Rath's Reckoning (The Janus Group #3)

by Piers Platt

  “Anything?” Paisen asked.

  “No,” Dasi said. “No updates. The police on Emerist are still putting together a search team, but they aren’t optimistic that they’ll find any survivors.”

  Paisen eyed the younger woman. “I’m not giving up hope yet,” she said. “And in any event, they would have wanted us to see this through.”

  Dasi nodded silently.

  “How do I look?” Paisen asked.

  Dasi examined her closely. “Like me, I guess.”

  Paisen checked her reflection in the side-view mirror a final time. “Okay, I’m going in.”

  “Good luck,” Dasi told her.

  “Mm,” Paisen grunted. “I’m going to need it. Normally I’d have studied you for longer before attempting something like this. You’re sure we won’t be able to stay in contact once I go inside?”

  “No,” Dasi said. “Senate offices are shielded to block all non-official communications. Once you’re in there, we can’t talk at all.”

  Paisen exhaled noisily. “No sense delaying any longer.”

  “You’ll ask about me? If they’ll leave me alone, and I can come home?”

  “Yeah,” Paisen said. She opened the door and stood up, straightening her dark wool suit coat. Then she strode toward the office’s entrance.

  Inside, she entered the security checkpoint, where she waited while a full-body scanner verified she was unarmed. The guard had her remove the metal disc from her shirt pocket – Paisen handed it to him to inspect it, and then he gave it back. She approached the receptionist’s desk next, noting two Senate Guards conspicuously positioned at the far end of the waiting area, outside the senator’s office door. The receptionist pointed her to an automated kiosk, which took her photo, and then asked for her name and the name of her host. Paisen typed quickly, received a visitor’s badge a moment later, and then took a seat in the waiting area. A news program was playing on the viewscreen, reporting on a civil conflict in the Territories – Paisen tuned it out, dialing up her auditory sensors to focus on other sounds in the office.

  After three minutes, the only other person in the waiting room – a large man in a suit and tie – sighed and walked back over to the receptionist.

  “When did you say Senator Mastic will see me? My appointment was nearly an hour ago.”

  The receptionist smiled apologetically. “She sends her regrets, sir. I’m afraid she’s running a bit behind this morning, she had an emergency conference call that she had to attend. She’ll be with you very soon.”

  The man sighed again, noisily, and took his seat. Then a young man in a tie and rolled-up shirt-sleeves walked into the room. Paisen recognized him from the pictures Dasi had shown her, and his badge confirmed him as a member of Senator Mastic’s public relations team. He looked at the man, briefly, then saw Paisen.

  “Dasi?”

  Paisen stood up, smiling. “Hi, Giron.”

  “Oh man, it’s good to see you.” He hugged her, briefly. Then he stood back, holding her at arms’ length. “Dasi, where have you been?”

  “Can we go someplace private?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. Giron led her to an empty office, and closed the door.

  “So …,” Giron began, taking a seat at the desk. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s complicated,” Paisen told him. “I’ll tell you, but first I need to ask a favor.”

  “Sure,” he shrugged. “Anything.”

  “I need you to get me in to see Senator Mastic immediately. Her life is in danger.”

  Giron frowned. “What? I mean, I can try, but … if she’s in danger, shouldn’t we tell her Senate Guards first?”

  Paisen shook her head. “No, we might not be able to trust them.”

  “Why not?” Giron leaned back in his chair. “Dasi, this is all kind of weird. What’s going on?”

  “Giron, you have to trust me – the threat is real, and we’re running out of time. I’ll tell you everything soon, but I need to see Mastic first.”

  He bit his lip, studying her. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I’ll go see if I can work some scheduling magic with the chief of staff. Hang out in the lobby, I’ll come get you.”

  Paisen smiled with relief. “Thanks, Giron.”

  She walked back to her seat in the lobby, pushing her way past a gaggle of Senate Guards clustered around the reception area.

  “She’ll be right out to see you, Senator Blackwell,” she heard the receptionist say.

  Blackwell!

  Paisen finished sitting down, and then casually turned to examine the group of newcomers. Six Senate Guards had spread themselves around the reception area, two near the checkpoint, two near the entrance to the staff offices, and two more – a man and a woman – near Paisen in the seating area. A middle-aged man in a suit stood leaning against the reception desk, distractedly reading from a datascroll. She could only see part of his face, but it matched the photos she had studied of Senator Blackwell. The senator checked his watch quickly, then went back to his datascroll.

  If I could talk to both senators at the same time, so much the better … do I try to find Giron again?

  Paisen scanned the senator’s security detail disinterestedly, then picked up a datascroll next to her seat and pretended to flip through the latest news reports.

  Six Senate Guards. He sure brought a lot of firepower for a friendly office visit.

  She tabbed through two more stories, then frowned.

  And they’re not arrayed in any kind of protective formation. They’re positioned to control access to the office area.

  In her neural interface, Paisen accessed the video feed she had taken of Senator Blackwell from several seconds before. She froze the video when he lifted his arm to check his watch. After a second, she dismissed the footage.

  He’s wearing a counter bracelet.

  She took a deep breath.

  They’re all contractors. And I’m right in the middle of their assignment.

  “Senator!”

  Paisen looked up: Senator Mastic had emerged from her inner office; she stood between her own Senate Guards, who flanked the door to her office. Behind her, Paisen could see a book-lined office, with a large wooden desk under a viewport that looked out over Anchorpoint’s asteroid. Mastic smiled at Blackwell. “You’re earlier than I anticipated. My apologies for the delay.”

  “No need to apologize,” Blackwell told her, straightening and handing his datascroll to one of his bodyguards. “I was just catching up on some messages.”

  “Mary?!” Paisen cried, dropping her datascroll and standing quickly.

  The female bodyguard across from her frowned, and looked over to her closest colleague for help.

  “Mary! I can’t believe it’s you!” Paisen shot her a broad smile.

  “I’m not …,” the woman said, but Paisen was already rushing over to her. Blackwell had stopped in his tracks, confused.

  “Oh my god, I haven’t seen you since high school!” Paisen said.

  Before the woman could react, she leaned in for a hug, slipping her hand inside the woman’s suit coat.

  “Hey!” the woman protested, but Paisen hugged her close, grasping the woman’s pistol and twisting her upper body around. With the gun still in its holster, she fired blindly, but her first two rounds hit Blackwell in the chest, and Paisen shifted aim, putting a neat hole through the forehead of Blackwell’s nearest Senate Guard.

  “Get Mastic out of here!” she shouted at Mastic’s guards, but the woman in her arms had recovered her wits, and she tripped Paisen, toppling both of them to the floor behind a row of easy chairs.

  Paisen twisted the pistol as she fell, and managed to fire twice into the woman’s torso from point-blank range. The woman gasped and went limp. Paisen heard other guns firing from out by the reception desk, and return fire from Mastic’s office door. She glanced across the floor and saw both of Mastic’s guards down, bleeding from multiple wounds. The door to Mastic’s office was
shut. Paisen shifted her face and hair, transforming herself to mimic the female contractor she had just killed. She stood again, appearing from behind the chairs.

  The two remaining contractors shifted their aim to cover her.

  “Did you get Mastic?” she asked them, her heart pounding.

  The closest man frowned, and for a second, Paisen saw his finger tense on the trigger. Then he pointed his weapon at the ground. “I think so.”

  “Well, go check!” she told him. “I’ll cover you.”

  The man nodded and ran past her.

  “I’ve got the entrance,” the contractor near the security checkpoint told her, turning back to face the entrance.

  “Great,” she told him. She shot him in the back of the head, then turned and gunned down the last contractor as he tried to spin around.

  “Jesus Christ,” she swore.

  She took a magazine from the dead woman’s belt and reloaded the pistol. Then she jogged to Mastic’s office. The door was locked, but she pulled a keycard off of one of the dead guards, and waved it against the lock. The door slid open a second later.

  “Senator Mastic?”

  She knelt and peeked into the office, but saw no one. Paisen stood carefully and stepped inside, palming the door closed behind her. The office appeared empty, but Paisen’s enhanced hearing brought her the sound of ragged breathing.

  Behind the desk.

  “That was a Guild hit, Senator, but they’re all dead now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Paisen crossed the room and edged slowly around the desk, pistol up. Mastic sat on the floor, her back to the desk. Her hands clutched at her silk chemise, which was stained with blood. She flinched when she saw Paisen.

  “It’s okay, I’m not going to kill you,” Paisen reassured her, kneeling.

  “You killed Blackwell,” Mastic managed, wincing in pain as Paisen applied pressure to one of the bullet wounds.

  “That wasn’t Blackwell. They probably sent a team for him, too.”

  “Warn him,” Mastic coughed. “Phone on the desk.”

  The handset was off the cradle, Paisen saw.

  And streaked with blood.

  “Did you already call for an ambulance?” Paisen asked her.

  Mastic nodded.

  Paisen stood and dialed Blackwell’s office. Eventually, a generic automated message answered. She hung up, and then noticed an inbound call on the screen. She answered.

  “This is Mastic,” she said, mimicking the senator’s voice.

  “Senator, your ambulance is ready to leave, but I’m afraid it’s going to be delayed. The attackers opened the station’s hull in several places, and we can’t reach you until we can repressurize those passages and unseal the automated compartment locks.”

  “There’s no way in or out?” Paisen asked.

  “No, ma’am, not yet. But we’re working on it.”

  Paisen hung up, and squatted down next to Mastic.

  “Ambulance is en route, but the Group sealed off this wing with hull breaches, so it’s going to be a little while. There was no answer at Blackwell’s.”

  Mastic frowned. “Receptionist … always answers.”

  “Not if the receptionist is dead,” Paisen pointed out. “You’ve got hemobots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then there’s a decent chance you’ll see the end of the day. Senator, do you know who I am?”

  Mastic shook her head. “No.”

  “Does the name 339 mean anything to you?”

  “The one that got away,” Mastic said.

  “Yeah. I was on Emerist when they killed Lizelle. He told me to find you and Blackwell.”

  “Trying to get rid of us – no more oversight, no more control. The Guild run wild.”

  “Lizelle said each of you had a secret. His was the name of the family that runs the Guild – Nkosi.”

  Mastic groaned. “God, it hurts. Even with the hemobots.”

  “You can tell them to increase the dosage, but I need you to focus for a second, first,” Paisen told her. “Do you have the access codes to the Guild’s finances?”

  “No. I know where they are located.”

  Paisen hung her head. “Fuck.”

  “You want your money,” Mastic guessed.

  “You’re god damn right I do. I made a deal with Lizelle: the money I’m owed, in return for Nkosi. Will you honor it?”

  Mastic rested her head against the side of the desk, closing her eyes.

  “Senator?” Paisen asked.

  “Yes, I’ll honor it.”

  “I want my money, and 621’s money, too. And Dasi Apter – Lizelle’s staffer, the girl that found out about the Guild – I want her contract canceled, she can go free.”

  “Yes, fine,” Mastic said. She took a shuddering breath. “But after Nkosi is dead, the Guild lives on. Not a word from either of you about what you’ve seen.”

  “Deal,” Paisen said.

  Mastic smiled faintly. “A deal with the devil. But which of us is the devil, I wonder …?” She trailed off.

  Paisen squeezed her arm. “Stay with me. I still need the location.”

  Mastic’s eyes fluttered open. She licked her lips. “Chennai,” she breathed. “The Surat Khan Tower.”

  20

  In the Janus Group control room, the digital clock switched to three a.m. By convention, the room was manned continuously so as to monitor missions in real time, as they occurred on planets spread throughout the galaxy. But the late night hours rarely saw a full complement of techs and supervisors, much less a double shift. Tonight was an exception.

  “Something’s wrong,” Altaras repeated. He and his Crisis Team sat with Feykin and the director in a sealed conference room overlooking the tiers of work stations below.

  Feykin stood up and rubbed the back of his neck. “How long has it been now?”

  “Twelve minutes since Team Two entered Mastic’s office complex. Five minutes since Team One reported mission complete at Blackwell’s office.”

  “Where is Team One now?”

  “Dispersed. They’ve already shifted identities, they should be heading for the transit hub.”

  A tech wearing headphones raised his hand. “I’m monitoring emergency radio traffic on multiple channels,” he said.

  “Shit,” Altaras noted. He glanced self-consciously at Director Nkosi, but she was focused on the tech.

  “What’s the message?” Feykin demanded.

  The tech listened for several seconds. “Shooting at Mastic’s office. Blackwell was shot, Mastic is wounded, requesting medical attention. Active shooters still in the office.”

  “Wait,” Feykin said, “Blackwell was shot?”

  “One of Mastic’s guards must have shot the contractor posing as Blackwell,” Nkosi guessed. “He failed to infiltrate her office successfully.”

  “I’m notifying 700 to detonate the charges on the hull and isolate the office complex,” Altaras said. “That will keep the first responders out for a while.” He looked at Nkosi. “Should I tell 700 to reinforce Team Two, as well?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Send him in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And remind him that he’s failed me twice now in critical situations. I won’t tolerate a third time.”

  * * *

  Dasi checked her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. When she looked up, she saw an unmarked car pull up to the main entrance to Mastic’s office. Five heavily armed, uniformed police officers hurried out, leaving the car’s doors open in their haste. Four of them disappeared into the office complex – the fifth paused outside the door, glancing up and down the interior roadway briefly. Dasi ducked as he looked in her direction, but she caught a brief glimpse of his scarred face before he entered the complex.

  The burned guildsman from Emerist, the one who killed Khyron!

  Dasi chewed at her thumb.

  The Guild must have sent them in to try to kill Mastic. Paisen’s in there, she’ll
recognize him, just like I did. But she’s not armed.

  Dasi unbuckled her seatbelt, and put her hand on the door switch.

  This is crazy. I don’t even have a gun.

  She screwed her eyes shut. In her mind, she could feel 700 tapping her forehead with the pencil, an evil glint in his eyes.

  He killed Khyron! But Paisen told me to just stay here.

  “Stay here, Dasi. Don’t tell anyone about the Guild, Dasi. Just play along, Dasi, and I’ll get you off this planet … someday.”

  Dasi opened her eyes and kicked the door open.

  I’m tired of everybody telling me what to do.

  * * *

  Even with her enhanced hearing turned up to maximum amplification, Paisen nearly missed the sound.

  Someone outside the office door.

  She touched Mastic on the shoulder.

  “Where can I see your security camera feed?” she hissed, but Mastic was unconscious, sedated by her hemobots.

  Paisen kept her pistol pointed at the door and searched the senator’s desk with her free hand, pulling a datascroll from under a pile of printouts. She turned it on, but the device prompted her for a fingerprint to log in. Paisen grabbed Mastic’s hand and mashed a finger against the screen.

  “Security feed,” she whispered, when the device was unlocked.

  A program opened up, presenting her with a variety of camera options, along with controls for the office’s doors and locks. She touched the camera in the waiting room area. A uniformed policeman stepped back from the outside of the door, and Paisen saw that he had attached a breaching panel to the door itself. He moved to the right of the door, shouldering his auto-rifle and taking up position behind another officer. On the left side of the door, three other cops were also stacked up, ready to assault.

  Shit. Are you guys cops, or more Group assets? Probably contractors – cops would have knocked first.

  She watched as the assaulter closest to the door held a fist in the air, with five fingers up. The man switched to four fingers, then three.

  Starting the countdown.

  When he held up just one finger, Paisen tapped on the button to open the office door. The door slid dutifully open, disappearing into the wall. The assaulters triggered the breaching charge a split second later, and the explosion ripped through the wall, instantly killing the two contractors on the right side of the doorway.