by John Vassar
‘Let me fix this for you.’ She reached across to his face with both hands. Instinct made him pull back.
‘A little jumpy tonight, aren’t we, Lee Mitchell? Don’t worry, this is very relaxing, I promise.’ She traced lines from his temples with her fingertips while her thumbs gently slid down the bridge of his nose to his cheeks. She repeated the movement until his eyes closed and the pain melted away. For a moment, all he wanted to do was fall asleep in her arms.
‘How did you do that?’
She smiled at him. ‘Magic fingers...’
The look in her eyes finished the sentence to Mitchell’s satisfaction.
The shuttle thrusters ignited and the girl grabbed his hand as the acceleration beat the anti-inertia system. ‘I always hate that bit, don’t you?’
‘I’m a little older than you,’ Mitchell said. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘Are you married, then? No, you don’t look married… I’ll bet you’re not breeding either…’
‘Right on both counts.’
She left her hand where it was and said, ‘That’s good.’
‘You?’
‘Free as a bird. We can go back to your place if you want.’
Mitchell was way ahead of her. ‘Works for me. But your friend looks a little…’
‘Comatose?’
Mitchell laughed and said, ‘I was going to say sleepy. Honest.’
‘I like honest. You don’t get much of that any more. Yeah, silly Suki... She’s great fun but she doesn’t know when to stop. Can we put her in an a-Cab when we’ve docked? She’ll wake up halfway home and slink off to the nearest bar anyway.’
Mitchell admired her pragmatism and agreed with more speed than was polite. He was intrigued by this girl, but wished he still had a DS neural link to get intel from her ID Node. She looked like a schoolgirl, spoke like a teacher and was skilled at getting information without giving any out. For a moment, Mitchell thought Latere. There was a one in twenty-two chance of that, but she was pretty enough that he didn’t care. They exchanged small-talk until the shuttle docked, then made their way through the exit lounge with Suki steadying herself between them. Talia poured her into an a-Cab outside the shuttle terminal.
Mitchell’s sector was on the inner ring of Orbtown 36, on the second highest level. Domices facing away from Earth were less popular, but Mitchell preferred the quiet and also the view. What his vista panel lacked in blue and green it made up for in starlight.
‘Don’t you get homesick?’ Talia asked as they walked from the Transit node. ‘I’d go mad if I couldn’t see the Earth.’ She slid her hand into his back pocket and Mitchell flinched again. After his premature exit from DS, he’d stuck to chance encounters based on lust. No shortage of that on his part, but this girl already seemed to want more. She’d dropped the pouty vamp routine and was acting like they’d been together for years.
Mitchell disarmed the domice autolock. Inside, she stretched up and kissed him with warm, soft lips. ‘Don’t go away. I’m just going to freshen up.’
‘The shower’s in the usual place,’ he said. Last of the great romantics.
She grinned and scampered away, slipping out of her top and skirt in the same movement. Mitchell noticed that his headache was now a distant memory. He went to the sleepbay, changed into a blue cotton shower robe, then fixed two black coffees. Back in the lounge, he wandered across to the vista panel. ‘Clear view.’
He looked out into the blackness, peppered with distant stars and galaxies.
No, he didn’t feel homesick up here.
The girl was one of the new generation, an orbit-baby. It might be the only thing they had in common, although he was in the vanguard of Populus born ExTerra. The birth of one Lee Mitchell was only the seventh to be logged at the Gagarin Orbital Hospice, only son of the otherwise frighteningly normal Will and Tamara Mitchell. What a combination. A materials engineer and a medtec. Not that his life now was any better than theirs. Part of him wanted to go back to DS, to prove the SenANNs wrong, their decision to retire him over-cautious. But no-one argued with the SenANNs. Not even the High Council. The Populus revered them to the point of religious zeal and FedStat relied on them for advice on everything from global security to what their staffers should eat for breakfast. And what Harry was offering was not a return to the life he knew.
A passing shuttle jolted him back to the present. Lukewarm coffee splashed onto his bare feet. Harry was right about one thing. He should get a life.
‘Sunset view.’ He turned away and wondered why the girl was taking so long. Padding into the sleepbay, he found the answer. The evening’s indulgences had kicked in and she was laying on his sleeper, face down and naked. Her skin was pale and looked velvet-smooth. Her green-highlighted hair lay tousled around her shoulders.
He thought for a moment, then threw a coverlet onto the sleeper and went back to the study.
He showered, activated the spare sleeper and checked his comlink. As expected, there were no messages. Fuck you too, Harry Doyle. He knew, as always, that it would be him to call first. Never Harry. Too much like a sign of weakness.
He set the climate for ‘cool summer night’ and stretched out on the sleeper.
Lee Mitchell closed his eyes and gratefully dismissed a day which had left him feeling cheated from start to finish.
2
Commander Nathaniel Devlin walked the length of his plush office with measured steps. He had never underestimated the level of commitment required from him, but tonight, as a High Council senate member and Director of Delere Secos, his responsibilities were heavy on his shoulders. He reached the faux-wood panelled wall and turned back without missing a beat.
It was his habit to pace when thinking, regardless of mood or the levels of stress he found himself under. It helped him to think, and the present circumstances demanded nothing less than his complete focus. Following an emergency High Council meeting three days ago, he had been placed in charge of a special investigation - perhaps one of the most crucial in the history of FedStat. This, in turn, required the immediate containment of certain active DS cases, including one headed by his Chief of Operations, Harry Doyle. Based on guidance from the SenANNs, the Senate had restricted the relevant cases to Devlin’s eyes only. He had asked that Doyle be kept appraised, but had been overruled.
His own findings over the last hour justified the Senate’s decision. The incident at Yorktown was serious enough, but it had been preceded eight weeks ago by the loss of an experienced DS agent on an apparently straightforward data incursion. Agent Telson was officially listed as MIA due to lack of physical evidence. The investigation was ongoing, but Devlin had long since come to terms with his death and its implications. Before this, Delere Secos had not lost an agent in the field for three years. With two killed within a matter of weeks and his own department’s inability to explain these losses, a High Council investigation had been inevitable.
Doyle’s suspicions may have had some foundation after all.
Devlin paused and gazed out through the ornately-framed vista panel. The orientation of his office, the third most secure location on Sat-1, gave a view away from Earth. With the giant orbital complex geo-stationed above the Pacific Ocean, he had always been of the opinion that he wasn’t missing much.
The Moon caught his eye. It looked… lonely.
Devlin turned back to his airscreen. ‘Secure file contents at level 10 under my voice code. Screen off.’
The flight recording data had made unsettling viewing. He had watched Harry Doyle sit at the controls of the skimmer, make standard pre-flight checks and leave the sanctuary of Yorktown Spaceport. After thirteen seconds of flight, the ship’s systems had displayed an alert. Tiny pinpricks of light had then appeared on the lower right of the cabin, just below the main nav console. Doyle’s right hand and forearm disappeared in the blink of an eye. The loss of signal from the DS Chief’s implant alerted FedStat and a rescue unit had been scrambled instantly. Populus Control verified t
he destruction of his IDN seconds afterwards. Yorktown’s tracking systems had followed the stricken skimmer until it disappeared fifty metres above the southern shore of Lake Ontario. As with Telson, there was no body for a formal identification. Backtracking, Devlin had analysed Doyle’s movements in Yorktown, cross-referencing data from sec-nodes, a short-lived micro-drone observation and Doyle’s neural link. He knew exactly where his Chief of Operations had been and who he had met. He had then summoned his new second-in-command, given him an overview of the facts and outlined his proposed course of action. They had disagreed on several strategic issues. Unfortunately for Agent Charlis, Delere Secos was not a democracy.
Devlin glanced at his comlink chrono. His science team was taking an inordinate length of time to analyse the attack and he wondered if Bhanerjee was up to the task. Harry Doyle had recommended him as a gifted scientist, but the facts were he was young and relatively inexperienced. Pacing resumed, Devlin reflected on the loss of his trusted Chief of Operations. Preferring to maintain a distance from all his subordinates, he could not have called him a close friend. A rare smile flicked across Devlin’s face. Doyle was the only person in the entire department who had ever got away with calling him ‘Nat’. Likewise, he was the only one of his team that Devlin had ever called by his first name, although this had happened under mitigating circumstances – real alcohol had been involved. But, whatever his personality flaws, Doyle’s arrest record was second to none. His loss was a significant one.
The comlinked entry request from Science Officer Bhanerjee eventually came. Devlin opened the portal and motioned for him to sit down. Bhanerjee called up the data and they looked through the attack analysis in silence.
After a few minutes, Devlin sat back. ‘Alright, I’ve seen enough. We’ve got nothing to touch this technology, am I right?’
Bhanerjee nodded. ‘What we do have would take twenty-five, maybe thirty seconds to do half the amount of damage. The skimmer was vapourised in less than five.’
‘And there was no wreckage?’
‘None whatsoever, sir.’
‘So you’re telling me that whatever this weapon is, it can isolate a moving target from its surroundings and destroy it as a whole?’
‘If I were to speculate, sir, I would say yes it could. But that was not how the skimmer was actually destroyed. The nav and flight systems were targeted first, the pilot a split second afterwards. Next, the coms and intel systems, which is why we have less than a second of data from the vessel itself. The weapon then systematically attacked every potential weak spot in the spaceframe and the skimmer began to fall apart in mid-air. We know this from the analysis of the scanner logs from Yorktown terminus and our own orbital surveillance.’
‘Then there must have been some debris, however small.’
Bhanerjee responded with ill-concealed admiration for the technology that had killed one of their own. ‘This is the incredible part. As the skimmer disintegrated, each individual fragment was targeted and destroyed. At least forty-six thousand, but we cannot be precise. Our scanners were limited to tracking a particle size of just over a millimetre at the range involved...’
Devlin rubbed his fingers across his chin. ‘Why…? If it was capable, why not destroy the whole vessel in one energy burst?’
‘Again, if were to speculate, sir…’
‘Please do.’
‘A test, sir. Specifically, the fractal targeting of multiple objects on diverse vectors. And if I were to comment on the results…’
‘I see your point. A very successful test it would seem.’
Bhanerjee looked back to the airscreen, his eyes wide. ‘Incredible accuracy. You can see from the tracking data, here… the weapon avoided the rain water on the skimmer’s fragments. The processing power to achieve that kind of accuracy must be-’
‘Perhaps that’s enough speculation for now, Bhanerjee.’ Devlin looked over the data again in case something had been overlooked. Nothing had. Zero trace signature on the type of energy used, which even to his level of scientific understanding was impossible. They were clutching at straws.
Devlin’s frown deepened. ‘Point of origin?’
‘Our one positive result, sir.’ Bhanerjee switched data on the airscreen and rotated the image to show the skimmer in relation to the ground below during the attack. He pointed to a flashing dot. ‘There was enough vector information from the entry and impact points of the weapon to extrapolate a precise location.’
‘Get a team down there. I’ll let you know if I require anything else.’
Bhanerjee left. Devlin sealed his office, disabled the SenANN monitor and comlinked Agent Charlis. ‘The science team’s analysis was inconclusive regarding the nature of the weapon used. I think we both expected that. I am therefore going to proceed as per our discussion. The arrest mode is at your discretion, but speed is of the essence. Were you able to utilise our piece of good fortune?’
‘I have made contact. The Latere is in position and awaiting further instruction.’
‘Good. One more thing, Agent Charlis...’
‘Yes, Commander?’
‘Our target is, at least for the present, a valuable commodity. I would like him to be presented in good physical condition. Try not to be too heavy-handed.’
‘Yes, Commander.’
Instinct woke Lee Mitchell with a jolt. The noise had come from the domice portal. He yawned and turned over, guessing the girl had sneaked out after coming down from last night. Another sound snapped his eyes open. Before he had time to raise the sleepbay lights, he saw the silhouette of a man crouching at the entrance to his study. He recognised the outline of a staffer’s helmet. Keep it slow and steady…
Barely breathing, Mitchell swung his legs over the edge of the sleeper, but the staffer’s training was good. The blue flash of the FG bolt hit him on the upper right of his chest. It was a professional shot and he slumped sideways onto the sleeper, paralysed. The domice sec-system, upgraded by himself just eighteen months ago, was silenced with ease. This was not a routine staffer squad. A suppressed pulse emitter was only carried by Delere Secos agents. The silhouette remained crouched as the booted footsteps of another staffer moved past him into the sleepbay. ‘Clear.’
Now covered by his partner, the staffer with the decent aim rose and passed Mitchell to check the preproom. The second all-clear was given before another, deeper voice came from the direction of the lobby. ‘Lights, eighty.’
The domice responded. Mitchell confirmed that he had three uninvited guests, one as yet unseen. An FG strike paralyses from the neck down, but allows the victim to retain eye movement and hearing. He was on his side with his back to the preproom, but with a clear line of sight from the study into the sleepbay. He could see the girl, face down on the sleeper with the coverlet pulled up. Why hadn’t she woken?
The lead DS agent came into his field of vision for the first time. An immaculately-dressed man in a charcoal one-piece suit that looked more expensive than Mitchell’s entire wardrobe. Mitchell didn’t recognise him from his old team and a narrow, tinted visor further concealed his identity. The nameless agent went straight to the sleepbay. He reached down and rested two fingers on the side of Talia’s neck. After a few moments, he lifted the coverlet and pulled it over her head.
Mitchell screwed his eyes shut. What the hell was going on? Had she taken a badly-synthesised sniffer mix before they’d met? Surely not suicide? Nothing made sense - except that instead of a casual pick-up, she had just become someone’s daughter. Mitchell felt his pulse thumping in his ear and tried to stave off the nausea that was building after the FG strike.
The DS agent paused, then walked into the study. He examined Mitchell with a disdain that was obvious, despite the visor. ‘Busy night?’
Mitchell sensed that he might be capable of speech, but stayed silent. The agent nodded to the first staffer, who followed him back into the sleepbay. Their voices were low and Mitchell couldn’t hear the conversation. The DS agent retur
ned and produced a repulsor disc from an inside pocket, slapping it onto Mitchell’s bare chest with unnecessary force. Mitchell felt the weightlessness kick in and his already uneasy stomach gave in to the inevitable. Most of the vomit landed on the floor, but a decent amount ended up on the agent’s shoes. He grabbed Mitchell’s face and squeezed hard. ‘That’s an assault on an agent added to your charge file. Get this piece of garbage out of here.’
The first staffer found Mitchell’s robe and threw it over his naked body. He manoeuvred his captive outside, avoiding the puddles. Mitchell heard the shower being operated. The cool night air of Orbtown 36 made his skin tingle as they guided him into the waiting transport, a FedStat patrol skimmer with no insignia deployed. After a few minutes, the DS agent joined them, the bottom six inches of his suit still damp.
Mitchell looked at the shoes, then up at the visor. Big mistake.
An iron-hard fist landed with precision on Mitchell’s chin. His weightless body was sent spinning across the cabin before the two staffers caught and steadied him. Unlike their prisoner a few seconds earlier, they managed to keep the smiles off their faces as they did so.
3
The room was a geometrically-perfect cube, its walls flawless and pale grey. There was no obvious portal, but that was to be expected in a DS interrogation cell. After an hour, Lee Mitchell had raised himself and concentrated on stretching out the lingering effects of the Fetter Gun. Everything ached. He moved his jaw around with his hand and there were some ominous clicking sounds, but no teeth had been loosened. A medtec autom had applied a healer pad on the cut left by the arresting agent’s knuckles, then dressed him in a set of FedStat shorts and overalls and left him in the cell, still paralysed. He had been hooded before leaving the skimmer, a standard DS tactic designed to confuse and intimidate, but Mitchell knew where he was. His surrogate home for ten years, the sounds and smells of FedStat headquarters at Sat-1 were unmistakable.