by Thomas Webb
There were fewer passengers than Hale would have thought, given the time of evening and this crowded area of the city. The low volume was most likely due to the mass of curious onlookers on the streets above. The few passengers they did pass in their sweep were curled into the corners, huddled together in fear.
“They definitely came this way,” Kris said, surveying the frightened passengers as she moved alongside.
Hale didn’t reply, preferring to save his breath for what was coming next. Kris was right. Ramsey and his fighters must have scared the hell out of these people. A bunch of armed men and women storming through a public transport area tended to do that. Probably the same way he and his team were frightening them right now. The good guys, the bad guys. . . in this case, the citizens of Cetov 9 saw no difference between the two. Hale understood. It could never be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.
They picked up the pace, fast-clearing the train platform as they went. They moved past pure-white ceramic walls and holo ads hawking everything from the latest talent show vids to off-world wines. Up ahead, the tunnel broke right at a ninety-degree angle. Hale slowed, checking the turn and slicing out the impending corner like a three-dimensional pie. When he’d properly cleared the corner, Hale saw a row of thick, square stanchions stretching down the platform. His eyes narrowed.
Thirty meters away, Ramsey and two Separatists sprinted away. They bounded from column to column, each one covering the other’s movement.
One of them turned and spotted Hale. “Contact rear!” the Separatist shouted. Then the fighter’s pulse rifle went to work.
“Cover!” Hale yelled, ducking behind the nearest stanchion. Behind him Kris dove left, and the KRG’s squeezed in tight on a column several meters back.
Hale tensed as pulse rounds scored into the column. Fine slivers of duracrete exploded on impact, brushing his face and cheek. He felt the thick warmth of trickling blood, smelled the scent of scorched duracrete. One gloved hand he kept on his rifle. The other he used to wipe the blood away.
“Give it up Ramsey!” Hale shouted. “My people have already disarmed the explosives,” he bluffed. “It’s over for you! Let’s try and end this peacefully!”
Ramsey’s response was a withering hail of rifle fire. The energy rounds blasted into Hale’s cover, chewing away more of the duracrete.
Hale gnashed his teeth. Ok, he thought. If that’s how they want it.
The recon Marine darted out and fired off four shots in quick succession. Kris and the Kushite Royal Guardsmen followed his lead, alternating their fire and forcing Ramsey and his cohorts to keep their heads down. Hale moved to the next column, then sprang ahead to the next point of cover. As he shifted, he heard something. It began as a low hum, before gradually increasing in resonance, vibration, and volume.
Hale’s heart sank. Oh no.
A deafening whoosh and a rush of air signaled the incoming bullet train. The public transport shot into the station at five-hundred kilometers per hour, coming to a gentle stop on a super-compacted cushion of air. Hale snap-peeked out from the column, just long enough to register the satisfied grin crossing Ramsey’s face. In that same instant the doors of the bullet train shushed opened, and Hale’s worst fear came to life—hundreds of innocent citizens flooded what had, only seconds before, been a free-fire zone.
Hale stepped from behind the column, his sudden appearance and the sight of his weapon startling a couple walking by. He ignored them, his eyes darting across the space until he found what he’d hoped not to see. One of Ramsey’s comrades had taken only seconds to snatch a hostage—a young human woman, her eyes bulging in fear. The Separatist stood close behind her, holding her tight. The pose struck Hale as almost intimate, like a twisted perversion of a lover’s embrace.
Hale knew there had to be a pulse pistol to the young woman’s back. That was the only thing that would keep her in place like that, her body stiff with fright. The Separatist leaned down and said something into the woman’s ear. She nodded numbly. Ramsey walked up and tapped the man’s shoulder, pointing in the direction they would go. Hale followed where Ramsey indicated. At the end of the platform was a set of lifts leading back to the surface. Once there, Ramsey and his people would melt into the city and disappear. For the third time, the Separatist leader was poised to escape.
Hale preferred not to let that happen. But the young woman going with them as a hostage? He refused to let that happen.
“Kris!” Hale shouted. “Be ready!”
He registered her nod from his peripheral before he locked eyes with Ramsey. The Separatist smirked. He knew as well as Hale that the prior service Marine and his people would never make it through the crush of passengers in time to stop him from escaping. And he was right. So Hale did the only thing he could think to do.
He pointed his pulse rifle at the ceiling and fired.
The response was immediate. Bedlam ensued, with passengers running, screaming, and, exactly as he’d hoped, dropping to the floor. The crack of a suppressed Tauranian sniper rifle sounded close to his ear, the muffled noise amplified by the acoustics in the cavernous underground train station. A bright round of pulse energy snapped through the atmosphere, streaking above the passenger’s heads.
The round crackled through the air, just before burning a neat, cauterized hole just above the Separatist’s mouth. Kris’ round had punched through what was known as the “triangle of death,” severing the man’s spinal cord. His brain had instantly shut down, short-circuiting his nervous system. Without even the nanosecond required for the organ to register letting go, the Separatist dropped to the platform like a sack of potatoes, taking the hostage, screaming, along with him.
Shock, then rage, played across Ramsey’s new face. The Separatist leader snarled. Then he turned and fled again, wasting no more time in gunning for the nearest exit. Hale was after him in an instant, weaving and pushing his way through the panicked rush of evening travelers.
Kris caught up and easily paced him, ducking, weaving, and at times leaping through the herd of panicked train passengers. He’d have to remember to compliment her on her marksmanship later. Hale had himself been through the UN military sniper course, so he knew the extreme level of difficulty required to do what she’d just done. In saving that girl Kris had pulled of a damned good shot. What was more, she’d made it look easy.
They fought through crowd, racing up the moving stairs and paying no heed to the terrified looks of those descending past them. Hale burst out of the tunnel opening, emerging onto the overcrowded streets of Shangjai’s entertainment sector. The Shangjai nightlife was in full swing. A press of bodies in shining fabrics and glittering, synthetic cloth undulated, moving and shifting like a thing alive.
Hale scanned the faces of passerby. None looked to have a care in the world. They all seemed oblivious to both the earlier bombings and the commotion at the Grand Nebula, either not knowing or not caring about the far-reaching interstellar implications of the events playing out just a few blocks away.
Hale looked left and right, frantically searching the crowded nighttime streets for any sign of Ramsey. Despite his best efforts, he came up empty.
“Dammit!” Hale swore.
There were looks of surprise and startled cries elicited by the big man with the pulse rifle, dressed in body armor and accompanied by an armed Tauranian. Hale ignored them all.
After her own fruitless search, Kris slung her rifle behind her back. She drew her cowl above her head. “It would appear he has slipped us again, Trace Child of Hale.”
For a time, Hale didn’t speak. He stared at the packed streets and brightly-dressed people, all of them ready for an enjoyable night out. Ramsey had planned this. Knowing that he might need to escape by way of the tubes. Knowing that the partygoers jammed the streets in this section of the city at all hours of the night. He had to have planned it all.
“Yeah,” Hale conceded at last. “He’s gone. But it won’t happen again.”
The tinkling of the bell as he walked into the shop brought back memories. As a young case officer he’d often come to this restaurant. Sometimes for a bite to eat. Sometimes simply to clear his head. He found it fitting that Cynthia would choose it as their meet—her way of letting him know that she knew his habits, even back then.
He hadn’t been hungry before he arrived, but his mouth began to water, seemingly of its own volition. The delectable smell of sesame oil and frying meats did little to soothe his dark mood.
Zombie was still in the hospital, in critical condition and fighting for her life. Ramsey was in the wind, disappeared for the third time with hardly a trace. If Lima’s organization hadn’t been on the United Les Space radar before, they definitely were now. They’d made an enemy. A powerful one, and one they were still no closer to defeating. Having held so many others in the crosshairs before, being someone else’s target wasn’t a position Silvio Lima found himself enjoying.
Cynthia sat in the rear of the small shop, a cup of green chai steaming in front of her. Her eyes were focused on a holopad in her hand. She’d selected the seat right next to the kitchen, in a secluded booth tucked into the corner. It was once Silvio’s favorite seat, as a matter of fact. She’d chosen it for the same reasons he had all those years ago—your back to the wall, and an excellent line of sight to both the kitchen and the front door.
Lima recalled from memory that there was only one rear exit out of the small restaurant, and that it was the same back door where the owner took her deliveries. He’d have bet even money there were at least two UNIA shooters posted outside it. It was what he would have done in Cynthia’s place.
Lima checked the time. Almost an hour before the lunch rush. This time of day the place was near deserted. Two men sat at a table by the far wall. Gruff and out of place, they were almost certainly members of the Assistant Director’s security detail. Lima passed them without a word. A third person, perhaps a student, sat by herself. He almost missed her. She was dressed perfectly in that careful yet careless fashion that the young people in New York were so good at pulling off. She had her head buried in her comm device, just like they did. If it wasn’t for the barest hint of eye contact and an ever-so tiny shift toward the pulse pistol concealed in her stylishly-ripped jeans, he never would have made her.
Lima made a mental note to get the young woman’s name as he slid into the booth across from Cynthia. He glanced over his shoulder at the young operative who’d blended in so well. Cynthia’s people were getting better. He was glad for that, because his back was to the door and he’d have to trust her security team to watch it. As for the young operative? He wasn’t above poaching talent from the agency, and he was always on the lookout for gifted people to join his own organization.
“That was an outstanding job you and your people did on Cetov 9,” Cynthia said. She kept her eyes glued to her holopad. “I knew you were top-notch back when you worked for me, but damn if you don’t keep proving me right. You and your people. My compliment goes double for them.”
Lima nodded, suppressing his anger. “Thank you,” he said.
The biggest part of what she could have mentioned she’d left unspoken. How the most advantageous thing about his firm was the way they allowed the UNIA the deniability they so desperately needed, and how it had happened this time at the expense of a teammate.
“And there’s more,” Cynthia said. She looked up, hardly able to contain her grin. “The Kushites have agreed to a formal limited partnership with the United Nations.”
“Hmmm,” Lima said. “I am happy to hear that.”
Cynthia seemed genuinely surprised at his lack of enthusiasm. “Well . . . it’s not a full membership, mind you—but it’s certainly a step in the right direction. And it’s a coup for my department. Don’t worry,” she added quickly. “I’ll see that you’re rewarded for your part in bringing them to the table.”
“The UN should prepare itself for the eventuality that the Kingdom may never accept full membership,” Lima replied. “The Kushites have remained strong for several centuries by governing themselves. Maintaining neutrality seems to have worked very much in their favor. Making an outright enemy of the Separatists may be more of a headache than they care to acquire.”
“Not that they won’t acquire that headache anyway,” Cynthia pointed out. “Eventually. Once the rest of the Separatist factions find out the Kingdom allowed the UNIA to operate a complete black site prison right inside its borders? I’d assume all bets will be off.”
“A good point,” Lima conceded. “A new crop of angry Outer Colonies fighters could cause the Kingdom problems. But only if they can get passed the Kushite tech.”
“That’s a pretty big ‘if,’” Cynthia said.
“A big if,” Silvio said, nodding in agreement.
Cynthia eyed him from across the table. “Why the sour face, Silvio? This is good news about the Kingdom. It’ll be a boon for the both of us.” Her eyes narrowed. “You going to tell me what’s eating you?”
Lima let the silence hang as he collected his thoughts. The restaurant door opened. He turned to see a pair of actual customers walk in. Two Banites, recognizable by their smoke-gray skin and distinctive pear-shaped heads, hoping to get a table for an early lunch. The tinkling of the bell as they entered was accompanied by the singing of the birds along the sidewalk outside. The pleasant song of the Velusian red sparrow, an invasive species that had become a welcome sight and sound in New York’s streets. The two off-worlders who’d just entered were settled in and reading their menus before Silvio spoke again.
“Do you not think it is time we addressed the one-hundred ton Salusian land sloth in the room?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Cynthia said. To her credit, she looked him straight in the eye as she lied.
Lima’s mouth set in a hard line. “Cynthia.”
“Alright,” Cynthia conceded. “Bullshitting you was at least worth a shot.” She set her holopad down. “So ULS,” she sighed. “I figured you might get around to asking about them.”
“Yes,” Lima snapped. “United Les Space. The Separatists were the ones pulling the triggers and planting the explosives, but ULS has been running the show the entire time.”
Cynthia Brentforth took a demure sip of her tea. “Pretty slick how the media only heard about a ‘small fire’ in the Grand Nebula. Made for a good reason to evacuate the place.”
Lima held his tongue. He’d read his team’s After Action Reports. None of it had made the UN or Allied Planets news feeds. The distraction bombings had dominated the news cycle for several days, but eventually faded away. Not even the Cetovian local media had run a story on the events at the Grand Nebula. There was no mention anywhere of the explosives underneath the hotel, or of an incident in the train tubes beneath the city.
Silvio decide to see where Cynthia would go with this. He folded his arms and waited for his old boss to come clean. The two spies watched each other for some time. A waiter approached them, then took one look at the intense staring contest before turning around without so much as a word.
Finally Cynthia gave in. “What is it you’re expecting to get out of this, Silvio?”
Lima clenched his fists. “One of my people was almost killed!” he said, louder than he’d intended.
Even now Gina Romero was in a Sao Paulo hospital, critically injured and fighting to recover from a severe head wound and a shoulder through-and-through. Half a centimeter to the right on that head shot and she’d have been beyond anyone’s help.
The heads of all three of Cynthia’s security detail turned at the sound of Lima’s voice. The huge, shimmering black eyes of the Banites grew even wider with surprise. The security teams made as if they would leave their seats, but a subtle shake of the head from Cynthia was all the order needed for them to stand down.
“I get it,” Cynthia said. “You’re upset. And you have a right to be. I’m sorry about what happened to Romero. But you
know as well as I do that there are certain risks that come with the job.”
“Risks that should have been mitigated,” Lima shot back. “If only we would have had the right backup.”
“We needed deniability,” Cynthia argued.
“The UNIA could have maintained that deniability with ease. Even with a few shooters from Special Activities.”
Cynthia’s eyes grew hard. “What do you think this is, Silvio? We . . . which is to say I . . . hired you for a specific job. I needed someone who was expendable, and who would keep our noses clean on this. You know how these things work. If you’re a liability, you get left behind. End of story. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft since you left the company?”
“Of course not,” Lima fired back. “It is just that I . . . I. . . “
Suddenly he was at a loss for words. He would never have hesitated to cut an asset loose before. If someone he was working with went down on an op, it was just a cost of doing business. He wouldn’t have lost a wink of sleep over it in the old days. But now he had a group that he’d put together on his own. One he’d built from the ground up. Maybe Cynthia had a point? Maybe he was getting too close?
“Ok Silvio,” she said. “I can see I’ve hit a sore spot. And that’s maybe something for you to consider down the road. But I’m dealing with the here and now. So I ask you again—what is it that you want?”
“What I want,” Lima said, this time not quite as loudly. “Is the same thing my people want.”
“And that is?”
“Payback.”
Cynthia gave another shake of her head, her steel-gray bob swishing from side to side. “No can do. I’ve told you. United Les Space is officially off limits. They’ve managed to weasel their way into too many big rooms, and they’ve greased too many powerful palms. They have too many astro golf buddies in the governments of all the major Earth nations, and half the governments of the Planetary Alliance.” She looked away, seemingly envious of the Banites Lima could hear ordering their meal. “As much as I’d like to let slip the UNIA dogs of war, United Les Space is just too hot to touch.”