by James Walker
“I can handle that,” Pierson said. “We've got a handful of holo-disguises and fraudulent identities to match. I'm not confident that they'd hold up inside the Golden Ward, but anywhere else, they'll suffice.”
“Perfect,” Childers said. “Once I've arranged a rendezvous with the professor, I'll leave the escort to you.”
“The sooner the better,” Guntar growled. “We've already wasted too much time screwing around with this thing.”
“I'm sorry,” Esther said. She glanced back at the Cage. “I've never seen such sophisticated security programs. Whatever they've got locked up in there, they were determined to keep it that way. It makes me wonder whether their goal is to keep us out.” She turned and looked back at the officers, her expression dark. “Or to keep whatever's inside in.”
*
Omicron was sprawled across the bed in his assigned quarters. He was dressed in civilian clothes, wearing ratty pants and a loose-fitting shirt with a stylized skull emblem. An interface visor was wrapped around his eyes, its cable snaking off the bed into a wall outlet, linking him with the palatial estate's internal network.
The P.S.A. had been combing the outer districts for two weeks. So far, they had turned up nothing. Neither had the forces stationed at the other exit points from the transcontinental tunnel. It seemed inconceivable that the rebels could have slipped through the net. That meant they had to be in one of the cities connected to the tunnel. Hongpan remained the most likely choice.
Omicron had grown frustrated from leaving the search in the hands of the P.S.A. He had obtained authorization to access their network, so he had taken it upon himself to track their efforts. He had also combed through old records of rebel activity, as well as reports and analyses by the agency's criminal and insurgency experts. He had even gotten access to the urban planning commission's database and pored through incomplete maps of the Undercity along with fuzzy charts generated by geo-scanners.
By poring over all this data, he had begun to notice some patterns and thought of a few ways that the P.S.A. might conduct their search more efficiently. He had presented some of his ideas to the officers in charge of the operation, but they had rebuffed him.
Now his patience was at an end. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
He pulled off his visor and sat up straight. After a moment's consideration, he pulled his comm out of his pants pocket and input Lambda's number.
After a few rings, Lambda picked up. Even being in the same compound and with repeaters to strengthen the signal, the silence particles caused the image to crackle with static. She was wearing her dress uniform, looking impeccable as usual. The greenery in the background suggested that she was walking through the gardens.
“What's going on?” she asked. “Has the P.S.A. found signs of the rebels?”
“Are you kidding?” Omicron replied. “They couldn't find a mother in a maternity ward.”
There was a slight pause before Lambda said, “Then what business did you have?”
“I'm going crazy sitting with my thumb up my ass waiting for those lollygaggers to do their job,” Omicron said. “I've been sifting through all the info sitting around in their databases and doing some analysis. I've come up with a few ideas. I shared what I found with the pizza REMFs, but they blew me off.”
“I'm sure they have plenty of their own analysts who've had a lot more time to study the data,” Lambda said. “I doubt you could tell them anything they don't already know.”
“Don't give me that crap,” Omicron snapped. “If you'd pay attention to what's going on instead of playing in the garden, you'd see that these morons with their ten thousand departments can't coordinate worth shit. I'm telling you, I'm on to something. Since the brass won't listen to me, I'm gonna check it out for myself. But the pizza force is as bad at keeping the peace as they are at finding terrorists, so everything outside the central district is a frigging warzone. I need someone I can trust to watch my back.”
Lambda looked surprised. “You're saying you trust me?”
“Well, no shit,” Omicron said, irritated. “We're both Chi Strain, aren't we? You're the only person in this whole oversized resort who wouldn't slow me down. I'd feel better checking out this hellhole knowing that you've got my back. You want to come along or what?”
There was another pause. “I guess so,” Lambda said finally. “It does sound better than just waiting for word from the P.S.A.”
Omicron grinned. “That's more like it. But change into your civvies first. Why are you wandering around in your uniform while you're off-duty, anyway? And bring some firepower. Those gangster wipes don't screw around.”
“Understood.”
Omicron flipped off his comm. “For Saris' sake, when is that chick gonna take the stick out of her ass?” he wondered aloud.
He stuffed the comm back into his pocket, then grabbed a large pistol and a shoulder holster off the dresser and strapped them on. He donned a light jacket and glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror. The bulge in his jacket made it obvious that he was carrying a weapon. He shrugged, stepped out of his room, and made his way into the atrium.
Lambda arrived after about ten minutes. She had changed into a black jacket, crimson scarf, boots, and tight-fitting black pants, with her hair tied up in a loose ponytail. The difference from her usual appearance was striking, although the burn scar covering one half of her face partially ruined the effect.
Omicron stared in momentary surprise, then recovered and asked, “You packing?”
Lambda held her jacket open, revealing a slender pistol tucked into a shoulder holster, along with several spare magazines.
Omicron cocked an eyebrow. “What's with the peashooter?”
“It's standard issue,” Lambda replied.
Omicron sighed. “You just have to do everything by the book. Oh, well. Put a round between the eyes and I guess it doesn't matter what caliber the bullet is.”
“It's easier to conceal, as well.” Lambda eyed the bulge in Omicron's jacket.
“Whatever.” Omicron jammed his hands in his pockets and started for the exit. “Come on, let's go.”
As they neared the front door, they passed Hans, the P.S.A. agent who had taken a swing at Omicron on the day of their arrival, dressed in civvies. Hans looked at the pair in surprise and called after them.
“Well, look at the mighty augments, all dressed up and ready to hit the town. You two on a date or something? I thought the military frowned on that sort of thing.”
Omicron stopped and glared at Hans over his shoulder. “Dumbass. Since you're so incompetent, we're going to do your job for you.”
Hans frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We're tired of waiting for your slow asses to find the rebels,” Omicron said. “We're heading for the outer district to do a little investigating of our own.”
Hans' frown transformed into a smirk. “Oh, really. A couple of outsiders to the biggest city on Chalice think they're going to flush out a rebel group that's managed to evade nearly 10,000 security officers for years?”
Omicron wagged his finger at Hans. “That's the problem. There's so many of you, you can't bend over without planting your face in some other idiot's backside.” He gestured to Lambda. “Come on, let's blow this ice cream stand.”
“Hold on a second,” Hans called.
Omicron stopped a second time and shot a menacing grimace at Hans. “What is it? We're in a hurry.”
“It's pretty dangerous in the outer district,” Hans said. “People get killed out there all the time. Even police officers.”
“I know that already.” Omicron opened his jacket to reveal the monstrous pistol underneath. “That's why we're taking these.”
“Two people with pistols isn't enough protection out there,” Hans said. “Even if you are augments.”
“What, are you trying to talk us out of going?” Omicron said in exasperation. “No wonder Pizza Force never gets anything done, pussyfooting around
like this.”
“That's not what I meant,” Hans said. “Some of my friends and I are off-duty. We'll come with you. The gangs will be more reluctant to attack ten armed people than two.”
Omicron's face grew suspicious. “What's your angle?”
Hans returned Omicron's suspicion with a devious smile. “Well, there's a pretty bonus waiting for whoever finds those rebels of yours. If you think you've got some kind of lead, it might be worth checking out. It's not like our boys have been doing so hot on their own, as you pointed out.”
“It might be wise to accept his offer,” Lambda interjected. “As he said, there's safety in numbers.”
“Fine,” Omicron conceded. “They might be useful for soaking up bullets while you and I take out the bad guys.”
“Great,” Hans said. “Give me a few minutes to round up the crew.”
Several minutes later, Hans returned with seven companions, all in civilian clothes and bearing sidearms. He led the others outside, toward the garage near the villa's front gate.
“We'll take a couple of police cruisers,” he said. “Hell of a lot more efficient than public transportation, and as an added bonus, bullet-proof windows and armor plating.”
“Is that all right?” Lambda asked. “When you're off-duty, I mean.”
“Just say you're appropriating them,” Hans replied. “You're Spacy officers. Who's going to say no to you?”
“We don't have that kind of authority,” Lambda objected.
“Just say you do,” Hans said. “Nobody will know the difference.”
The guard by the entrance nodded the group inside, where they found a fleet of P.S.A. vehicles waiting for them. They climbed inside two of the cruisers, with five agents taking one vehicle while the other three, plus Omicron and Lambda, took the other. The augments climbed in the back while Hans took the driver's seat. The console accepted Hans' biometric data and the vehicle rumbled to life. Hans maneuvered the car to the exit and stopped at the guard post.
“You're not in uniform,” the guard observed. “You on some kind of official business?”
Omicron dug out his Spacy identification and passed it up to Hans. Hans handed it to the guard while Omicron said, “Spacy business. We're appropriating these vehicles on a matter of colonial security.”
“Oh, so you're with that Spacy group that's staying here,” the guard said. “I've heard about you. Hang on, let me clear this with my superiors.”
The guard entered some commands into his console, looking between the screen and Omicron's I.D. card, then got out his comm and had a brief conversation. When it was concluded, he handed the card back to Hans, who passed it back to Omicron.
“You're free to go,” the guard said.
“Thank you much,” Hans replied, and guided the car out onto the street as soon as the gate opened.
“See?” He dug a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, slid them on his face, and glanced at the augments in the rear-view mirror. “Told you it would work.”
“Pretty smooth, pizza boy,” Omicron replied. “Maybe you're not as dumb as I thought.”
The only reply Hans gave was a sly smile.
28
The rhythmic clap of boots on hard flooring echoed through the cavern as the Thunderbirds exosuit squadron ran laps through the dead climate control machinery. The sound of his own strained gasps filled Vic's ears as he straggled behind the rest of the squadron. When Captain Tinubu called a halt, Vic stumbled and bent over gasping, grateful for a reprieve at last.
“That's enough for today,” Tinubu called. “Good work, team. Take the rest of the day off.”
As the rest of the squadron broke up, Vic remained where he was, struggling to regain his breath. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto the floor.
The training was living up to Tinubu's promises of its difficulty. Except for a few sessions to familiarize himself with the idiosyncrasies of military exosuits, Vic had spent relatively little time in the simulator. Instead, the bulk of his training had focused on building up his strength and stamina and learning the peculiarities of SLIC culture. Although more relaxed than a formal military, the rebellion still enforced stricter discipline than civilian life and fostered unit cohesion as a prime virtue. For a loner like Vic, this latter characteristic required significant adjustment.
“Hey there, rookie. Looking like Gainar Falls again, I see.”
Vic looked up and saw Cena, holding out a rag for him. He accepted the offering and wiped off his face, then handed it back.
Cena had been chosen to personally oversee much of Vic's training. She had proven to be not only in much better shape than he was, but also a better shot and capable of trouncing him in hand-to-hand combat. For the first couple of days, Vic had despaired that he did not possess even basic skills that other soldiers took for granted; but after this initial shock, he had thrown himself into his training with zeal. Cena had turned out to be an effective instructor, particularly in her encyclopedic knowledge of weaponry. Her delight in all manner of firearms bordered on fetishism, but Vic could not deny that his handling and knowledge of weapons was improving by leaps and bounds under her tutelage, as well as his proficiency in unarmed combat.
“Congratulations on surviving another day in hell,” Cena said. “Got any plans for the rest of the day?”
“Only thing I care about right now,” Vic wheezed, “is taking a shower.”
Cena sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Good idea. You reek to high heaven.”
“I'm pretty sure that's yourself you're smelling.”
“OK, so it's both of us.” Cena turned and started for the exit, then called over her shoulder, “Let me know if you want some extra practice later. I still haven't shown you our heavy machine guns.”
Vic followed her out of the climate control cavern and into the plaza where the Greenwings had moved their mobile base to be closer to the Cage. They made their way to the modular barracks and stepped inside. Vic nearly stumbled into Cena as she stopped and let out a cry of outrage.
“What the hell is this?”
Vic peered over her shoulder and saw that someone had stuck a new poster to the wall, featuring a snapshot of Cena's comically dismayed expression from when the building had collapsed under her exosuit during the simulated match against Vic. The words “Thunderbirds Top Gun” had been scrawled on the corner of the poster in pink marker along with a sloppily-drawn heart.
Vic tried to stifle a laugh and failed. “It's perfect. They really captured your good side with that one, Sergeant.”
Cena glared daggers at Vic, then ripped the poster off the wall and crumpled it up. “Who's responsible for this?” she called into the barracks. “Come on out so I can kick your ass!”
A voice from the entrance asked, “Am I interrupting something?”
Vic and Cena spun around to see Pierson standing in the entrance, his expression as usual hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. Both of them stood at attention and saluted, Cena's face flushing red. The crumpled poster dropped from her hand and rolled until it came to rest at Pierson's feet.
“Sir,” Cena said. “Just cleaning some trash off the walls of the barracks, sir.”
Pierson bent over, grabbed the crumpled poster, and straightened up. He smoothed the poster out and stared at it for several seconds. Although he wasn't sure, Vic thought he saw the corners of Pierson's mouth twitch, then he crumpled the poster back up and tossed it to Cena.
“Be sure to dispose of that properly, Sergeant.”
Cena caught the poster and saluted again. “Yes, sir.”
Pierson placed one hand on his hip and regarded Vic and Cena. “Looks like you've been training hard, Corporal,” he observed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Think you're up for another infiltration mission?” Pierson asked. “We've got another job that will require penetrating deep into enemy territory with our disguises. I could use you on the team, if you're not too worn out.”
�
��I could use a short rest,” Vic replied.
“We leave in an hour,” Pierson said. “Think you can be ready by then?”
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, yes sir,” Vic said. “Will Dr. Klein and Sergeant Harper be accompanying us again?”
“Harper will, but Dr. Klein is occupied with the Cage. Besides, we won't need any technical expertise on this mission. Instead, we could use someone who's familiar with the area and has plenty of combat experience. In fact...” Pierson looked at Cena. “Sergeant Northwood, you would make the perfect replacement for Dr. Klein.”
“Me, sir?” Cena said in surprise. “What's the mission?”
“We're providing escort for a cryptography expert who can hopefully assist us with breaking the security on the Cage,” Pierson explained. “He refuses to enter the slums without protection. We're going to meet up with him just outside the Golden Ward and take him back to base.”
“It would be an honor to go on a mission under your command, Major,” Cena said.
“The team is settled, then. Meet at the lift at 3200 hours. Come dressed in civvies, but bring a concealed weapon with you.” With that, Pierson left.
Cena beamed. “I can't believe I get to go on a mission with the legendary Pierson Cutter.” She looked at Vic. “What's he like? As a commander, I mean.”
“What's he like?” Vic had never considered the question before. “Well, he's very calm and controlled. Even when things go wrong, it seems like he always has a plan. And he's the only pilot I've seen who's able to fight on par with the augments. He always seems a little aloof, though.”
“A good commander should be a little aloof,” Cena replied. “You can't get too close to the troops. It breaks that sense of respect. You know?”
“I know,” Vic said, “but it's a little different from that. It's almost like he's following a different plan. Something bigger than the rebellion. I don't know. I probably have no idea what I'm talking about.”