by John Ringo
“I got the easy recital. Same as you, Tommy, except I wait outside the restroom while you assist in the switch. Abort code?”
“Toledo,” they chimed.
“Right. Your PDA or AID calls Toledo, disappear and lie low for at least two days before returning to base or dropping the Bane Sidhe a cube, your best judgment which. We’re all seasoned operatives. If your best judgment says ‘abort’ somewhere along the line, call it. There’s no points for heroism in this business. Jay, it’s way out of line from her profile, but if Makepeace comes running up to the gate right at boarding and never sits down, just call Toledo. A switch that’s not clean would be worse than an abort, especially with this mission. All right. Let’s split up and move.” He grimaced at the muffin in his hand and paused by the door, apparently debating whether to toss it uneaten. He took another bite of it and walked out the door.
“What’s the matter, Granpa? Don’t you like corn? We have it so seldom,” she said, grinning.
“I can eat cornbread for every meal if I have to, you hellion. Even if the yankees do insist on putting sugar in it.”
* * *
Sunday morning, May 26
Cally’s dummy suitcase was a good match for the persona. Her ID said she was Irene Grzybowski. Irene was the kind of woman nobody would look at twice in a crowded area like an airport: maybe forty to fifty, dumpy figure, eyes on the ground most of the time, polite but not friendly to security. And nobody did. Nobody looked at her as she heaved the battered cloth suitcase, made out of fabric that looked like a college student’s sofa, onto the counter. Nobody looked at her as she walked through security with the all-plastic syringe of tranquilizer taped into the reinforced elastic under band of her sports bra, which did a good job of helping her look fat and lumpy rather than well-endowed. Nobody looked at her as she walked to gate S-six and went into the ladies’ room across from the departure lounge, taking up a natural-looking position in the second stall from the end. She had beaten Granpa and Tommy in getting here. She had not looked for Jay. It would have been bad tradecraft.
She took her PDA out of her purse and flipped it open, setting it on the top of the tissue dispenser. The buckley’s voice access was, of course, off. Should the abort code come in while the screen was off, the PDA was set to vibrate. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
She looked at the clock icon on the screen. Six-fifty-three. She had made good time. After sending Tommy her arrival message, getting the syringe out and ready, and brushing her hair, there was really nothing to do but hurry up and wait. The trick on this type of setup was to keep her attention focused on the PDA screen without her mind and eyes wandering off and without falling into a daze staring at the screen. Cally’s solution was to split the screen, with the small custom icons labeled “in motion” and “video” on the top half and an old logic game based on hunting for hidden mines on the bottom half.
At six-fifty-eight, the message icon on the control bar blinked at her. Tommy and Granpa were in place.
The blinking of the video icon caught her eye at seven-oh-five. She set it to play on the lower screen and had just caught her first glimpse of the target when the in-motion icon started blinking at her. Okay, time enough to watch the movie after I take the target. If she’s moving on her own, she needs to be here. Best to take her on her way out of the stall.
She breathed evenly as the door opened, all senses hyper-alert. Something was wrong. The tread was too heavy on the floor, and not a woman’s shoe. She tensed.
“Cally?” a voice whispered.
That could be Tommy. Or not. “Um… this restroom is occupied.”
“She bought a donut and went back to sit down. Reset and wait for him to send it again,” he said.
“Got it.” The voice was definitely Tommy. She heard him leave again as she tapped options on the screen, working quickly to reset everything so she’d know when the target left her seat again. It didn’t matter what the mission was, there was always something. Although I hope to God this is not another mission day from hell. Good grief, under the damn bed!
She watched the video, taking note of the target’s seat location and that she had a laptop computer with her. It made sense, since the assignment was clerical. Real screens were still the best option for minimizing eye-strain from all-day use.
As she waited, she could periodically hear apologetic male voices as Tommy and Granpa redirected a female traveler to the next nearest restroom. At seven-fourteen the in-motion icon blinked again.
She shut off and pocketed the PDA, palmed the syringe, and stood. As the door opened, she flushed just for verisimilitude and opened the stall door, going to the sink as the target came in the door looking down at her silks and swearing softly.
By the time Cally reached the sink, the other woman had grabbed a handful of paper towels and was rubbing at the large wet blotch. She didn’t even look up as the assassin slipped behind her and clapped a hand over her mouth, finding the right spot for a neck injection with the ease of long practice. Makepeace didn’t have time to struggle much before the strong drugs hit her system and she went limp, breathing smoothly and evenly as Cally lowered her to the floor.
You’re lucky. I get to let you live. She went to the door and opened it a crack, motioning Tommy inside with the cart. Granpa nodded shortly to her before turning to look back outward, watching for threats. As Tommy came through, she was back out of direct sight of the door, over by the sinks and already unfastening the top of the target’s gray silks.
“I’ll get her, you get out of those.” Tommy waved her away from the unconscious woman.
She quickly stripped to her panties, leaving the clothes neatly on the floor in the order they’d need for the other woman. She shrugged into the woman’s thankfully well-designed bra and the silks, finding enough in the woman’s purse to do a passable copy of her makeup, pinning the silver-blond hair in a knot at the base of her neck. Thank God she doesn’t wear nail polish. Having to match the shade on the go would have been annoying.
Socks and women’s low-quarters, which were thankfully not quite regulation — having added support insoles — and she was almost ready to go. The buckley on her PDA and the on-board storage had been sanitized by the best the night before and given a surface makeover to the make and model of the other woman’s. As far as it was concerned, she already was Captain Sinda Makepeace. The cube in the reader slot had the only sensitive information. She handed her PDA and Makepeace’s to Tommy and took over finishing dressing the target while he convinced the other PDA to surrender its files to hers. He opened a bottle of “cleaning fluid” and dropped the cube in, handing her back her PDA.
“Now remember, to access the transmitter, you need to go to your photopak icon, open it, select help, then transmitting a photo. The application will let you transmit anything on your PDA or in the cube slot,” he said.
She helped him clean up the scene quickly, getting the now nameless woman squared away under the trash. She had to work carefully to avoid further mussing the uniform. The wet patch would look bad enough until it dried. And it felt clammy. Ick. It probably won’t even be dry by the time we get up to the ship. I’m definitely going to need to stop in my quarters and change before I do anything else.
“See you on Titan.” She gripped his hand quickly and was gone.
Chapter Ten
Cally left the women’s room and walked past Gra — the other cleaner, wishing him a nice day. The purple vinyl seats and purple and oatmeal carpet of the departure lounge showed the influence of a decorating fad that had been current seven years ago. Makepeace had left the laptop next to her seat. Her eyes scanned the lounge for a few seconds. There it was, next to the clumsy bald man, bless his heart. He was looking at her, and she tugged her right ear gently before looking away, dropping the hand.
As she walked, her left hand came up and brushed at the side of her hair, as if she wasn’t used to wearing it up. The seat had empty seats on either side, even though the lou
nge was starting to fill up with outbound passengers. She sat down and opened up her laptop. Getting into that now while she had a few minutes was the first thing. The clumsy bald guy got up and walked away.
Booting it showed her it had an old operating system. Good. First thing to try is to see if it’ll boot from the cube reader. She powered it down and back up with a test cube. Nice. It didn’t fry it. Time to go for the cracker cube.
As she was rebooting again a guy came up and stopped by the chair next to hers, clearing his throat nervously. Not now, you loser. I am not in the mood for pick up attempts. Aha! Right to the cracker cube window.
“I — Is this seat taken?” he asked.
“Unless you can lick your own eyebrows, it is,” she snapped, using the cube utilities to reset the laptop’s password and file permissions.
To her great annoyance, he settled into the seat anyway and she had just turned her head to tell the pushy jerk off when he interrupted her.
“How do you think I do my hair?” he said.
Her mouth hung open for a minute before she snapped it shut, returning his salute a little dazedly. He was a slight man with straight dark hair. A lock of it looked like it would tend to fall down into his forehead. He had warm brown eyes you could fall right into, and he was way too young. But what really surprised her about him was that he was the kid shown in her briefings as General Beed’s aide. She kept the recognition out of her eyes with an effort.
“I’m sorry I was so crabby. I guess I’m a little nervous. Can we try that again? I’m Sinda Makepeace.” She offered her hand.
“Joshua Pryce. Is this your first time off Earth, ma’am?” His hand was warm and dry.
She realized abruptly that he still had her hand and that she was staring. She snatched her hand back, flushing. A blush? Me? What the hell is that all about? I haven’t blushed in years.
“Uh… why yes, it is. My assignment’s on Titan Base. I suppose I’m a little uncertain about flying in space. You know, all that space around you and no air to breathe.” She shuddered. “It kinda gives me the willies.”
“Your name sounds familiar.” His forehead wrinkled and he flipped open his PDA, pulling up a list. “Did you say your name was Sinda Makepeace, Captain?”
“Why, yes, I did,” she smiled, tilting her head at him curiously.
“I thought I’d seen the name before. We’ve got the same boss on Titan. I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up working in the same office, ma’am.” He pulled his eyes away from hers. For a second there it had seemed almost like he was staring into her soul.
“Oh, you’re working for General Beed, too?” she asked, smiling brightly.
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked at her earnestly, “Would — would it make you feel less nervous if I arranged to sit next to you on the flight up to the ship, ma’am?”
“The company would be very pleasant, Lieutenant Pryce.” She stretched slightly, straightening her back. Like those, do you? Dammit, girl, behave!
* * *
Sunday morning, May 26
The nature of Federation space travel was that most of the travel time between stars was spent in normal space, “sublight” to laymen, reaching the ley-lines or paths between stars where access to hyperspatial regions was much easier. While it was possible to access hyperspace from anywhere, it was much more power-intensive, maximum speed was less, and exit point was somewhat random. That would allow in-system jumps, but the potential for losses in a crowded environment like the vicinity of Titan Base was prohibitive. The upshot was that where it would take only about six months to get from Earth to one of the inhabited planets in a relatively nearby system, travel in-system to Titan Base took a good eight days, or more, by Federation courier ship. It was their good fortune that presently Earth and Saturn were on the same side of the Sun. At maximum separation, it was nearly a month’s voyage because of the need to detour around the Sun.
The Galactic Federation tried to keep enough ships in transit between Earth and Titan that there was a minimum of one flight a week. This was not out of any particular love for Earth or humans. On the contrary, humans, being the only carnivorous sophonts in the Federation, were generally regarded as useful barbarians. Their usefulness consisted primarily in their ability to throw the Posleen off of conquered bits of real estate that the Galactics wanted back. The frequency of the ships was more to ensure that Fleet and Fleet Strike could move critical personnel around as needed between larger troop shipments than anything else.
Fleet discouraged carry-on luggage on the shuttle. They preferred for anything that could shift around to be secured with the checked baggage. When Cally boarded with Sinda’s purse and laptop, the pilot at the door, a Fleet captain in black, gave her a rather cold look. Whether at the state of her uniform or at the not one but two loose articles she didn’t know. She responded with a sunny smile that shined out of her eyes, whispering over her shoulder to the lieutenant once they were past.
“Bless his heart, the captain looks as if he could have used another cup of coffee this morning,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Pryce tripped, whether over an uneven place in the floor or his own feet she wasn’t sure, but as he landed against her and used her shoulder to straighten himself, she got a whiff of clean male scent underlain with a hint of rut. Her nostrils flared as he apologized profusely. She told herself to ignore the slight clench of her belly.
He’s a baby. Remember the last one? The last thing you need on this mission is to give yourself away as a juv. Makepeace is not a juv. I’m twenty-three. Still, hands off the baby — no matter how good he smells.
The interior of the shuttle greatly resembled that of a small airliner, with the exception that the seat belts were more functional — five point restraints rather than the airlines’ pro-forma lap belts. Also, there was actual webbing overhead to strap in the few loose articles as needed, rather than overhead baggage compartments. The seats looked similar, although they were built to support the body for an hour or two, rather than a long flight. They did not recline, to the great relief of long-legged passengers. They did, however, have footrests at a convenient height to support Indowy personnel when the shuttle was used to transport them. Where first class would have been in an airliner, the shuttle had a few seats configured for Darhel physiques. The seat configuration and lighting was subtly different from that in the human section.
“Are there going to be Darhel on the shuttle flight up?” she asked the lieutenant.
“No. Why do you ask?” He looked over at her.
“Oh, I guess I’m just skinning my ignorance since it’s my first time off-planet. I saw the three Indowy in the back and thought if this was a mixed flight…” She trailed off.
“Oh. Well, there are a lot fewer Darhel than there are Indowy, ma’am. I’ve never seen them travel with humans. The Darhel, I mean. I’ve only seen one once, you know. And, well, with all the robes you couldn’t really see much,” he said.
* * *
Sunday, May 26, noon
If she expects the trip out to be one long parade of card games and movies, she’ll find out she’s mistaken. General James Stewart grinned at his reflection in the mirror of his shipboard quarters as he straightened the unfamiliar lieutenant’s insignia on his collar. Makepeace was definitely easy on the eyes. Probably had a problem with backaches, but it sure was in a good cause. Way too young — the only hardship working with her was going to be keeping his hands off. That shouldn’t be too tough, though. She was hardly going to be interested in a klutzy fuck-up lieutenant like Pryce.
Shit. Makepeace is easy on the eyes. And Beed is a slimy bastard. Pete would never have done this on purpose. If Vanderberg did have anything to do with this I’m gonna kill his ass. Nah. Pete wouldn’t do anything like that. He’d have been more likely to transfer her out if he’d known. Damn.
There were twenty-four hours of transmission time, along multiple frequencies, aboard ship — more than enough time for huge chunks of compr
essed and encrypted data to be transmitted, complete with error-checking, each day. Sure, there was a little over an hour of transmission lag, but that really only mattered with conversations, or their text equivalents.
What that meant in practice was that when they had reported aboard, the cube with the day’s work on it had made it to his quarters before his luggage.
The uniform of the day onboard ship was silks, and they didn’t wrinkle easily, so he didn’t actually need to change. He did want to give the captain long enough to get into a fresh set of silks, though. When he’d arrived in the departure lounge she’d needed a change of uniform, but a lieutenant wouldn’t have thought it was politic to ask why, or to even notice, so he hadn’t.
He spent what he thought would be an appropriate wait sorting through the morning’s files. Beed was not letting the grass grow under his feet, obviously. The past ten years of Titan’s criminal cases had been forwarded for “background material,” along with a large body of statistical data on the military and civilian personnel living on Titan and an annotated base map, including the carefully recorded observations of the CID personnel they were replacing — good parts of town, bad parts of town, the pimps, the pushers, where the working girls hung out, which gambling operations were where, which businesses were connected to which tong. The annotations read like an encyclopedia of general vice. It was so useful he had to doubt it was Beed’s idea.