Ardent Red

by Harry Schofield

  Always straight to the point, wanting to get the pleasantries out of the way first. Frost was beginning to like this guy already.

  "As it happens, you weren't the first to welcome us here," Bridger gave a brusque introduction. "One of my soldiers was 'welcomed' by some of yours. I do believe the non-commissioned officer of that particular outfit earned himself a broken nose for his efforts."

  "I'll see to it that the security chief of this town disciplines these rough-riders in due course," Grumman assured his guest. "Now what is it that brings you all the way out here from Ceres?"

  "Sparrow," Frost announced.

  Grumman's expression remained entirely unchanged, though Frost could sight the deadly sincerity in his spare organic eye in an instant.

  "I was told to expect you," he announced. "I presume you're here for the data key?"

  "You presume right," Frost answered him. "We need to get it as soon as possible."

  "I'm afraid 'as soon as possible' will be Tuesday evening at best," Grumman enunciated. "Sparrow's little bird tells me he can't get the key to you earlier than the reception I'm hosting on the twenty-sixth. Considering what happened in Port Royal, I'd say he's right to be concerned. Sokolova's dog clearly knows where the keys are stored, what the security measures are and he's got more than enough levies at his disposal to go and get them. For that reason, the agent obviously doesn't want to use the data vault there as a meeting place to exchange the Ardent Red key."

  "And I don't blame him," Frost stated. "So I assume the plan is for the agent to use this reception to hand over the data key to us in secret, and then we get out with it when the Hound isn't looking."

  "That's the gist of it," Grumman stated.

  "And how will we know who we're looking for?" Bridger asked.

  "I'm told the agent will approach one of you at the reception, most probably Miss Bridger here, and strike up a conversation about travel," explained Grumman. "Once he does, make sure you don't leave earlier than the end of the reception, or at least fabricate some excuse if you absolutely have to leave sooner. I've got good reason to believe that the Hound may have already sent scouts throughout the Belt to look for the rest of the keys, and the last thing we want to do is alert them to the key's presence on this planetoid. An alert that will without a doubt lead to an attack similar in calibre to the one that recently struck your own town."

  "I will instruct my soldiers to be mindful of that," Frost acknowledged. "Until we leave, it's safe to presume nobody will be safe, or that anyone not immediately involved in this mission can be entirely trusted. I will make a point of impressing upon my companions the importance of discretion throughout the course of the mission."

  ~

  "So how did it go?" White asked, pocketing the tablet she had brought along with her at the moment Frost and Bridger left the office.

  "Great news for Morgenstern," Frost mentioned before setting his gaze on the aforementioned soldier. "We're all going to a black-tie reception on Tuesday."

  "You what?!" Morgenstern's face dropped. "Please tell me you're not serious!"

  "I'm afraid so," Frost smiled. "It'll be fun!"

  "Explain to me how the hell it's going to be fun!" Morgenstern continued to complain. "Black-tie events are always so mind-numbingly boring!"

  "You'll be able to get wasted there," Frost stated. The announcement led the soldier being addressed to calm down with immediate effect, coupled with the knowledge of alcohol on offer almost always served as a means to calm her down.

  "Excuse me – what?!" Bridger looked at Frost as if he had grown a second head. "You're encouraging your soldier to get drunk at an important function, on a mission like this?!"

  "Didn't Governor Grumman say we might need a ticket out of there?" the captain turned to her with a stern look on his face.

  Bridger was about to continue her protest, when she all of a sudden came to realise what Frost's plan was regarding Morgenstern.

  "Oh..." she muttered. "I see. I trust you'll all be making your way back to my ship?"

  "I've booked hotel rooms for us all online, actually," White announced with a smile on her face. "You even get a free luxury penthouse with the Evil Corporate Stooge's Discount they have here!"

  "How did you-?" Bridger didn't even register the insulting remark, so dumbfounded she was at the speed at which Frost's soldiers operated. Then she was directed to the grizzled captain...

  "Nobody gets to fart around on this job," Frost began to explain. "The key part to succeeding in any kind of dangerous mission is to do your damnedest to stay ahead of everyone else. Even your own companions – that being especially true if you're the leader of those companions."

  "I see..." Bridger found scant fault in Frost's logic. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to send a call. I shall presume to meet you at ... what hotel was it?"

  "The Armstrong, on Twenty-fourth Street," White explained.

  "Right..."

  ~

  Monday, 25 April.

  LOCATION: Washington, District of Columbia.

  United States of America, United Federation of Earth, Core Space

  "FUCK!" President Tureau's hand cracked the holographic display with a tonitruous crash, accompanying his furious curse.

  "We've lost the data key you posted on Ganymede!" the president bellowed. "Damn it Sparrow, you told me this Frost guy would get the job done! Why the hell is he in New Seattle while the Hound of Sokolova's just snatched another Ardent Red piece in his jaws?!"

  Diana Sparrow herself was seated at the opposite end of the table, with five men in black covering her flanks. Her ever faithful companion Winchester remained stood behind her, himself flanked by two MI5 operatives. They were presently housed within the FIA headquarters in Washington, built on the site of its twenty-first century predecessor whose purpose became redundant when the United Federation of Earth assimilated its client states' intelligence services under a single command – Sparrow's command.

  "Panicking is quite unnecessary here, mister President," she enunciated in her quotidian calmness. "The beauty of Ardent Red is that each component cannot function without codes encrypted within another piece. This layer of security operates on exactly the same principle as very old video games designed for personal computers. It was common practice for the files for the game to be stored on separate CD disks – in similar fashion, each of the files necessary for Ardent Red are stored on separate data keys. The Hound may have taken another key, but if any one of the pieces to the weapon are out of his hands, it is completely useless to him."

  "But now that he has all but one piece, he only needs to go to Hygiea and take out Frost!" Tureau would not relent. "Your magic man has, what, three corporate mercenaries at his side? How many levies does the Hound have? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? And how many more can he get from the Broken Angel?!"

  "Frost also has the blessing of former Colonel Maxwell Grumman and his own outfit of mercenaries to ensure that the transaction goes according to plan," said Sparrow. "Grumman may have turned corporate, but he is both meticulous and reliable. He will have no doubt anticipated the possibility of the Hound making his way to Hygiea."

  "So did Kane, who I do believe was also 'meticulous and reliable' in your words," one of the generals flanking the president addressed the spymistress. "And yet meticulousness and reliability did little to stop the Hound from taking the key under his watch. "

  "Rest with assurances, gentlemen, that this unfortunate series of events regarding the Hound and his successes are all part of a wider plan," Sparrow stated. "If said plan comes to fruition, then I shall soon be able to personally present you the Hound's toothed helmet. Or his head on a plate, should such tickle your tastes."

  "These setbacks are part of a plan?" Tureau grumbled with disbelief. "What plan is that – to lose the confidence of the Independent Systems League when we need their help now more than ever?"

  "We need the help of the Independent Systems League – that would be why you're still b
uilding the Ark despite their rather vehement condemnation of that particular vanity project." A smile started to creep up the spymistress' cheeks.

  "The Ark Project is a matter of pride to the people of Earth," the president protested. "To suddenly call it off would undermine our prestige in the heliopolitical sphere!"

  One part of a laugh escaped from Sparrow's mouth. "So what you are telling me, mister President, is that you're unwilling to swallow your own pride in order to lure some of the most dangerous men and women alive into a trap where we are all but guaranteed to catch them and kill them?"

  "Watch your tongue, director..." Tureau attempted to scold Sparrow, only for her to complete the rest of her laugh.

  "Michael, please." Now Sparrow's amusement was genuine. "Don't embarrass yourself. You and I are both perfectly aware that I serve the people of Earth, not an easily replaceable career politician."

  "Career politician?!" Tureau restrained his temper no longer, jumping forth from his seat. "You wouldn't be where you are without my help or that of your powerful fa-"

  "Nah-ah-ah," Sparrow wagged her finger in a playful tone. "You yourself have commended my ability to make myself into a somebody without the patronage of my father. In public, I might add. To go back on your word, in front of your own generals no less, would make you look both weak and deceitful."

  Tureau was about to bellow an additional eruption of fire at the snarky spymistress, when all of a sudden her virescent eyes flashed like a knife blade and her derisive smirk contorted into a poisonous scowl. The generals at Tureau's side, all soldiers hardened in the kiln of battle, widened their eyes at such a gesture. Even Winchester raised his eyebrow as Sparrow clasped her hands together on the table, her ironclad gaze fused to the president.

  "I am mere months away from closing the net around the Hound, Sokolova and Strasser," her flanged voice enunciated. "If and when I do, whatever vicious ambitions they have to threaten the cradle of man will be all but gone in a burst of fire and smoke. What's more, I fully intend to do so without so much as a plaque in my name to honour my efforts. That plaque, I believe, will go to you, and when it does, there is no question that you will get your second term. But if I am to achieve that, I will need the full, unconditional cooperation of your country and the men who make it run. If you cannot give me a full guarantee that you can manage that without bursting into one of your trademark social media rants, then perhaps Anthony Locke will."

  To this, Tureau had nothing more to say, a matter that his defusing face rendered with crystalline clarity.

  "Right..." he stated, his defeat by the spymistress all but total as he returned to his seat. "You and your agency will have your guarantee of cooperation, Miss Sparrow."

  "Thank you, mister President." The gentle, nonchalant, ever so smug smile returned to Sparrow's countenance. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

  ~

  The grin on Sparrow's face persisted even after she and Winchester exited the briefing room, having completed their agenda for the meeting.

  "Do you realise what you've just done?" Winchester asked with a smile of his own.

  "My job?" Sparrow stated, feigning obliviousness.

  "You just sent the President of the United States to bed without his supper," he pointed out. "The most powerful man on Earth."

  "Do you seriously believe that a popular mandate is all that gives a man power?" Sparrow queried. "No, power is a measurement of wisdom, capability and confidence."

  "I disagree," Winchester opined. "I'm more inclined to say that power is a blend of consent and consequence."

  "I see where our friend Frost got it from," Sparrow stated by way of acknowledgement.

  "You think he learned everything he knows just from boot camp?" Winchester smirked.

  "Experience would have been my second guess," said Sparrow.

  Upon exiting the headquarters through the glass sliding door, a black hover limousine awaited them, with two unusual soldiers clad in dark, near black grey armour standing guard beside it. Their only identifying markers were a Sparrow Corporation bird emblem on their breastplates and a flaming skull on their shoulder patches. Pacing up and down beside the car was a bald Hispanic man in a lab coat, brooding features marking his face as each resounding footstep marked his path. His restless face darted all over the place to begin with, but as his sea green eyes settled on the two spymasters making their way down the stairs towards him, his expression lit up.

  "If it isn't Ignatio Mendoza," Sparrow addressed the scientistic individual ahead of them.

  "You're Octavius Sparrow's geneticist," Winchester recognised the fellow in a heartbeat, hand extended to shake. "I do believe you also go by the titles 'The Man Who Cured Cancer' and 'The Father of Gene-Tailoring'."

  "Your kind words are most appreciated..." Mendoza nodded his head and greeted the Brit, his English embellished by his gentle Spanish voice. "It is always a pleasure to be of service to my fellow man!"

  "And how goes your latest project, doctor?" Sparrow asked him with an eager look.

  "Why don't you ask them, ma'am?" Mendoza gestured to the guards, still stood at ease by the car and awaiting whatever orders their commanders had in mind for them.

  Winchester's curious gaze settled upon these two soldiers. Their blocky weapons, stamped with the Sparrow Corporation's bird emblem, stood almost a metre and a half tall, far larger than the average assault rifle. At first glance one could presume them to be large plasmacasters, if they were to pay attention to the yellow and black striped power pack at the rear of the weapon. The barrel, however, was far too thin for a plasmacaster, and certainly so for a laser rifle which needed to accommodate a series of focusing lenses. The barrel seemed too small for even a conventional rifle; its width, Winchester could judge, was a mere three millimetres. The absence of a magazine further precluded it from being some electromagnetic gun.

  The soldier that wielded this uncanny war machine was another source of Winchester's curiosity. He bore no exoskeleton, yet could apparently wear a suit of Sparrow battle armour without the assistance of one. A full helmet obscured most of his face, yet pale-white skin could be sighted where the goggles on his head would normally be raised. The soldier's sky blue eyes appeared to luminesce as they shifted toward the spymaster examining their owner, hinting to an artificial origin. However, they still seemed to retain a natural appearance.

  "Impressive," Winchester noted. "I gather that these are your doing, miss Sparrow?"

  "They are indeed," she announced. "My pride and joy. What tipped you off?"

  "Your father would never sanction the creation of genetically augmented supersoldiers: he is far too much of a pacifist," so reasoned Winchester. "He only maintains a corporate security division out of necessity, and doesn't to my knowledge maintain an advanced arms research division..."

  "I'm afraid genetically augmented is a somewhat inaccurate descriptor," Mendoza corrected the spymaster.

  "Are they cybernetic?" Winchester wrinkled his brow, tilting his head slightly as he continued to scrutinise the trooper before him.

  "All will be explained when we arrive at where it is we are going," Sparrow stated in a cryptic tone.

  Upon entry to the hovercar, Winchester seated himself on the opposite side to Sparrow, who was flanked by the two supersoldiers on both sides. As soon as Mendoza positioned himself next to the British spymaster, the hovercar's artigrav plates spun up and the machine buzzed off into the distance.

  "If the Federation were to find out that you've amassed a personal army of elite gene-soldiers, don't you think they'd call you out over a severe conflict of interest?" Winchester pointed out. "And what might your father have to say when he inevitably finds out that you've been breeding soldiers behind his back?"

  "I don't think there's a conflict of interest at all," Sparrow enunciated with a half laugh. "Because my interest is the defence of Earth's people against a certain madman and madwoman who both want to see our homeworld burn and have an army of henchmen
to set it afire. Besides, who do you think sanctioned the creation of my army? My father?"

  Her face turned as solemn as a grave.

  "Octavius Sparrow may have led our species to greatness almost singlehandedly, and with his hands tied behind his back at that," she spoke out. "But even revitalite cannot keep him alive forever – and nor can it do the same for me. He and his legions of admirers may not realise it yet, but he has done all he can to make this world a better place. I believe the time has come for a new generation of leaders to take the reins of progress."

  "And you see yourself at the reins of progress, I imagine," Winchester theorised.

  "I already told the president I fully intend to complete this mission without as much as a plaque in my honour," said Sparrow.

  "That is not a straight yes or no answer," Winchester pointed out.

  "When in ancient warfare a chariot charged into an open breach, none of the warriors being charged considered the charioteer," Sparrow stated. "Their considerations lay in the more immediate matter of the scythed wheels cutting through their ranks. Or the horses' hooves crushing them under their weight. Or the spear threatening to impale them. So I leave you with this, Rupert Winchester. I am the charioteer, that much is obvious, but that still leaves the horses, the bladed spokes, the spear in my hand and the cart in which I ride."

  "I shall presume that Frost is the spear," Winchester started his estimation.

  "No."

  The blunt denial from Sparrow left the spymaster bemused. "What role does he play in this game, then?"

  To which Sparrow responded by issuing the same murderous look she had stabbed Tureau with, only with a razor-blade smile tugging at her cheeks. "While your soldiers were focusing on the chariot, you forgot about the marksman on the cliffs."

  ~

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tuesday evening, 26 April.

  LOCATION: Wayland Company Main Administrative Building

  New Seattle, 10 Hygiea, Independent Systems League, Asteroid Belt.