Provider Prime: Alien Legacy

by John Vassar

  Roderick Thorne flicked off the airscreen as the Sentinel began its journey back. All that remained was to clean up the security recordings for workstation GR376 to cover the actions of the Sentinel, including the time taken for Lamont to regain consciousness. Lamont would then deal with the only remaining issue following the intel that Thorne had received from Sat-1. When his contact had revealed the DS Director’s chosen course of action it had surprised him in many ways, but in retrospect made the task a simple one. Removing the threat of a single, unauthorised agent would require less resources and involve far less risk of escalation. He returned to the MDU data, the slightest of smiles on his dry, cracked lips.

  6

  Mitchell’s pace slowed as he approached the Municipal Centre. It was silhouetted against the silver-blue haze of Orbtown 29’s pressure dome and for a moment he was taken with the beauty of the scene. He frowned and quickened up again. It’s an ugly building and you don’t have time to get all arty and philosophical.

  He was wearing a dark brown suit which hadn’t seen the light of day in three years and fitted snugly in all the wrong places. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to attend Talia’s Showing. Like her sister, she had instantly got under his skin. Perhaps they all shared an over-developed empathic response. It was becoming increasingly commonplace among the Populus, along with a significant rise in suicide rates. As far as he knew, he’d been the first agent ‘retired’ with a high E-Quotient, but almost certainly not the last. As for Rayna Ash, there was no way of checking his theory. The Quotient rating for empathic and telepathic response was a FedStat classification and the Populus were not subject to regular testing. Not yet. Whatever the reason for their bond, it was clear that keeping her at a distance was not going to be easy.

  Mitchell scratched his left temple for the third time that morning. The irritation was where the physical link with the SenANNs had been, but he’d avoided using a healer pad. He’d never liked the idea of nanites grubbing around in his flesh, despite their good intentions. Silly attitude, his father had always said whenever he’d taken a tumble as a boy. The only kid on the beach with scabs on his knees. He looked up at the dome again, tinted to resemble an earthbound sky, and remembered his Dad’s Showing. December 9th, 2188. His mother gripping his hand as she faced the image of her ex-husband for the last time. When it came to his turn, Dad addressing him from a recording made just months before his death, Mitchell had stood stiff-lipped and silent.

  ‘Look after your mother, Lee. I know we’ve had our differences, but these things happen. Doesn’t mean I love you or her any less.’

  He wondered if his mother had felt the same. Or maybe she was just relieved, free of the guilt over leaving him. Absolution by default. He remembered feeling raw cynicism for the first time.

  Harry had the right attitude to all this bullshit. He didn’t hold with bringing back the past to torment the bereaved. Besides, who wants to sit in front of an airscreen every two years and chat from the grave? What the hell can you say... sorry for dying? He knew that Doyle didn’t want a Showing, but no idea what he did want. Christian minorities like the Ash’s could tack on a remembrance service, but that wasn’t Harry’s style. And who would be making the arrangements? Harry’s death wasn’t official yet, but he had a sinking feeling that the onus would be on him.

  There’d been no word from Devlin since Mitchell had left Sat-1. The Link itself was still a blank. He estimated that six hours or so had passed from when he blacked out in the interrogation room to waking up to Charlis’s cheery face. Six hours while his memories were invaded and displayed for a privileged few on a FedStat airscreen. And for what? The Link had revealed nothing. Assuming the Director of Delere Secos was to be believed.

  At the Municipal Centre entrance, Rayna Ash was waiting for him, looking pale and drawn. ‘We have to wait a few minutes,’ she said. ‘The people in front of us have overrun. Do you mind?’

  For the third time in less than a day, Mitchell lied to her. They crossed to the central hall and took a seat outside.

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to be this lonely.’ Rayna was staring at the fake marble floor. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but I could hear her all the time. Now when I listen, there’s nothing. She really has gone…’

  Footsteps echoed across the hall.

  ‘Miss Rayna Ash?’ The man was small in stature with a thin, reedy voice. He hovered around them like an over-attentive waiter. ‘And this is Mister...?’

  ‘Mitchell. I’m a... friend of the family.’

  ‘And I’m Mr Wyntour. I’ll be guiding you through the ceremony. Tell me, have either of you attended a Showing before?’

  Rayna shook her head. Mitchell said that he had, but many years ago.

  ‘Someone close, perhaps?’

  No, you fucking idiot, some guy I met in a bar. ‘My father.’

  ‘My deepest sympathies for your loss. But for the young lady’s benefit, let me tell you that this ceremony is in reality a celebration. Yes – a celebration of a person’s life! And if that person was truly loved, and I can see that you cared very deeply for your sister, Miss Ash, then we must celebrate with them. Please, follow me.’

  They walked towards one of the purpose-built chambers. Wyntour had the patronising air of someone who had spent an entire career dealing with people he would meet only once. Mitchell, for one, had no intention of crossing his path again. The chamber was a five-sided affair with velvet drapes and a console set to one side for the airscreen and aural controls. It was customary for viewers to stand and there was a darker section of carpeted floor in the middle. Wyntour shepherded them into position, his hands floating a discrete distance from their shoulders. The whole thing looked as cheap as Mitchell felt right now.

  ‘If you are both prepared, then we’ll begin.’ Wyntour left them in the centre of the room and took his station. There was something in the tone of his voice that Mitchell found familiar but couldn’t place. He may have presided over his father’s Showing, he was old enough.

  ‘Let the celebration commence.’ Wyntour passed his hand across the console and the walls dimmed to an orange glow. Sickly-sweet music drifted into the air. Rayna remained transfixed and remote by his side as Mitchell gritted his teeth and prayed he could get through this without screaming out loud.

  The 3Ds appeared in front of them.

  At fourteen, the traditional age for recordings to start, Talia Ash was pretty enough, but a little chubby and self-conscious. She kept her head low, reading from a plastic script prepared by her parents. Mitchell had insisting on writing his own at that age, the first and last time he’d bought into the whole charade. Recordings for a Showing were not compulsory - at least, not yet. Mitchell wondered how long it would be before FedStat removed one of their few remaining liberties.

  At sixteen, Talia was unrecognisable with cropped, spiky hair that was jet black and matched her mood. She was now slimmer and as tall as when Mitchell had met her, but confused and rebellious. ‘You know I’ll always love you, Mom, even if you don’t listen to what I’m trying to tell you. I’ll stop behaving like a freak when you stop treating me like one. At least Rayna understands me.’

  No mention of her father in the five-minute rant that followed. The next recording showed a more familiar Talia and he felt Rayna’s hand search for his. At eighteen she was confident and beautiful. This must have been when she’d been recruited to the Latere, unknown to everyone including her sister. The change was incredible and probably the best thing that could have happened to her. What was the alternative? Normality? A breeding mate for some nice, reliable guy with a decent occupation? Hell, she could even have ended up with him.

  Wyntour’s shrill voice broke in, ‘Don’t forget, Miss Ash, that if you want any of the recordings to be replayed, I’ll be happy to oblige. We don’t have to wait until the final one before repeating any precious moments.’

  Mitchell was certain he knew this man’s voice and it was bugging him almost as much as th
e sham ceremony. This had to be the last recording. A twenty-year-old Talia Ash was speaking now, and he found himself gazing into the deep, brown-green eyes that had beguiled him on the shuttle.

  ‘I think I’ve come to terms with myself, Rayna. I guess you must have felt the same thing at my age. I feel good now and I want to hang on to this feeling. I want you to remember me like this, so I’ve decided this will be the last recording. You know I like to save the best ’til last...’

  Wyntour interrupted again. There was a slight tremor in his voice and he seemed confused by his surroundings. ‘There… is one more recording to be seen, Miss Ash.’ His expression was vacant, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. A small bead of sweat trickled down his face.

  A stabbing pain in his temple caused Mitchell to wince. At the same instant, Rayna tightened her grip on his hand and said, ‘Something’s wrong, Lee.’

  He looked up and saw Wyntour drawing a hand pistol from under the console. He pushed Rayna away and hit the ground hard as a laser bolt seared past his left hip. Scrambling up, he grabbed the nearest fake ornament as another shot bit into his suit sleeve and spattered the drapes behind with blood. The urn found its target though, with Mitchell close behind. His shoulder caught Wyntour under the ribcage, lifting him off the ground as they crashed against the wall. Mitchell grabbed a scrawny wrist and waited for the sound of the gun hitting the floor. It never came, although the strength of his grip was hurting his own fingers. Wyntour struggled like a man possessed as the walls flashed back to daylight brightness - Rayna must have found the lighting controls. Now he could see the pistol. A professional’s weapon, a Steyr MaxLite. He saw something else. Something unbelievable. The older man’s hand was twisting, the skin parting from his flesh as warm, sticky blood seeped through Mitchell’s fingers. Wyntour’s face was screwed up in agony but he did not cry out. The muzzle of the Steyr rotated to within a degree of its target. Mitchell lowered his body and executed a crude throw on the lighter man, still holding on to his gun arm. He now had Wyntour pinned and helpless, and pushed the bloodied hand down against the wrist bone. No amount of strength can shorten tendons and Mitchell watched the pistol drop to the floor. Wyntour saw it too and grabbed at it with his other hand. Mitchell increased the pressure and swore he heard bones cracking. The impossible happened again. Wyntour, now under Mitchell’s entire body weight, lifted a shoulder and broke a hold that could not be broken. His fingers clamped around Mitchell’s calf, piercing fabric and digging into his flesh. He gasped at the pain but instinct brought his knee hard down into Wyntour’s groin. The grappling hook in his leg weakened and he pulled away. The maniac stared up at him, then beat him by a split second to the pistol laying on the floor. Mitchell swung his foot into Wyntour’s face, sending him halfway across the chamber and the Steyr spinning away at right angles.

  Mitchell stood hunched, his chest heaving, unable to believe what he was seeing. Wyntour was now doubled over, spitting blood. He must be finished now. Mitchell’s last assault had removed several teeth, broken his nose and left an ugly split in his mouth. He heard a stifled cry from Rayna as Wyntour lifted his head. His eyes were like slits, spitting hatred as he dragged himself to his feet. He took three steps forward before his expression changed to wide-eyed surprise. His hands clutched at his chest, then his throat as he sank to his knees. His eyes rolled to reveal the whites, then he toppled forward and lay still.

  Mitchell limped over and felt Wyntour’s neck. There was no pulse. He twisted the head towards him but Wyntour’s features were lost under the blood.

  Rayna was cowering in a corner, ashen-faced and trembling. Her voice was distant, childlike. ‘Why? Why would he attack us like that? Do you know him?’

  ‘Never seen him before today.’

  ‘I could feel his hate. It cut through like a dagger. All he could think of was killing...’

  Mitchell got up painfully. He pulled down one of the drapes to cover Wyntour’s body, then sat down next to Rayna and tried to piece together what had just happened. Charlis would have a field day with this one. Should he report it or take his chances and run? Rayna would back up his story but his involvement in three deaths in two days would result in Cat 2 surveillance at the very least.

  Rayna flinched as the chamber portal opened and a staffer, bearing sergeant’s stripes and carrying a decoder, stepped through and sealed the room behind him. Mitchell waited for the inevitable. The staffer looked around. ‘You two alright?’

  ‘We’re okay, thanks.’ Mitchell was surprised at the calmness of his own voice.

  The sergeant stared at the lump under the drape. ‘We had a report from a concerned citizen over a disturbance in here. Looks like that might have been an understatement.’

  As the staffer walked over to the body, Mitchell began to apply common sense. This was a Showing chamber. No-one could hear a thing from outside and the room was as secure from prying eyes as it was possible to get in a Populus environment. The staffer must already have been right outside. Mitchell decided to play a hunch that Harry Doyle would have been proud of. He looked the sergeant straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m no medic, but I think Mr Wyntour had a heart attack. I’m afraid he’s gone.’

  The sergeant lifted the drape, set his comlink to medicom mode and scanned the corpse. He replaced the drape and said, ‘You’re right. His heart gave out. At least he was in the right place for it.’

  Rayna looked on in disbelief. Mitchell continued, ‘Listen, officer, we’ve had quite a time of it here. Could you see your way clear to...?’

  ‘Sure, no problem, you can leave. Better take the lady home, she looks like she could use a lie down. Go ahead, we’ll get a statement from you later if we need it.’

  The sergeant comlinked behind him and re-opened the chamber exit. Mitchell helped Rayna to her feet and led her through the portal. The sergeant scanned their IDNs from a distance almost as an afterthought. Outside, they passed a med team that had also appeared from nowhere. Like the staffer, arranged by Devlin. The DS Director was using ordinary foot soldiers instead of squad agents – shielding Mitchell’s mission from his own people. The sergeant must have thought his career was on the up when he received orders direct from the top.

  One of the med team intercepted them as Mitchell tried to hobble past unnoticed. Within a few minutes his leg and arm had been given couple of cycles of tissue repair and healer pads applied. He was given strict instructions to visit a hospice as soon as possible. He asked for a sedative for Rayna but she refused, saying she needed to be awake for the remembrance service later. Mitchell admired her bravery, but knew there would be awkward questions very soon. He had a good one of his own. He was now certain that Rayna must have had some kind of telepathic connection with her sister.

  So, why couldn’t she sense that Talia was still alive?

  Free from the clutches of well-meaning medics, Mitchell took Rayna back to her domice, insisting that she rest before the service. He arrived at his own domice with parts of his body aching and bruised, but at least this time there were no uninvited guests.

  An alert was flashing in his study, though, and he hurried inside to check the networker.

  7

  The message on Lee Mitchell’s networker was from Devlin. There was a mass of info to wade through, all under max encryption, but the author had done his homework on Mitchell’s skill set and there was nothing that he couldn’t access given time. He paused to attack the itch on his temple. In contrast, the legacies of his recent skirmish were responding to the healer pads with incredible speed. Maybe nanites weren’t all bad. Already, the laser scar on his arm was gone and his leg had stopped throbbing completely.

  The memory of Wyntour’s talons would take a little longer to heal.

  Mitchell looked at the size of the data pack from Devlin, took a deep breath and settled himself for the duration. He didn’t get far. His fingers drummed on the desk as Cytec once more flashed through his thoughts, followed by the face o
f the late, lamented Mr Wyntour. Since Harry had brought Cytec’s name up it had been playing on his mind. The tender process had included a visit to their Euro-2 facility and he knew he’d kept his proposal data. Decision made. It may come to nothing, but it was worth a few minutes’ extra digging. He sidelined Devlin’s message and accessed his own library. Flipping through his archived presentation files he found what he was looking for:

  Autogen / Cytec Proposal Notes, November 11, 2201

  He opened the file and scanned the attendees. He could put faces to all the names and none of them resembled Wyntour. He closed his own notes and hunted for the official review - Cytec had provided him with a copy to justify why they had awarded the contract to someone else. He wouldn’t need the whole report, just the distribution list:-

  Report copied to:-R D Thorne, President, Cytec Group

  O Svartmann, Senior MechTec

  E Lamont, Senior GenTec

  L K Todoriki, Senior CompuTec

  The name leapt out from the airscreen and slapped Mitchell in the face.

  Lamont.

  That’s where he’d heard that voice before. His age and build fitted too – but something else didn’t. Lamont was a career man, not an assassin. Another surge of adrenaline hit Mitchell’s stomach. Harry’s story of the clerk with Verum in his bloodstream. A drug capable of inducing him to do anything. The DS autopsy should confirm his theory, but Mitchell was already convinced. This was the only way a man like Lamont could have found the strength to almost kill him.