by Jamie Sawyer
“Do you think that you should speak to someone about it?” Zero said, anxiously. “A psytech, maybe.”
“What’s the point? They’d lock me up, like P.”
“Maybe they could help.”
“Drugs can help. I need some proper rest, is all.”
“Okay. I’m just saying.” Zero gave a brittle, concerned smile. I knew that she meant well.
“Thanks. Even if I don’t tell you as often as I should, you know that I appreciate it.”
“Hey, we’re friends, ma’am. I know you better than anyone else on the squad. I’ll drop by those downers.”
“I’ll come to Medical with you now.”
Zero sipped her coffee. “Okay. Whatever suits you.”
She turned and walked out into the corridor, and I quickly followed her. I took one last look into the room, as the lights dimmed again.
There was no one there.
Sanctuary Base was located among the mining stations that populated the outer cordon of the Former Quarantine Zone, on the border of Alliance space. It represented the last best hope of the human resistance in this sector; a military outpost like no other. This was the third time since our rescue from the Kronstadt massacre that the Jackals had been recalled to Sanctuary, and the place never failed to impress.
Sanctuary Base was a hollowed-out asteroid, with thousands of kilometres of interior space converted into hangars, barracks and armouries. It even had its own simulant farm; a factory capable of producing sims for the ever-hungry war effort. There were several dry docks, and every berth was filled with a starship. All nationalities were present here, all territories of the Alliance united under one flag. There was a frisson on the air, a bristle among the gathered assets that not even the vacuum of space could dispel.
According to the scuttlebutt, Sanctuary had been built in secret somewhere in Proxima Centauri system, then quantum-jumped to its current location. The Jackals’ original home station had been Unity Base, but that—like so many of the border posts—had been abandoned. Everything was concentrated on Sanctuary Base, all forces drawn together. There were hundreds of ships here, ranging from corvettes to battleships to dreadnoughts. The Alliance fleet was mustering, so the rumours went. The newscasts reported that battlegroups were being recalled, patrols reassigned. Something big was happening, and it was happening soon.
Along with a couple of hundred other sailors, techs and operators, the Jackals jostled for disembarkation orders. The umbilical tube that would allow us to board Sanctuary was hot and crowded, and the mood became impatient as clusters of ships drifted by.
“I hear that Sanctuary was made under contract from the Proximan government,” Feng said, needling Lopez. “I’d wager that Secretary Lopez oversaw the construction personally.”
“I don’t think that Daddy would have the time for that,” Lopez said, dismissing the idea.
“Senator is embarrassed, yes?” Novak suggested. “So while her daddy tries to cut Sim Ops budget, he is secretly building this base at home. Is Proximan station.”
“It’s an Alliance station,” Lopez insisted.
Novak jabbed a meaty finger at the obs window. “Speak of the Senator, and he shall appear…”
Despite the huge range of starships docked at Sanctuary, one craft stood out: a sleek, dark space yacht, almost militaristic in design, with an armoured prow and a delta wing-shape. The name DESTINY was printed in bold white letters on the ship’s flank, together with the Alliance, Proximan and American flags. The yacht had appeared on hundreds of newscasts, been the subject of numerous press reports. It was known throughout the thirteen Alliance territories as the personal transport of Secretary of Defence Lopez.
“As Heinrich said, Daddy’s here again,” Lopez muttered. There was a disparity between her choice of description—“Daddy”—and the way that she spoke the words. To say that the relationship between Lopez and her father was complex would be an understatement.
“He seems to be on-station a lot recently,” Feng commented. “Was he here last time we were recalled?”
“He was,” Lopez said.
There was a chime over the ship’s PA.
“All hands, all hands,” came the AI’s dulcet tones. “Prepare for disembarkation to Sanctuary Base.”
“Finally!” Novak exclaimed.
The station’s artificial gravity envelope took us, and the Sim Op teams all disembarked. We emerged into a hangar bay, which was alive with activity: technicians repairing fighter wings, sailors ready to take over watch of our ship, other Sim Ops teams returning to shore.
“Miss Lopez?” called a voice, cutting through the surrounding noise.
A man and woman approached the Jackals. Both wore dark suits, neckties and white shirts, which made them stand out from the crowd. I knew who these guys were before they even made the introductions—their presentation positively screamed Secret Service.
Lopez’s shoulders sagged. “Great. I guess Daddy wants to see me.”
The lead agent gave a precise nod of her head. “Welcome back.”
Lopez pouted, turned to me. “I know these two. They’ve been Daddy’s security since I was a kid.”
The agents were both obvious Core Worlders, with broad faces and suits pulled taut over equally muscled bodies.
“Great,” said Novak. “So you now have your own security guards, yes?”
Lopez sucked her teeth at the Russian. “Go fuck yourself,” she said. “They’re here to protect Daddy.” She nodded at the agents. “Special Agents Megan Cambini and James Butler. These are the Jackals. They’re assholes, but I love them.”
Agent Cambini’s face looked as though it had been reconstructed at least once—either as a result of an injury, or through the insertion of subdermal armour plates. Her dark hair was pulled back from her head in an all-business way. She looked less than impressed by the exchange.
“Well done on a successful mission, Jackals,” Cambini said. “Your father sends his congratulations, Miss Lopez.”
“Save it, Cambini,” Lopez said. “What does he want this time?”
“Just the pleasure of your company,” said Butler. “Can I take your bag?”
Butler was remarkably similar in appearance to Cambini, with a squared-off head and a blank expression.
“I can carry it myself,” said Lopez.
“If you’re sure,” said Butler. The beginnings of a smile touched the edges of his lips.
“Good luck, Lopez,” I said, with a mock salute. I turned to the Jackals. “Logistics will probably want to—”
“No, ma’am,” said Agent Cambini. “We’re here for you too, Lieutenant Jenkins.” Images flashed over the insides of their smart-glasses, no doubt providing confirmation of my identity. “Secretary Lopez requests your company as well. If you’d like to come with us.”
“And if she does not?” Novak said, puffing up his chest, preparing for a fight.
Cambini shrugged, but Butler’s right shoulder extended, just slightly. Enough that I could see the gun-harness beneath his jacket. It wasn’t a threat, exactly, but it could turn into one.
“It’s okay,” I sighed. “Who needs downtime, anyway?”
“This war won’t fight itself,” said Butler.
Lopez rolled her eyes. “You guys are the worst.”
“We try,” said Cambini. Her face hardly ever seemed to move, which I found disconcerting.
“This way,” Butler suggested. “We have a transport waiting.”
Captain Ving appeared from the bustle of personnel behind us. He looked incredulous and rather angry. Now that, I kind of liked.
“How come she gets facetime with the Secretary?” he said, exasperated. “Phoenix Squad captured the Christo-damned warden-form!”
Before I could answer, there was a commotion from further down the deck. The crowd parted to make way for a large metal cube to be transferred from the Providence onto Sanctuary. The special cargo was surrounded by Sim Ops troopers in combat-suits, precede
d by a security detail. The box was printed with numerous safety warnings, fitted to a grav-sled so that it hovered a half-metre off the deck. The security detail wasn’t standard Army—their armour looked a different pattern. Maybe some sort of Spec Ops team. Even so, they looked spooked, as though they wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible.
“That’s the warden-form, I take it,” Lopez said.
“I think so.”
I felt a stab of anger, and disappointment, as another shape emerged in the warden’s wake.
Pariah.
The xeno—our xeno—was paraded across the deck, flanked by four guards equipped with plasma carbines. P wore manacles at the wrists, and held its upper limbs out in front of its body as though demonstrating its captivity. Jeers and pointed words were directed at the captive alien. P rose above it all, and didn’t react. I could feel the aura of calm radiating from the alien, could sense it lingering in the back of my head. P certainly had more patience than me.
“It’s for show,” Lopez said. “We all know that P could break out of those chains in a heartbeat.”
“Faster, probably.”
“Let’s not keep the man waiting, huh?” Cambini said, to her colleague.
“I hear that,” Butler muttered back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JUST ANOTHER PROBLEM
The agents had arranged for one of the anti-G transport buggies that filled Sanctuary’s every corridor, and the four of us piled in. Cambini drove across the station, while Butler swept a watchful eye over every corner and junction. The journey didn’t take long.
“This way, troopers,” said Cambini, as we reached Destiny’s private dock.
She showed us through to the umbilical. I couldn’t help frowning as two remote sentry guns whirred into action, the big fifty cals tracking us as we walked by. One wrong move and those bad boys would shred even the most heavily armoured target. Lopez was less bothered. She gave a yawn, and even managed to look slightly sullen.
“What?” she queried, as I caught her eye.
“You’re not bothered by the big-ass guns watching our every movement?”
She shrugged. “I guess not. I’ve grown up with this shit. You forget; Daddy was a big shot a long time before he made senator. Agents following you everywhere, remote safety systems that won’t let you out of their sight: none of this is new to me.”
“Follow me, please,” said Agent Butler. “Secretary Lopez would like to meet with you in here.”
We were shown through to a two-tiered chamber that was probably best described as a lounge. The Destiny’s interior was politely restrained opulence. Bulkheads were hung with paintings from famous Core System artists—all of which was far too highbrow for me to recognise, other than the general style—and the deck was covered in a plush cerise carpet. One wall had been tuned to show the view of Sanctuary, and the planet that the station orbited, but it wasn’t clear whether that was a view-port, or the bulkhead itself was a monitor.
In the well of the chamber, sitting at a low coffee table, was the man himself: Secretary of Defence Rodrigo Lopez. He reclined with practised languor on a sofa of dark red velvet, one long leg crossed over the other. This Lopez was handsome, in an everyman sort of way; each strand of his dark hair perfectly composed, every line of his face there for a purpose. He was middle-aged, but only because he wanted to look that way. His features were vaguely Hispanic, like Lopez’s, but generic enough that he appealed to the broadest demographic possible. He and his family had been the subject of the best gene-sculpts the Alliance had to offer.
Lopez’s addresses on the war effort had been broadcast the length and breadth of the occupied universe, and had been the rallying cry to the military assets in this sector. He was a leader who preferred to lead from the front: as evidenced by his decision to come here—to Sanctuary Base. That had to fly in the face of his security team’s advice, because there were plenty of other ways to conduct business that didn’t involve physical attendance. Lopez could’ve sent a recorded address, beamed in via an FTL link, even used a simulant. But no; Secretary Lopez was here, simply because he wanted to be. He was that sort of man and that was why the troops liked him.
Lopez was deep in conversation with another figure, focused on projections that sprang from the table, images that danced like ghosts between them. An opened bottle of Proximan whiskey sat beside the projector, and both men cradled glasses half filled with amber liquid.
All of this wealth and power in one place immediately made me feel uncomfortable, and I paused at the threshold of the chamber. I threw a crisp salute and waited for further instruction. Lopez had no such compunction. She sauntered into the chamber without pause, while Cambini and Butler took up positions either side of the hatch.
“Ah, my daughter, and her commanding officer,” Secretary Lopez said, looking up from his discussion. He wore a bright white shirt, in the Old Earth fashion, open at the neck without a tie. “Excellent. Stand down, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Really, there’s no need for any of that around me,” the Secretary said, pinching the legs of his expensive slacks as he stood from the couch. His dark leather shoes—real leather, not a synthetic substitute—reflected the chamber’s muted illumination. “I don’t bite.” He grinned, exposing a set of just-right teeth to prove the point. “Haven’t you explained, Gabby, that I’m not one for formalities?”
Lopez lifted her eyebrows and made a sound of disapproval at the back of her throat. “No one calls me Gabby any more, Daddy.”
Secretary Lopez strode over to his daughter. “Well I do. My Gabby, my dear Gabby. I am so pleased to see you.”
The Lopezes embraced. It was a little brittle, not quite genuine, but more or less reflected the relationship that Lopez had with her father. Gabriella Lopez was cut from a very different cloth to the Secretary, but around her father she regressed.
“Patrico and Josef send their love,” the Secretary said. “They often ask of you.”
Lopez faltered a little. She’d spoken fondly of her brothers, and I knew that she missed them. She sort of smouldered, in a way that suggested a million unresolved family resentments.
“Really? They do?”
“Of course.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re both on Proxima Colony. They want to know when you’re coming home.”
Lopez curled her lip, swinging into petulant teenager mode. “You want to know when I’m coming home.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not being like anything,” Lopez said. “You never wanted me to join Sim Ops, and you never wanted me to serve.”
“I wanted—and still want—you to be safe.”
“I am safe.”
Secretary Lopez winced. “Don’t forget who I am, Gabby. I’ve had access to your debrief material. I’ve seen what you’ve been through.”
“I’m still here to tell the story,” Lopez said. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
Secretary Lopez turned to me. “It is good to see you again, Lieutenant. I hear that the last operation was a resounding success.”
“Yes, sir. The specimen was secured.”
“That is excellent news. On behalf of the Alliance, I’m truly thankful for your efforts.”
The Secretary smelt of expensive cologne, a scent that reminded me of wealth and power and carried just a hint of intimidation. It was a heady mix, a bit intoxicating.
“It’s fine, sir,” I said. “Do you want me to take my boots off? This carpet looks awful expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Secretary Lopez said. “If you are a friend of my daughter, then my home is your home. Mi casa es su casa. I’m very proud of my daughter.” He looked to Lopez, nodded. “Our relationship can be a little fraught, sometimes, but what relationship between father and daughter isn’t?”
“True,” I said.
“I know you’ve had your own difficulties,” Secretary Lopez
said. “Your father is Theodore Jenkins, isn’t he? Theodore was something of a war hero, as I understand it.”
“Back in his day,” I said. “Now ma and pa are safe and sound, back home.”
“As safe as anyone on Old Earth can be,” he said. “I’m trying to get to know my officers. I feel I have a duty to do that; to understand what you people are giving up in defence of the Alliance.”
“They say that you’re going to be running for another office,” I blurted, “soon enough.”
Secretary Lopez paused. “Is that the ‘scuttlebutt’, as you call it?”
“That’s the scuttlebutt,” I repeated. “Is it true? Are you going to be running for Alliance Secretary General?”
Lopez shrugged. The motion struck me as very practised; as far too self-deprecating to be natural. “Perhaps. This war; people have lost a lot of faith in the old systems.” As if to say speaking of the old systems, the Secretary turned to the other man at the table. “Have you met Yarric—ah, Director—Mendelsohn?”
“No,” I said, “we haven’t met, Director.”
Chief Director Yarric Mendelsohn remained seated. The Director wasn’t known to me personally, but as head of Science Division, everyone knew who he was—in his own way, he was as recognisable as Secretary Lopez. Mendelsohn had appeared on numerous press briefings and news-feeds, and had become the public face of the Alliance’s efforts to cure the Harbinger virus. He wore the ubiquitous Science Division smock, with rank-bars and service accolades prominent on his lapel.
Mendelsohn sat back in his chair, a frown creasing his forehead. He was in his autumn years, and his features were every shade of grey, from his silvered hair down to his tired-looking skin.
“Lieutenant,” he said, earnestly. “I’ve read an awful lot about you.”