by Cary Caffrey
"We'll see."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bellatrix
October 15, 2348
Bellatrix
The trip down the elevator proved much less eventful and far more enjoyable than Sigrid's previous excursion. They never saw Kitten again, which was fine by Suko, and Leta and Trudy appeared to be having a marvelous time. Still, Sigrid was relieved when they arrived planet-side, safely and without incident.
All traffic in and out of Bellatrix went through the city of Portside, a city home to more than forty million persons—all of whom seemed to be on the streets at this very moment, Sigrid thought. They disembarked the lift station, filing out with the other passengers, all the while under the watchful eye of CTF Security who patrolled the crowds.
The sheer crush of humanity that greeted them was frightening. Stepping onto the street was like stepping into the current of a rushing river. Sigrid took care to keep hold of Suko's hand for fear that they would become separated in the surging crowds. She spied Trudy doing much the same with Leta, clutching to the arm of the taller girl.
Earth had never been like this. Too many people had left that decaying, flooded world to seek a better life in the stars. How many of them had come here, Sigrid wondered, and then only to find this?
Grey towers surrounded them, standing shoulder to shoulder, weather-worn and filthy. Sigrid craned her neck and stared up at the red sky. She tried but failed to see the tops of the skyscrapers, lost in the swirl of red dust and smog. People were everywhere, thousands of them, all around her, everywhere she looked, lounging on balconies, staring down at them from open windows. Clothing and laundry hung from every railing and fixture. At least it provided some color to the landscape of grey permacrete.
Trudy stared slack-jawed; she looked completely unprepared. There was never anything like this where she had grown up in Kolkata. After decades of constant flooding, the uprisings of '07, the once proud Indian city had become little more than a ghost town by the time Trudy was born.
"Curious customs they have here," Leta said, removing yet another hand from her backside as they made their way through the mob; she held the offending hand by the thumb, pinched between her thumb and forefinger as if holding something unwholesome. The man attached to the hand held his wrist, grimacing, little yelps of startled pain escaping his lips. Leta looked about, as if searching for a place to discard it, choosing to chuck the paw into the street—the man attached to it along with it.
The groups of overly eager men were not the only persons taking note of their passage either.
"We should get off the streets," Suko said. "I think someone's taken a fancy to us."
Sigrid didn't look. She didn't have to. She'd been scanning the freelancers since they'd arrived. Groups of these spies lurked in the crowds. They appeared more as shadows than people, blending in with the wash of humanity. They stood off to the sides, out of the flow of traffic, with their backs leaning against walls or railings, hands in their pockets. No one would think twice to look at them. No one would notice them. But Sigrid saw them. She scanned the devices they held hidden within the folds of their cloaks and jackets: cameras, recorders, data-probes.
The freelancers scanned all passersby, anyone in their vicinity, apparently without discrimination. They trolled the crowds as they disembarked the lift station in search of anything of interest, any information they might find to pawn. If they had a particular target in mind, Sigrid couldn't tell.
And they weren't just spying either. Sigrid witnessed the actions of one as he lifted the financial details from the wallet of a man who passed too close to him. Data was retrieved, funds transferred, all without the poor man's knowledge.
It was easy to see why the mercenaries held freelancers in such low regard. There was no honor in this work. No glory. These freelancers were little more than petty thieves. The mercenaries were right. Freelancers were scum.
And they were watching her, just as she was observing them. Sigrid scanned the nearest of them. He didn't turn toward her, his eyes never met hers, but Sigrid knew he was aware. She did not avert her eyes and did not turn away. It was the freelancer who moved first, but only to turn and walk away, losing himself in the crowds.
"Should we be worried?" Trudy asked.
Leta fingered the sidearm at her side. "Want me to go after him?"
"No," Sigrid said. "No, it's fine. I want them to see us." Sigrid continued to watch the freelancer until she could see him no more. "Ever since the Konoe Transfer Station, I've been wondering how we're going to find the men we're looking for. It seems so obvious now."
"Oh? Well, it's not to us."
Sigrid smiled. "We're going to let them find us. Now, come on. We've got a train to catch."
They boarded the first train for New Shēnzhèn, relieved to be off the streets and away from the crowds. Although, riding in coach proved a bit of a trial. Passengers sat four and five abreast on hard wooden benches, luggage resting on laps, children perched on their mothers' knees. The repulsor fields must have been malfunctioning; the ride proved so bumpy and jolted them about in such a frightful fashion Sigrid feared they'd be thrown clear of the maglev tracks. It was a far cry from her trips with Lady Hitomi and the luxury in which she had traveled back on Earth. But that was not the life of a freelancer, and Sigrid would have to play her part.
They would not arrive in New Shēnzhèn for fourteen hours. Sigrid used that time to learn more about their destination and what awaited them there. A rented news kiosk in what passed for a lounge car provided some needed information—once Trudy had properly hacked it.
"Can you believe they actually want you to pay for news here!" Trudy said, pulling up screen after screen until eight separate news feeds floated above the kiosk in holographic glory. "It's criminal! By the very definition, paying for news insures a certain bias. To think you can actually use information as a marketing platform and then maintain any sense of objectivity. It's a fallacy! It's like—"
"Thank you, Trudy," Sigrid said, "for that very passionate editorial."
"No, really! Check this out. Here's what they're reporting about the bombings in New Shēnzhèn. Publicly, it's all terrorists this and terrorists that. But, here, on the private servers it's something else entirely. Look. The coroner's report shows the Council emissary was killed at 10:17 on September 29. That was three days before we showed up. But the bombing of the embassy didn't take place until 11:49 the following day. And it wasn't any bomb that killed the emissary. Not unless it was a small, thirteen-millimeter-sized explosive that was pushed through the emissary's forehead and then didn't blow up until it exited the other side."
"Thanks," Leta said, making a face.
"Then this wasn't terrorism," Suko said. "This was an assassination. The Council emissary was shot."
"And someone doesn't want anyone to know," Sigrid said. "Good work, Trudy."
"Not much of a bombing either," Leta said with a sniff. "Look. Mostly smoke damage, fire, broken glass. They'll be open for business tomorrow. If they really wanted to take down the building, they could have placed thermite charges along the supporting columns. Give me six, seven charges and poof!" She made an exploding gesture with her fingers, spreading them outward. "Take that tower right down. Nice and neat. No collateral damage."
"Then it's a cover-up," Suko said.
"Yeah, but why cover up an attack?" Leta asked. "And why finger the Mercenary Guild?"
"Do you really think it's a conspiracy?" a voice asked from behind them.
Sigrid spun around—the question came from an old man seated on the opposite side of their bench. He sat propped up, kneeling on the back of his chair, peering over their shoulders. His eyes were wide with boyish interest. Sigrid considered lying to him, but then, what did it matter? He appeared more titillated than alarmed.
"You don't think it's terrorists, then?"
Sigrid smiled at him. "I'm quickly learning, sir, that there are no such thing as terrorists."
His eyes narrowe
d, as if some long-suspected truth were confirmed. "So, you think it's the CTF, eh? You think they did this themselves? I knew it!"
Sigrid leaned toward him, making a show of keeping her voice low. "Perhaps. Though I'd caution you, sir. The Council has eyes everywhere." To make her point, Sigrid looked up toward the corner of the ceiling, as if to a spy camera hidden within the paneling.
"Goodness! You don't think they…?"
Sigrid nodded. "Mm-hmm."
The old man gripped his hat tighter in his hands, swallowed, and slinked back down into his chair.
Suko snickered at her side. "You're a rat. That poor man's going to be looking over his shoulder for days!"
"Yes, but he'll have a story to tell when he gets home."
Trudy continued her digging, though she wasn't able to unearth any news of Merchantmen activity in this sector. Worse, there was no record of Bernat Wereme anywhere. As far as the official records were concerned, the man was a ghost.
None of this was any help. The news feeds, with their conspiracies, rumors and accusations, only served to muddy the waters of their search. They would be arriving in New Shēnzhèn shortly, and they were still no closer to finding the information they needed.
"What now?" Suko asked.
"It's been a long trip," Sigrid said. "I think we should see about some proper lodging."
"You have a place in mind?"
Sigrid fingered the hotel receipt in her pocket, the one she'd taken from Bernat Wereme.
"I think I know just the place."
*
While Sigrid found the city of Portside cluttered and depressing, it was nothing compared to New Shēnzhèn. Spread over five thousand square kilometers, one factory enclave merged into the next. The ground was heavy with soot, the air thick and grey. And where the factories gave way to open desert, the mining operations began.
Even having grown up in the squalor of Geneva, Sigrid couldn't imagine how people could live amongst the noise and filth.
A taxi took them to the hotel they sought. The Roosevelt. It seemed the one bright spot in the otherwise dreary city. Doormen rushed to help them with their luggage and ushered them inside and away from the filth of the streets and the panhandlers that lingered there. Clean and well appointed, decorated in the Nouveau Colonial style the Federation worlds favored, the hotel proved a true oasis. A smiling concierge waited behind the front desk, ready to greet them. Bellhops stood on station by the elevators.
Even before rooms had been arranged, Sigrid inquired about Bernat Wereme. She spread around a good portion of her meager funds, hoping to jog the memory of the hotel's staff, but no one could recall the old man. The register did supply a record of a guest by the same name, but there were no visual records to verify his identity and no way for Sigrid to know for certain that it was indeed the same man.
A bellhop admitted them to their room, wheeling in the cart containing all of their luggage, not much more than a change of underclothes, some toiletries and several armored cases of explosives and munitions.
"Wait—one room?" Trudy asked. "And there's only two beds!"
Sigrid wasn't sure what Trudy's issue was. "I thought—"
"No way. We are not sharing a room with you two. Nothing personal."
"Why? What's wrong with the room?"
"It's not the room." Leta chuckled. "Not exactly. You're very…um…you're very loud."
Suko leaned close. "Don't listen to them. You're passionate, is all. Wouldn't have it any other way."
Sigrid clapped her hands to her cheeks, mortified. "I had no idea."
A quick call to the front desk hastily arranged for a second room. While they waited, talk returned to the business at hand.
Sigrid crumpled Bernat Wereme's hotel receipt in her hand, tossing it into the rubbish recycler. Useless. "I suppose it was too much to wish for, thinking we'd actually find something, some lead to his dealings here."
"We're not done for yet," Suko said. "We're only just getting started. Don't worry. If he was here, we'll find him."
"Hey, you might want to take a look at this," Trudy said. She sat at the room's computer terminal.
Sigrid peered over her shoulder at the holographic display. "More news on the bombing?"
"More?" Trudy said. "That's an understatement. Look. It's not just here. It's everywhere. Pallas, Corus, Charon—it's happening all over the Federation! They've confirmed fourteen Council facilities and embassies destroyed so far."
"Fourteen?" Sigrid gasped.
"Yes, and someone's finally taking credit for it, too. Some group—they're calling themselves the Circle. Apparently they're working with the Mercenary Guild."
"The Circle?" Leta shook her head in disbelief. "Why would mercs work for some group going after the CTF? I don't believe it."
Sigrid watched the news feeds, images of angry officials from both the Mercenary Guild and Federation Council in heated exchanges. The war of words had begun.
"You know, there might be an upside in all this," Suko said. "Whatever's going on, it should keep the local authorities occupied while we're here. I don't think we could have planned it better ourselves."
Suko's statement had been said innocently, offhand, but the realization hit Sigrid like a brick. It was so obvious—so obvious she cursed her foolishness for not seeing it before.
"Suko…I think you may be right."
"See? I told you I'm not just a pretty face. Um—right about what?"
Sigrid leapt, hooting. She grabbed Suko's hands, spinning her around while Trudy and Leta looked on. "Suko, you're beautiful!"
"Pretty perhaps, but not uncommonly beautiful."
"And you’re absolutely right!" Sigrid went to the bed, grabbing up her holsters and strapping them back on. "What did Rosa drill into us—every day of our lives? Distractions. This—that's all this is! It's all just a distraction. But it's not for us."
Sigrid stared back at the monitors, the embassies and offices of fourteen planets laid to waste and left to burn. It all made perfect sense.
"It's him, Suko. This…distraction, it's all for him. He's here! Suko, Bernat Wereme is here."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lachlan Industrial
Major Karl Tarsus stood on the landing platform atop the centermost structure of the factory enclave. The rooftop of Central Services was the highest point in the complex. One hundred and six stories up, the tower gave a perfect view of the entire area. The girl, Victoria, stood quietly at his side, her face passive, her eyes shielded behind the cloak of her glasses. Tarsus had found her silence unnerving at first. Now, he was surprised to find that it calmed him. She never demanded anything of him, never bothered him with strings of unending questions. Certainly not like Drs. Farrington or Wolsey, or the rest of the research team that populated the enclave.
Her programming was perfection; Victoria would serve him dutifully, and without question.
Tarsus felt the wrist-com vibrate, alerting him. Raising the set of macrobinoculars to his eyes, he scanned the night sky. It took only a second to spot his target. The small transport came in low, swift and silent under the veil of night. There would be no stopping at Customs and Border Protection. Not for this flight, and not for the single passenger inside. His entrance into Bellatrix space would not be logged, and there would be no questions asked. How this had been arranged, Tarsus could only guess, but these were the kinds of things he had come to expect from the transport's passenger, Harry Jones.
The transport slowed, braking hard, closing on the platform. The pilot skidded the craft sideways to hover over him. The waiting ground crew rushed forward, ready to tend to the craft as the transport came to rest on the pad.
Tarsus shielded his eyes from the blast of the blowing dust. When the airlock slid open, Harry Jones was the first down the ramp. Seeing him again—the icy complexion, the pale skin, those thin lips pressed firmly together—Tarsus realized how much he'd come to hate the man. But like it or not, his fate was bound to him. It would n
ot be too soon before they parted ways. But that couldn't happen. Not yet.
Tarsus had one more service to perform.
"Mr. Tarsus," Harry Jones said. "I hope you'll forgive the late hour of my arrival. It couldn't be helped. I trust I didn't take you from anything."
"Sleep," Tarsus grunted.
Behind them, the crew were already working to offload the cargo. Six men worked together to hoist the long metallic cylinder and deposit it onto the waiting repulsor lift. The cylinder was a little more than two meters long and half as wide. Tarsus looked closer, recognizing it for what it was. It was a cryochamber, a stasis pod, used for medical transport—for those who could afford such extravagances.
Tarsus knew the chamber alone cost far more than the ship that carried it. Though what, or whom, was contained within, he could only guess.
"I don't think you'll find Dr. Farrington will be pleased that you're here," Tarsus said, more to break the silence that stretched between them than anything else. "He thinks this facility is his to run. He won't like the interference."
"What the doctor wishes is of no importance," Jones said. Then, for the first time, Jones seemed to acknowledge the girl standing at his side. "Is this one of Farrington's?"
"No, this is one of Dr. Wolsey's. Victoria is a prototype."
Victoria turned to regard Harry Jones, perhaps aware that she was now the subject of his scrutiny.
"You shouldn't name them, Mr. Tarsus. They're not pets."
Tarsus ignored the remark.
"How many more have been activated?"
"Dr. Wolsey has completed work on eight so far."
"Eight?" Harry Jones didn't hide his disapproval. "Mr. Tarsus. I provided Dr. Wolsey with more than a hundred volunteers. Are you telling me that only eight have been activated?"
"I'm telling you only eight survived." Tarsus thrust his hands further into his pockets, burrowing deep. "There were…complications."
"And what of Dr. Farrington? What of his group. Has he made no progress?"
Tarsus chuckled. Progress? Farrington had indeed been hard at work since his arrival at the enclave. Tarsus didn't understand the work or the importance—he was no scientist—but even he could see what Farrington brought to the project, the improvements he'd already made on Wolsey's crude beginnings.