by Thomas Webb
Ramsey frowned. It was no wonder they’d picked here to do their business. ‘They’ being the traitorous Outer Colonies Worlds council and the United Nations.
A well-dressed group of men and women, along with several Andarians, passed Ramsey on the busy evening street. They could have been out on the town blowing off steam from a business meeting, Shangjai citizens heading toward the local watering hole, or tourists, simply there to enjoy the pleasures Cetov 9 had to offer. One of the humans turned, looking Ramsey up and down with an appreciative eye.
He grinned. He had to admit—under different circumstances, Shangjai was a city he would have enjoyed.
Ramsey found his mind turning quickly from the pleasures the planet offered to less enjoyable pursuits. He wished his own outer colonies planets could be more like Cetov 9. The Cetovians had found something they were good at—hosting the inhabitants of other planets—and they’d made the most of it. They’d parlayed that talent for hospitality into a strong economy. So many off-world credits flowing into the planets’ coffers created a form of power all its own.
The people of Cetov 9 also had something else going for them that the OC planets did not—they enjoyed the good fortune of not having been colonized by the United Nations. A United Nations that, several hundred years ago, had found itself with no choice but to take to the stars. They’d rushed to discover the secret to jump gate technology, then hurled themselves headlong into the unknown. All in a desperate bid to de-populate a dangerously overcrowded Earth.
Overpopulation tended to occur, especially when medical science allowed people to live longer and age slower. The increase in life expectancy and the decrease in the death rate had threatened to sap the planet Earth dry of her resources. That was when the migrations began, Ramsey recalled from his history.
Cetov 9 also happened to make an excellent trap for Lima, Hale, Mallory, and their crew. Provided they managed to work out what he was up to here. He’d learned the hard way how resourceful they were, so them guessing his plans wasn’t as big an ‘if’ as Ramsey would have liked. He wouldn’t put figuring out the target past them. Lima was an evil genius when it came to the intelligence world. And Mallory? She was a sharp one, too.
She’d almost gotten a rise out of him back on Earth, in that cell below the kingdom of Kush. Ramsey wasn’t one for underestimating his enemies. Mallory, Lima, and everyone like them were dangerous—they would all need to be removed from the equation for the Outer Colonies to finally win the Separatist Wars once and for all. All of them. Most especially Hale.
Hale.
Ramsey had a special bone to pick with the UN Marine. One of their few surviving troops from Hostia had reported that it was Hale who followed LeBlanc into the work shed that night. It was Hale who’d come out limping, Romero half-carrying him, a gaping hole in his side.
Hale had survived, and Renee had not.
It was Hale who was responsible for the death of Renee LeBlanc, a hero of the Separatist cause. Just one more outrage in a long list of outrages to hold the United Nations accountable for. No—that wasn’t right. Not to hold them accountable for. To hate them for. Renee’s was just the latest drop in an ocean of Separatist blood on Hale and the UN’s hands.
Ramsey watched the bright lights of the Shangjai night from behind his dark glasses, lost in his thoughts. His eyes narrowed. Lima, Hale, Mallory. . . he’d see them all to justice. If it was the last thing he ever did.
Ramsey slipped along the crowded evening streets, wending his way between those seeking a good time and those hawking food and wares. He headed along the street, from the bustling market and bar district towards the sparkling business center of downtown. There was a marked change in the beings he encountered, as the beat of synth pop music, the stale odor of sweat-soaked bodies, and the sharp tang of perfume, sour liquor, and street food gave way to the crisp, filtered air and sparkling skyscrapers of the city center.
As the hour grew later, there was a shift. Shimmering party clothes that showed plenty of skin gave way to dress shirts, slacks, and thousand-credit dresses and scarves. Ramsey ducked past an upscale Salusian couple headed to dinner, discussing their day at the office, and a group of men in business suits. He strolled past a tall building, over a hundred stories of white-as-snow peristeel. A multi-story holo ad for some new Velusian fashion line ran across the face of the architectural wonder.
Just past the building was a vertical parking structure. Space in Shangjai went for a premium, so to preserve it the parking lots extended both far above and far below ground, complete with a floating section above the roof designed specifically for air cars.
Ramsey walked down the ramp leading into the belly of the structure. He bypassed the robotic gate guard and made his way to a set of duracrete stairs. Several flights down, the Separatist soldier found himself on garage-sublevel number three. His footfalls echoed across the cavernous structure as he walked past countless empty parking spaces. This time of night, the structure was practically deserted. Ramsey shoved the pulse pistol deeper into his SOB holster and marched across the duracrete, toward a waiting luxury transport tucked into a darkened corner.
The air car was deep black, polished to a mirror-like finish. Long and low and floating on a set of anti grav generators, the vehicle was as high level, as expensive, as they came. Only the wealthiest of executives rode around in rigs like this.
As Ramsey approached, he saw his own dark shades reflected in mirrored plexglass and nano-level paint. He heard the locks disengage with a deep clunk. Ramsey pulled the door open. It was surprisingly heavy.
Probably armored, he thought.
He let himself into the limousine and slid into the back seat—directly across from Marty Steen.
Marty Steen-Senior Vice President of Mergers & Acquisitions for United Les Space, zero handicap golfer, and all-around general asshole. Steen’s pudgy fingers slapped away at the keys of a holo board. His rat-like eyes focused with an almost admirable intensity on whatever corporate bullshit he was reviewing.
“Do me a favor,” Steen said, his eyes glued to the holo image. He nodded toward the door. “Shut that for me, will you?”
Ramsey obliged his unwanted partner in crime. As the door thunked closed, the air car hummed to life.
Steen held up a single, pudgy digit. “One second,” he said, not bothering to takes his eyes from the screen before him.
Ramsey stared through the floating message in Steen’s lap, the image scrambled for privacy. He exhaled. If it wasn’t for the righteousness of his cause, Ramsey would have no use for a waste of skin corporate scumbag like Steen. The repugnant little man represented everything Ramsey despised; went against everything he was fighting for, in matter of fact. Disregard for human life, lack of honor, corporate greed—the list went on. But the cause desperately needed the credits Steen acted as gatekeeper to. And ULS needed the Separatists to wage war, thus keeping their stockholder happy from the sale of weapons to the UN.
For the time being, it was an unfortunate symbiotic relationship. One Ramsey had no choice but to tolerate.
“Ok,” Steen said, closing his device. “So get me up to speed, Ramsey. I already know LeBlanc is dead.” Steen shrugged. “Not that it matters in the grand scheme of things.”
This was how those like Steen were. They acted as if people were just corporate assets, with which they could do as the pleased. They acted as if others were nothing. Renee had been ten times the human being that Steen was. But he was gone, and Steen was still breathing. How was that fair?
Suddenly Ramsey saw red. “Renee LeBlanc will be missed,” he growled. “He died bravely for the cause.”
“Yeah,” Steen said, looking at his device again. “Bravely.”
Ramsey smiled behind his glasses. A dangerous smile. He made a quick mental note of the rage he was feeling. He would save it. He was sure he’d find a good use for it later on.
“And I guess the hit job in Kush failed?” Steen asked. It wasn’t exactly a question
, so much as a fact that Steen could hold over his head. “Those UN contractors got away, as I understand it? Although that was more a Separatist thing than a ULS thing. Still, the company hates to have loose ends.”
“They’ll be taken care of,” Ramsey said.
“Like you took care of them before you mean?” Steen leaned back, placing his hands over his belly. “Look Ramsey—I want to like you. I really do. You seem like a decent enough guy. But the board of directors. . .” Steen threw up his hands, as if to wash them of all responsibility. “They have all the say on this thing. And I gotta tell ya’—they’re gettin’ pretty antsy. The expense overruns alone. . .”
“We have it under control,” Ramsey said.
“Hey pal,” Steen shrugged. “If you say so. Just promise me everything’s covered with this UN meeting thing? It’s going to go the way we want it to, right?”
Thanks to a mole inside the United Nations Security Council, it had been simple enough to get the location of the talks. Ramsey’s people had then arrived well ahead of the UN meeting in order to prepare.
“Of course,” Ramsey said. “All the arrangements have been made.”
Steen raised an eyebrow. “So no issue with LeBlanc not being here anymore to oversee the operation personally?”
Ramsey swallowed hard. “No. The construction of the devices was the delicate part. Anyone can place and activate them. Renee’s part was done before he—before he gave his life for the cause.”
Steen sighed. “Look Ramsey—I’m going to give you some free advice, okay? People die every day, man. Hell—ULS is responsible for thousands of deaths a day from our chemical processing ventures alone. You don’t see us crying about it, do you?” Steen held his hands far apart. “The universe is big. Inconceivably big. What’s a few lives compared to that? Gotta break the eggs to make the omelet, am I right?”
Ramsey shook his head in disgust. “You’re a real piece of work, Steen.” He felt an immediate need to get this meeting over with. “Did you call me here for a reason? You actually got something for me? Or am I wasting my time sitting in these overpriced, overstuffed seats?”
“Easy, buddy. No need to get pissy. Here.” Steen pulled up a holo file and swiped it toward Ramsey.
Ramsey pulled his own comm device and checked the new data Steen had sent him. It was a listing of all the attendees of the meeting, as well as the itinerary for the United Nations Director of Outer Colony and Off-World Affairs.
“Everything else you need for the job should be there,” Steen said.
“It better be,” Ramsey countered. “We’ll only have one shot at this.”
“Just do what you’re paid to do,” Steen snapped. “The board has been very forgiving of you, Ramsey. They usually don’t allow the hired help so much leeway. And to be honest, I have no idea why they’ve given you such a long leash. But their patience isn’t limitless. You said you only had one shot at this, and you were right. This is your last get-out-of-jail-free card with ULS. If you screw it up?” Steen shrugged, letting the rest of the implication hang.
“Is that a threat?” Ramsey asked, careful to keep his tone even. This guy had no idea. Ramsey could take him out before the driver even finished his eSmoke. Steen was alone, in an enclosed space, with a trained killer. And he didn’t even have the good sense to be afraid.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a threat,” Steen said. ‘More like a ‘justification,’ if you will.” Steen activated his comm device. “Driver,” he said. “Pull over here please.”
The air car whispered to a stop. A sizeable Andarian came around and opened Ramsey’s door. Ramsey took a look out, noticing for the first time that they’d driven to a deserted part of Shangjai. They were at least eight klicks out from where he was staying.
“I’m actually on the other side of town,” Ramsey said.
“Sorry,” Steen apologized. “As a rep of United Les Space, I can’t be seen with you. You get it, I’m sure? Besides-you military types love keeping fit, right? You can walk. Think of it as a workout.”
Ramsey looked from Steen to the stone-faced Andarian. He could take the Andarian, no problem. But he needed Steen and those ULS credits a little longer.
Resigned, Ramsey slid out from the back seat and stepped onto the duracrete sidewalk of the old section of Shangjai.
The Andarian driver never said a word, just shut the door behind Ramsey and resumed his post at the driving controls.
The tinted plexglass rear window slid down just enough for Steen to see over the top. The corporate exec smiled from inside the air car. “Have a nice night,” he said. The window rose, and the vehicle hovered off.
Ramsey watched the car whisper away, its rear lights fading silently into the distance.
“What an asshole,” Ramsey said out loud.
He let out a low chuckle. Then he turned and began the long walk back toward downtown, thinking of all the fun ways he would wring Steen’s neck once this was all over.
-20-
“So what are we looking at here?” Shane asked. She sipped her instant cappuccino, savoring the sweet creaminess as she stared at the images floating above the holo table.
“Layout of the hotel where the conference is being held,” Hale grunted. He chewed on a synthesized protein bar. Anesu stood beside him. To her left was Shemi Mwangi, a young scientist from the Kingdom’s Research & Development sector who specialized in pulse and subspace technology. Gina, Kris’nac, and Lash gathered in a huddle around the table, with Lima and X37 on the opposite side. A handful of shooters on loan from the Kingdom, courtesy of General Njoroge, completed their impromptu strike team.
The briefing was taking place in a makeshift space, staged onboard a civilian-owned, retrofitted KZ 130 cargo spacecraft. The retro’d version of the KZ had a few more creature comforts than it had enjoyed in its past life, but there was no denying the fact that they were traveling inside the belly of an interstellar cargo craft. Lima had rented it from an old UN Army pilot, along with his piloting services. Given the tight time-table, Shane was gritting her teeth and bearing it.
She rolled her eyes and stifled a groan.
God I hate flying and not being behind the stick.
She had some control issues there; she’d be the first to admit that. But that was something to look into later.
Shane checked her chrono and grimaced. Only five hours to touchdown. Five hours to plan an op with implications that could stretch across all the known worlds.
In other words, it was a just a regular Tuesday around the Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas offices.
“The schematics look complete,” Lima said, staring at the three-dimensional plans. The old man had a way of taking control, even when no one had explicitly said he was the one in charge. He looked at Hale. “So how will you approach?”
Hale rubbed the beard on his chin, his mind working. “We take civilian transports from the air & space field into the city. We go in dressed in civvies, obviously. Hide our gear in luggage. Like travelers.”
“We’ll have to go in groups,” Gina added. “Too many of us at once will make the locals suspicious.”
“Agreed,” Anesu said. She was the acting leader of the Kushite detachment. All of them were Royal Guard, or well-trained operatives of the Kingdom’s Directorate of Intelligence.
Shane looked Anesu and her colleagues up and down. Anesu Chewasa was, officially, a holo ID-carrying member of the Kushite Press Corps. Not that you could tell.
Shane smiled. Some journalist, she thought.
Anesu looked like a lot of things, but ‘reporter’ wasn’t one of the first ones that sprang to mind.
“Where do we think they will be most likely to hit?” Lima asked the gathered group.
Gina leaned in, expanding the holo image with her hand. “They could go for the sublevels?” she suggested. She selected the sectors beneath the hotel, turning them from cold holographic blue to bright orange, before widening the view. “They’d do the most damage that wa
y. Take out the structural supports or the building’s energy generators and they’d bring the whole place down.”
“The sublevels are a likely target,” Lima said. “Especially given what we know about the power of the explosive devices Mr. Leblanc was known for creating.”
Shane focused in on the plans for the meeting rooms. “The meeting areas themselves are also a possibility,” she added. She touched the images of the conference areas one by one, highlighting them all. “They could take out the entire delegation that way. Not to mention a lot of innocent civilians.”
“Collateral damage,” Lash rumbled.
Shane nodded. “It would cause a mass panic, for sure. Maybe even cover their tracks as they escape?”
“That is a viable tactic,” Kris whispered, her ever-present cowl covering rows of snow-white braids and her obsidian skin.
“Those sound like the strongest possible scenarios,” Hale said, chewing. He finished his protein bar and pocketed the biodegradable wrapper. Shane noticed him grimace when he turned. The wound on his side was healing quickly, thanks to excellent medical care and nearly a full kilogram of synthetic flesh.
Lima looked at the scientist. “What about you, Mr. Mwangi? Any thoughts?”
“I. . . ummm. . . this is not my area of expertise, Mr. Lima.” Shemi pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “General Njoroge sent me for my knowledge of pulse technology, in hopes that I could help with the explosives. But I have very little military experience.”
“I see,” Lima replied, sounding none too happy. Shane couldn’t blame him. The last thing complication they needed on this op was babysitting duty for a scientist who’d never seen combat.
Shane took a closer look at the building’s diagram. The Grand Nebula hotel. An architect’s wet dream, the structure boasted clean lines, pristine angles, sweeping interior arches, and over two-hundred floors of rooms, suites, and conference centers. The Grand Nebula played host to conventions, gatherings, and any event paying customers in the known worlds cared to hold. It was a five-star intergalactic hotel, and an absolute pain in the ass to secure against a theoretical attack.