by Aer-ki Jyr
It took more than an hour of gentle coaxing before the medic had Manfred taking his first steps and his vocal chords working, though his voice was reduced to a whisper due to the length of inactivity they’d seen. Once he was fully awake his mind began backtracking where he’d been, without much success. As the medic pried him with patient questions a camera in the ceiling recorded the conversation for later review, with Star Force wanting to know what had happened to the man that their records indicated as being ‘deceased.’
“Where is Glaysor?” he asked, twitching his left hand that had suddenly turned into pins and needles. “What system?”
“Glasir is in Alpha Centauri,” the medic answered. “Records indicate that you lived in Sol, is that correct?”
“Mars,” he answered, looking around at the med bay, which held several other patients, some from Star Force and others from the rescue effort that had just taken place on Tyr. Manfred had never been in a facility like this before. The equipment and design were familiar, but the gray/red color scheme seemed alien.
“What nation are you a citizen of?”
“Ananke Republic,” he said, referencing the first Star Force colony granted its independence, created partially from refugees resulting from World War III.
“What did you do there?” she asked, already having read his file after matching his genetic code within their database.
“I’m a…chemical engineer for Colaffa Industries. How long have I been missing?”
“You were listed as killed in an accident 8 months ago,” she said sympathetically.
Manfred’s eyes opened a bit wider. “What accident?”
“Some type of explosion in the loading bay. Over a hundred people were killed. Do you remember how you survived?”
“I wasn’t there,” he said simply. “I don’t work in the loading bay. What exploded?”
“I don’t know,” the medic said, then her eyes darted to the side as a man in white walked up on the other side of the medical table/bed.
“A shipment of Francium detonated,” the Archon explained. “The loading bay was wrecked, not to mention having undergone explosive decompression when the walls were breached and most of the air and resulting rubble got sucked out. Made for quite the funeral pyre, and got splashed around the news grids for months. Still up and running on a few. Fortunately the interior bulkheads survived and the rest of the factory wasn’t breached, though there’s some question as to how that’s possible.”
“Because the building exterior should be more robust than the interior bulkheads,” Manfred finished, flexing his jaw painfully as he strung too many words together at once.
“Speak slower,” the medic urged, or your muscles may cramp.
The chemical engineer nodded as he waited a small one out, reminding himself not to do that again.
“What’s the last place you remember being?” the adept asked.
“I got jumped going into my office…I think. I remember waking up in…an unfamiliar room…locked. Two people came in later, wearing masks, and asked me a lot of questions. They drugged me and…now I wake up,” he said, visibly disturbed.
“What kind of questions?”
“Technical ones, inventory, personnel…pretty much everything…having to do with my job.”
The other medical walked back over, coming up shoulder to shoulder with the slightly shorter Archon. “How did they drug you?”
“What…oh, they made me swallow…a pill. I fell asleep right after.”
The medic nodded, throwing a glance at the Archon.
He took it in stride and looked back at Manfred. “Was there anything special about the work you’re doing at Colaffa?”
“It’s all special…to me…to us, anyway. Experimental stuff. I don’t know what…you mean by special?”
“Profitable, illegal, immoral, really cool,” the Archon said, throwing out examples.
“Nothing untoward,” he said with a pained expression. “And I’m told by my wife…that my work is boring. It’s of interest to the corporation…otherwise we wouldn’t get paid.”
“Were you working with the Francium yourself?”
“On a few projects…yes…but in small amounts. Nothing outside of the lab. Nothing Colaffa was producing yet. You don’t think I was at fault…do you?”
The Archon shrugged. “You’re supposed to be dead. We’re trying to put the pieces together.”
“Whatever happened to the Francium happened…after I was knocked out. I don’t remember there being any explosions.”
“Is there anything you can tell us that might help with this investigation?”
Manfred shook his head innocently. “I honestly don’t know what has happened. I’d tell you if I did…know something. Apparently I’ve been unconscious most of the time.”
The Archon glanced at the female medic and nodded, then walked off.
“If you remember anything let us know, but for now we need to get some nutrients into you. Drink this,” she said, reaching over to a nearby shelf and pulling a bottle out. She unscrewed the cap and had him start sipping while the Archon and the senior medic retreated into a nearby room.
“And?” the Archon asked once they were out of earshot.
“I’ve seen my share of traumatized individuals, and this guy is acting all wrong. He’s a bit rough from the chemically induced coma, but he’s not harboring any panic from the kidnapping, interrogation, or any elation at now being freed.”
“I caught that. Anything medically stand out?”
“The drugs they gave him put him in a very low metabolic state, designed, I believe, to keep him out for prolonged periods of time. If you found him in a cargo box, I’d guess they were planning a long trip and couldn’t have him up and about.”
“How long would it take to put him in that sort of coma?”
“Several hours, minimum. His body has also atrophied from the process, meaning he’s due for some lengthy rehab before we release him. Same for the others.”
“Take your time, we’re holding onto all of them for the moment. Can you measure how long they’ve been out?”
The medic cringed. “It’d be ballpark at best, but I can be fairly certain that none of them was awake within the past few days.”
“That’s something,” the Archon said, making a point of adding that to his report that would be shot over to Green Team, who was still in the field. Clan Alterra had been entrusted with the rescued prisoners, as well as tasked with pulling as fast a debrief as they could, followed by a more in depth interrogation, which would require an acolyte, of which Alpha Centauri had few on station. One was coming in from Odin, but until then it was up to Jani-54332 to handle the debriefings and compile the report.
“Who’s up next?”
“I’ve got three near consciousness, two women and a boy.”
“The boy then.”
The medic nodded. “Follow me,” he said, leading him out and into another wing of the medical bay.
Simultaneously on Tyr…
Harold Weston tore through the door of his opulent personal quarters, but held in his adrenaline-fueled rant until it slid closed behind him…then he was off walking across the carpet and talking to his wife before he found her two rooms away.
“It’s happened again!” he half yelled, plodding down the two stairs that separated the outer foyer from the main living room that looked out on a balcony that overhung one of the many forested parks within the city. “It’s happened again!” he repeated.
“What has happened?” a calmer voice asked, with his wife rising up off a long couch and walking a few steps towards him as he stormed in, stopping a few feet short of her.
“Iverson is gone…gone! I talked to him this morning, now he’s vanished…right out of the office complex! That’s the 8th one, Mylan, the 8th one!”
His overly attractive wife frowned, yet still appeared beautiful enough to question how a hefty accountant like Weston had ever attracted that caliber of wom
an. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, damn it!” he bellowed, but she knew it wasn’t directed at her. Over the past 3 days he’d become increasingly agitated as members of the government and high level executives on the moon had begun vanishing…of which he knew personally. And now he was thoroughly convinced that he was going to be next.
“What has TSD to say about it?”
“Nothing!” Weston said, throwing his hands in the air. “They claim to be investigating the disappearances, but that they haven’t been gone long enough to raise any serious alarm. As if the brightest minds and highest leaders on this moon have a habit of going off on impromptu vacations without so much as waving goodbye to their secretaries!”
“Perhaps we should go on one...” Mylan offered gently.
Weston put a hand on his face, burying his eyes in his palm. “I don’t know, nooble. I just don’t know. If someone can get to us here, will we be any safer elsewhere?”
“I can’t answer that,” she said, walking over and rubbing his shoulders affectionately.
“I can,” a voice said evenly from the bedroom annex, jolting Weston’s bulk almost off his skeleton, “and the answer is no,” Drake said, walking into view obscured beneath his silver acolyte armor.
Weston backpedaled, tripping over an end table and falling on his ass while his wife stepped to the side gently, but otherwise held position as she stared the Archon down, more angry that he’d invaded their home than afraid.
“What…do you want?” Weston sputtered.
“Information,” Drake said, pulling off his helmet and revealing his loose, 3 inch long bright red hair that he’d altered and enhanced in brightness to the point that it almost glowed. From another room Yavari-824 walked up behind them, also without his helmet, and curiously, his gloves.
Weston puffed once, regaining some of his fire. “And then I disappear too?”
“Depends on your answers,” Drake said as Yavari picked Weston up and held him in place, standing.
Drake pointed to his wife, then the nearby chair. “You…sit.”
Mylan chewed her lip for a moment, then relented silently and glided over to the chair, sinking her petite frame down into the opulent cushions almost to the point of swallowing her legs.
“Now,” Drake began, walking over and sitting on the edge of the central fountain in the room, dipping his armored fingertips inside and shooing away a few colored fish from a lump of rock on the bottom that didn’t match the rest. He pulled it out and played with it distractedly as he spoke. “First things first…what do you know of The Word?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Second question…two years ago a number of administrators were changed out. What do you know of the reason?”
“Personnel shuffle…happens occasionally, why?”
“Third question…do you know who I am?”
“No,” he said blatantly.
“Fourth question…do you love your wife?”
Weston’s face screwed up. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on her.”
“Alright, I won’t,” Drake promised as Yavari shoved Weston across the floor. He stood up and grabbed hold of the man with an arm around his neck, pressing in gently with his armor plates as the other Archon walked over and yanked the woman out of the chair, grabbing her neck as he stood her up in front of him.
“Stop…please,” Weston said, suddenly changing his tone.
“I’ll ask again. What do you know of The Word?”
“Nothing…I swear to god!”
“Question two…the administrators. What was different about the changeover that happened approximately two years ago?”
“There were more transfers,” Weston said, trying to give the man some type of answer. “A lot of retirements. It was rumored that they’d received some deal, a payoff that got them out of the hierarchy. Someone said it was related to a scandal, but no one ever knew for sure. It’s just hearsay, I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
“Third…you really don’t know who we are?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life?”
“What about our armor?”
“What about it?”
“Let’s ask your wife then…do you know who we are?”
She scowled at him, with her chin held slightly high by Yavari’s clenched hand around her throat. “They’re Star Force Archons.”
“Correct,” David said, pleased. “How then do you know us and not you,” he said, glancing down at Weston’s balding head.
“He doesn’t pay attention to the news, he’s always working,” she defended him. “I’ve seen your armor before.”
“Most people have,” Drake agreed, knowing that they’d become the equivalent of Jedi within the public’s perspective, with several fictitious recreations in the entertainment industry educating those who didn’t catch snippets of them in action on the news.
“Fourth question…do you love your wife?”
“Yes,” he said regretfully, as if anticipating she was about to be hurt.
“Why then,” Drake said a bit softer, “doesn’t she love you?”
When Weston didn’t answer Drake continued on. “Let me ask you another question…when did you meet your wife?”
“Three years ago this July.”
“And when were you married?”
“Three months and four days later,” he recalled, having the statistics memorized, fond of her as he was.
“Good memory,” he offered. “What’s today’s date?”
“The twelfth of May,” Weston humored him.
“Then remember this as the day of your divorce.”
“Don’t hurt her…I beg you! I’ll answer anything you want.”
“Chh, chh, chh,” Drake said, making a disapproving sound. “You weren’t listening. I said today was the day of your divorce, not her death.”
“I don’t understand,” he mumbled, his face turning a bit red from Drake’s grip.
“It’s simple,” the Archon said, pulling his arm off and stepping between him and Mylan as Yavari continued to hold her in check. “She’s no longer your wife…or to put it more accurately, today is the day you realize she is not your wife.”
Weston rubbed his neck where the Archon’s armor had pinched him. “What do you mean?” he demanded, flicking his gaze back and forth between Mylan and Drake.
“She doesn’t love you,” the acolyte repeated. “And the timing of your meeting has to do with my second question regarding the personnel shuffle. Some key people had to be removed, others were coopted. In your case, you were manipulated. This woman is a sleeper agent of a criminal organization.”
“Ridiculous,” Weston sputtered, not even looking at his wife’s reaction. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“No,” Drake said confidently, relying on her reactions to his questions that Yavari was monitoring and his subsequent telepathic reports. “And even though Archons don’t date, I do sympathize with what you’re about to emotionally endure, for she is rather lovely…on the outside at least.”
“No,” Weston insisted, finally looking at her, still held tightly by the neck. “What are you accusing her of, specifically?”
“She’s a member of The Word,” Drake said, staring at her. “The criminal organization that has quietly taken over this moon. Brazil is no longer in control, and those administrative retirements marked the time of the takeover. You’ve been working for the enemy and never knew it.”
“What has she done?” Weston said, fixated on his wife and only partially processing the other facts Drake was throwing out.
“You tell me…what have you let her have access to?”
“We share all possessions. My bank account is hers.”
“What about your passwords?”
“No…that’d be a breach of ethics. Only I know my passwords.”
Drake smiled, getting another telepathic update from Yavari. “You work from home occasionally
?”
“It’s rare, but sometimes when I have a special project I need a few extra hours…after supper before we go to bed.”
“Ever have her looking over your shoulder?”
“I don’t hide my work from her, but I’ve never let her see my password.”
“You may not have intended to, but she did…and has quietly used your access to do things with your books.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“We’re Star Force. We have lots of ways of ferreting out the truth. Some of your friends that have gone missing were also operatives, others, like yourself, were merely dupes.”
Suddenly Mylan passed out and Yavari let her fall to the floor…with Weston running towards her, though Drake stopped him halfway with a firm hand on his chest.
“She’s not dead, only unconscious. And now that she’s been exposed there’s a possibility that you could be in danger. The Word has no problem lethally cleaning up loose ends. Those administrators that ‘retired’ went straight from work to the grave. Eventually Brazil missed them and began investigating, whereupon they were contacted by the people who have taken control of this city and were told to maintain normal operations leaving them in charge. Your country didn’t agree and sent in an assault force…that magically disappeared. That’s why we’re here. Brazil asked Star Force for help.”
“May I have access to my computer?” he said stoically, though a mixture of pain and trepidation was flooding his emotions.
“Why?”
“If she truly has been accessing my account, I can find out.”
“The Word is very good at covering their tracks,” Drake cautioned.
Weston’s chin raised ever so slightly. “I’m very good at my job, sir. And I’m no novice with computers. Will you let me try?”
“I’m no novice either, so don’t try to contact anyone or you’ll find yourself with a sudden headache.”
“I don’t completely believe you,” the man said, “but either way I want to know the truth.”
Drake glanced at Yavari, then waved a go-ahead hand in front of Weston, who walked off into another room with the Archon following.
The accountant logged in and immediately went to the user history, finding it clean…then to David’s surprise he accessed a backdoor and ran through the interface logs for his console, discovering several specific program accesses at times the history didn’t record.