speed lines running directly to various key facilities in and around the city. Gabriel linked up with the squad of DNI operators he would be commanding, and together they took the mag-tram from the Spire’s station to the military terminal of Asgard’s main spaceport.
The sight from inside the tunnel wasn’t as impressive as the sky-high view from the public mag-rail, but the DNI’s mag-tram system was no less a marvel of engineering. Unlike the public mag-trains, the DNI’s mag-rail tunnels were almost completely evacuated of air, minimising air resistance and maximising speed. Travelling at close to half the speed of sound – and in a straight line – meant they would reach the spaceport in a fraction of the time.
Gabriel stared out through the wall-sized observation window at the front of the mag-tra
m, his own train of thought circling back around to the previous night. He couldn’t tell Aster what the DNI did to his body and mind, let alone where he went or what he did on his missions. The secrecy made perfect sense to him, and the children were blissfully ignorant either way, but it clearly hurt her. Even so, what his family didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
So what in Terra’s name gave the DNI doctors the right to bring them up in the first place? What possible right did they have to help him ‘maintain a stable family life’? He could manage that perfectly well without their interference. It would be myopic to complain about the DNI techs monitoring his neural activity – that was part of being in the programme – but what business did they have asking about his private life?
That really was myopic. Of course monitoring his neural activity gave the DNI an insight into his family life, however indirect. And yet being questioned directly about it angered him even more than the actual monitoring. After all, he had volunteered for all of this, and thereby agreed to have his neural activity monitored. His family hadn’t volunteered for any of that, and that was what angered him.
Then again, it was the DNI which supervised the children’s medical check-ups.
Gabriel stared out into the shadowy distance, watching the ceiling lamps zipping by so quickly that they seemed to form a continuous stream of light. As he stared, a new question came to mind. The whole point of the voidstalker programme was that a single voidstalker could be sent in to deal with the most difficult assignments without the need for backup. Red-eye’s decision to place a squad of operators under his command made no sense.
There was something else about having ‘backup’ foisted on him that bothered Gabriel, but he couldn’t pin down why. It certainly wasn’t pride; if Red-eye doubted his abilities, he wouldn’t be a voidstalker in the first place. Nor did he doubt the abilities of the operators. They were part of the DNI’s Special Operations Division. Not as deadly or versatile as voidstalkers, but perfectly competent.