by Piers Platt
Rath set his auto-pistol on the floor and pulled the metal disc from his chest pocket.
“Martin!”
“Yes!”
“Set your bracelet to my dial setting.”
“Done,” the detective reported. Rath heard him squeeze off several rounds toward the top of the stairs.
“Okay, on the count of three, trigger it.”
“Ready.”
“One, two, three, NOW!”
Rath stood and faced the window frame, found the air car, and flicked the disc at it side-arm. He saw the cannon open fire again, and the disc bounce off the car’s windshield, before he ducked down, covering his face.
BOOM!
A twisted hunk of burning metal spun through the window over Rath’s head, and he heard pieces of the car rattle against the side of the house. A quick glimpse over the window sill showed him the car’s fiery wreckage tumbling to the ground.
“Paisen!” Rath grabbed his auto-pistol and saw the second air car swing into view farther away. Rath fired several rounds at it to get its attention.
“Standing by,” she replied.
“You got your distraction. Go!”
“Roger,” she called. “Thanks.”
Before the second air car could return fire, Rath dashed back across the hall and handed Beauceron another magazine.
“Thank you,” Beauceron said, taking a second to reload. “What now?”
Rath slid the magazine out of his auto-pistol, counting the remaining bullets.
Four, plus one in the chamber.
He looked at Beauceron, but had to duck as the contractor on the stairs fired another burst in their direction.
“Fall back, and hope for a miracle.”
* * *
In the garage, Paisen finished keying in the manual override code for Senator Lizelle’s convertible air car and then glanced quickly over the car’s dashboard. She counted four different contractors spread out across the garage, searching for them.
“Stay down,” she whispered to Dasi. “They’re gonna start shooting in a second.”
Dasi nodded and forced herself lower into the passenger seat. Paisen took a deep breath, and then turned the car on. She immediately jammed her foot on the accelerator, pinning it to the floor. The car roared forward, and Paisen risked a brief look over the dash to make sure they were still pointed at the garage’s exit. The windshield spider-webbed as multiple rounds impacted, and the car bucked as an unlucky contractor failed to move out of the way in time. He was thrown to the side and Paisen saw his lifeless form smash into another parked vehicle. Then they were out and free, open air on all sides. She jerked the wheel to the side, flying west and putting several hundred meters of distance behind them before sitting up.
“We’re clear,” she called to Dasi. “Hurasu, we are inbound at high speed, I need the cargo bay open and ready for us.”
“Roger,” Mikolos responded. “I see you.”
Paisen saw the yellow ship emerge from a bank of cloud. At the same instant, she saw the second air car appear in her rear view mirror, blasting after her in pursuit.
“Shit. Turn around, Mikolos! We’re going to land in the aft cargo bay.”
“In a second,” the captain replied. Suddenly, a missile tore out of a port in the Hurasu’s belly. The enemy air car dodged aside nimbly to evade the missile, but it beat a hasty retreat, disappearing into a nearby cloud. Paisen flew over the Hurasu’s hull, banking before lining them up, and then setting down hard in the ship’s cargo bay.
“We’re on board, go go go!”
Mikolos closed the bay doors, and Paisen heard the ship’s main engines light – the sudden acceleration caused the senator’s air car to slide to the rear of the ship, smashing into the doors with an audible crunch. Paisen activated the car’s clamp, locking them in place before they could slide any more. Then she hopped out, and ran for the cockpit.
Mikolos glanced at her when she entered, but his eyes quickly returned to the controls. “They’re firing missiles at us,” he noted. “We’ll out-run them: I have the engines at max power.”
Panting, Dasi joined them, and took a seat next to Paisen.
“Any other aircraft in pursuit?” Paisen asked.
“No. There’s a lot of radio traffic about the senator’s airship, though. Interstellar Police are all in an uproar.”
“We can’t go back for Rath and Martin?” Dasi asked.
Mikolos gave a curt shake of his head. “No.”
“How does our escape vector look?” Paisen asked.
Mikolos checked his computer. “Crowded. Interstellar Police will have craft launching from the orbital transfer station on intercept routes, but … they’re above the other hemisphere, so if we ignore traffic control routes and just head for deep space, we should make it to FTL before they can converge.”
“Okay,” Paisen said. She patted his arm. “Thanks for the assist back there.”
Mikolos cocked an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to invoke the ‘dangerous circumstances’ surcharge clauses in our contract.”
“Yeah, I know,” Paisen told him. “Rath, this is Paisen, over.”
She waited several seconds.
“Rath this is Paisen: we’ll be clear in a few minutes. If you can find your way out of there and get off-planet, I’ll update you on our progress – check your encrypted messages.”
Dasi gave Paisen a worried look. “Martin,” Dasi tried. “You’re going to meet us at Anchorpoint, right? You’ll find a way to get out of there?”
There was no reply.
Paisen grimaced, then saw Dasi’s expression. “They’re probably just too busy to respond right now. Firefights can get like that.”
“Are they going to make it out?” Dasi asked.
Paisen stared out the canopy, where the last of Emerist’s atmosphere was quickly slipping away to reveal the star field beyond.
“I don’t know.”
18
“Captain, you better join us for this,” Paisen told Mikolos. He shut off the arc welder and set it aside, his repairs to the Hurasu’s cargo bay doors nearly complete. Paisen led him to the lounge, where he took a seat across from Dasi at the table, and steepled his hands carefully on the table.
“I’m listening.”
“When I hired you, I told you that it was in your best interest to remain ignorant of us and our plans. I think, however, the situation has changed, and you deserve to know what you’re getting into.” She cleared her throat. “Rath and I were contractors in the Guild,” she told him.
“I presumed as much.”
“We’re attempting to trace the Guild’s headquarters, in order to force them to give us the money they owe us. To find them, I need to locate two senators on Anchorpoint, before the Guild has them assassinated.”
If Mikolos was surprised, he hid it well.
Paisen toggled on the table’s hologram projector, and a lifelike image of a well-dressed man appeared. “This is Senator Artem Blackwell.”
Dasi spoke up. “He’s a Neo-Progressive from the planet Fiet, an up-and-comer, he surprised a lot of people by beating out a well-liked incumbent. He won a seat on the Senate Judiciary Committee a few years back, if my memory’s not wrong.”
“And Senator Libba Mastic,” Paisen said.
“Thirty-year veteran of the Senate,” Dasi filled in. “She’s been around forever, and probably has the I.O.U.s to prove it. She’s got serious clout, right up there with Lizelle. She chairs the Budget Committee.”
“Between them, Blackwell and Mastic know where the Guild is located, and how to access its financial accounts,” Paisen said. “Given Mastic is on the Budget Committee, I think it’s likely she’s the one that knows where the money is stashed, and Blackwell knows the location of Headquarters. So I’m going after Mastic first … if we can convince her to pay us out, that’ll be the end of it.”
“But we promised Beauceron we’d get his evidence to the police,” Dasi pointed out
.
“After we get paid,” Paisen replied. She turned to Mikolos. “I’m aware that the money I paid you for this charter will run out when we arrive at Anchorpoint … but I expect I’m going to need your services past that point.”
Mikolos cocked an eyebrow, and pushed a stray dreadlock back out of his face. “I don’t typically fly passengers pro bono.”
“I bet you don’t typically help passengers escape from the scene of a senator’s assassination, either.”
“Police investigations tend to be bad for business,” he agreed.
“Anchorpoint might be a similar deal,” Paisen told him. “If we’re lucky, then I find Mastic, warn her, get our money, and we get the hell out of there. But if the Guild is at Anchorpoint, it could go down worse than Emerist. I’m not intending to kill anyone, but I may have to. And there are plenty of folks out there that want me – and Dasi – dead.”
“I could get arrested or killed, and you don’t have any money left to pay me for my trouble,” Mikolos summarized.
Paisen held up the grey counter bracelet on her wrist and pressed the button, letting Dasi and Mikolos see the spinning golden 50 hologram. “The Guild owes me one hundred and sixty-four million dollars. I intend to take that from them, along with the money they owe Rath. If you help me see this through to the end, I’ll give you a five percent cut of our total earnings. That’s at least eight million dollars.”
Mikolos sat forward, and put his palms flat on the table. “Ten percent.”
“Seven,” Paisen countered.
“Seven, plus any damages to the Hurasu.”
“Done,” Paisen agreed. She held out her hand. Mikolos stood and took it.
* * *
The briefing room door slid open, and Director Nkosi stepped inside. As silence settled over the room, she walked down the rows of stadium seats and took a chair in the first row. She eyed Feykin.
“When you’re ready,” she told him.
The Chief of Operations gestured to a large viewscreen, where a star-map appeared, showing Anchorpoint at its center.
“Operation Severance. Assets are still gathering, but we expect to have nearly twenty contractors at Anchorpoint by midnight local time. They’ll be split into three teams, one for each senator, plus a reserve element. Each main team will mimic one senator and their security detail. Team One will pose as Senator Mastic and her Senate Guards, while Team Two will mimic Blackwell and his protective detail. The teams will position themselves near the senators’ offices and wait for our signal.”
He zoomed in on Anchorpoint, pulling up an internal map of the senate office complex. “Here are their staging areas, for reference. Once they’re set, Director, you’ll initiate an emergency conference call with the senators to share an update on Emerist and Senator Lizelle.”
“What is the latest on that?” Nkosi asked.
Feykin pointed at Altaras, who stood. “Ma’am, Interstellar Police are putting together a search mission aimed at locating the airship’s wreckage. After 700 remote-detonated the airship’s engines, it fell several miles through the atmosphere and then crashed into the surface. Emerist is mostly gaseous, but it does have a rocky core. However, their chances of finding anything are low – atmospheric gases near the core block practically all types of sensors, and the gases are highly toxic, which limits the time any ship can spend searching.”
“And what of the rumor that Lizelle made it off the airship?”
“Just a rumor, ma’am. We double-checked 700’s recording of the operation, the senator was definitely killed by the explosion.”
“Thank you, Supervisor,” the director told him. She turned back to Feykin.
“Nevertheless,” the Chief of Operations continued, “the incident will undoubtedly have Mastic and Blackwell on edge, and their security details will be on alert. That’s why the timing of this is critical – the two teams must be perfectly synchronized.”
He gestured at the screen again, and a flowchart appeared. “Here’s the order of events. Assets rendezvous at release points and report readiness. Director, you then initiate the conference call. Once you’ve shared the news with them and they’ve discussed it, we’ll pretend to disconnect the call on our end. But we’ll actually be splitting the call at that point, and connecting each senator with a voice mimic posing as the other senator. That mimic will then suggest that the senators link up in private to discuss the developments on Emerist – the end result being that each senator will believe the other senator is en route to their offices.”
“Then you release the teams at Anchorpoint,” Nkosi guessed.
“Yes, ma’am. Team One will gain entry to Senator Blackwell’s offices, and the contractor posing as Senator Mastic will attempt to get Blackwell alone, in order to carry out the mission. She eliminates Blackwell, and ideally, exits without alerting his bodyguards. Meanwhile, Team Two is using the same subterfuge at Senator Mastic’s office.”
“I’m following,” Nkosi told him. “What about contingency plans?”
Feykin pointed at the screen, and a third dot appeared. “Contractor 700 will lead a four-man reserve team, they’ll be located midway between the two senators’ offices. Now, we’ll be unable to monitor the operations once they leave the public areas outside – Senate Security blocks all communications that aren’t through official channels, and we haven’t been able to figure out a work-around for that. So if the reserve element is needed, the contractors on scene will need to send a team member back out of the office to call for help. At that point, the reserve team will move in and assist.”
Nkosi frowned. “If the reserve element is needed, other security forces on Anchorpoint will have been alerted, presumably. They’ll be headed to the scene as well.”
“Yes, ma’am. The reserve team also has responsibility for positioning explosive penetrators at key locations in this section of the complex. They’ll be monitoring emergency nets: as soon as a call goes out, they’ll trigger the explosives. The resulting hull breaches and loss of atmosphere will cause internal hatches to seal automatically, effectively isolating this entire office wing, including the offices of Mastic and Blackwell. The Senate Guards have vacuum training and equipment, but by our estimate, it will take them at least thirty minutes to gain entry.”
“Exfiltration?” Nkosi asked.
“In an ideal scenario, teams merely exit their respective offices and then initiate a standard break contact drill – EMP grenades, change cover identities, and disperse.”
“And if their cover is blown?”
“Teams will overwhelm Senate Guards in each office, while keeping civilian staffers contained. They’ll use incendiary grenades to start a fire in the office, let the staffers begin evacuating, and blend in with them under cover of the smoke and fire.”
Nkosi drummed her fingers on her armrest, studying the diagram of Anchorpoint. Feykin held his breath. Finally, Nkosi nodded.
“The plan seems satisfactory. If you’ll all excuse us, I’d like a word in private with Mr. Feykin.”
The supervisors and techs filed out. Nkosi stared at the floor, lost in thought. When she heard the door to the room close, she eyed Feykin.
“Emerist,” she stated flatly.
“That was disappointing—” he began, but she cut him off with a single finger held in the air.
“Disappointing doesn’t even begin to cover it,” she observed. “After the fiasco on Fusoria, I’m beginning to suspect we have agents inside this organization who are aiding the rogue contractors.”
“Impossible,” Feykin told her. “We watch the staff too closely. I’ve personally audited everyone who came into contact with them.”
“Then perhaps I should be auditing you,” Nkosi suggested.
Feykin straightened up. “I have nothing to hide.”
“No? Regardless, they should have been dead months ago – years ago, in 339’s case. But instead, now they know my identity.”
“621 is likely dead, and the detective, t
oo,” Feykin told her. “Footage from the contractors on the scene—”
“I am tired of hearing about fucking footage!” Nkosi thundered. “621 may be dead, but 339 is not. And because of that, I’ve spent the entire afternoon reviewing security procedures and relocation options for myself and my family. No more half measures, Feykin. Except for the teams at Anchorpoint, I want every active contractor pulled off their current assignment and redeployed to the most likely areas where 339 will turn up next. Until I can stand over her tortured body and watch the light fade from her eyes, you – and your entire operations team – are on warning. Don’t forget that you are entirely replaceable.”
The color drained from Feykin’s face. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll find her and bring her to you.”
“See that you do.”
19
Dasi turned out of the access tunnel, and joined the traffic heading for the Senate office areas. Beside her, Paisen checked their progress against a map of the battle cruiser’s interior, then set the datascroll back down.
She gestured to the wide roadway outside their car. “Strange to be driving inside a ship,” she commented. “This place is even more massive than I thought.”
“Mm,” Dasi replied. “You get used to it after a while. You start saying ‘outside’ and you really just mean the open spaces inside the ship, which are outside of the offices and living quarters.”
They passed a multi-story viewport, which showed them a view of the asteroid the ship was anchored to, and some of the space traffic flitting around the ship. Then the younger woman turned off the roadway and into a parking lot. She slid the ground car into a parking slot marked VISITOR and turned the car’s engine off. On impulse, Dasi picked up the datascroll from the car’s console, and tapped on the screen to refresh the news feed.