Under Shadows

by Jason LaPier

  He shifted uncomfortably in the plastic-wood chair. “Fair.” He lifted his chest. “There are pockets of corruption. And trust issues. But overall, it’s … effective.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s good. Very honest.” She paused, then pointed at him. “Now you’ve worked in both Justice and Defense. How do you feel the two arms work together?”

  He frowned. “It’s not a secret that they don’t cooperate.” His voice trailed off as he remembered X’s rant. About how Justice established a mole inside Space Waste, and how they allowed Defense to leverage the insider. “But I think that’s just an impression.”

  She smiled widely. “A common misperception?”

  He chewed on that. “Yeah.”

  “The truth is, these two halves of the whole have very different agendas and goals. We are united by one vision, but our paths differ.” She let that sink in, then continued. “And that’s okay. But we do work together. Our cooperation is just not as visible as our friction.”

  Again, X was in his head. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to probe, to find out if what the ex-cop was ranting about was true. Then there was a chime and Horus touched a screen on her desk.

  She stood and looked at the door. Reflexively, Runstom followed suit.

  The door slid away and a tall, broad-shouldered, beige-skinned man stepped in. Runstom recognized him right away, though he’d never met him in person. Francois Newman, the chief operating officer of Modern Policing and Peacekeeping. The low gravity of Ipo did not hide his telltale limp, reportedly a war injury that never completely healed. His hair was completely white, in contrast to the salt-and-pepper images Runstom was used to seeing attached to company-wide operations reports.

  It was well known that Newman had served in the military; back when the colonies still had their own militaries. Not much of what happened in those days made it into official recorded history. Even in his mid-sixties, Runstom thought the man’s stature was impressive. As he stepped forward, he blotted out the lamp in the corner, shrouding the room in shadow. Beneath the solid, charcoal-grey suit of fine cloth, taut muscles revealed themselves when he stretched out his large hand.

  “Stanford Runstom?” he said. “I’m Franco Newman. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  After a long second, Runstom broke from his paralysis. Took the proffered hand and relished the strength behind the grip. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”

  Newman crooked half a smile. “I like it when a subordinate calls me ‘sir’. But today, I want you to call me Franco.”

  Runstom nodded, opening then closing his mouth. Under the gaze of the man’s hard blue eyes, he felt uneasy. The invitation to use his first name wasn’t like Horus’s insistence on friendly familiarity. For some reason with Newman, it felt like the familiarity of collusion.

  He bent with a small grunt and sat in the other chair that faced Horus’s desk. She sat as well, with a look at Runstom to tell him to do the same. She and Newman hadn’t even greeted each other. Which told Runstom this wasn’t the first meeting they’d had today.

  “Are you familiar with The Art of War?” Newman said as Runstom sat. Runstom wasn’t, but before he could answer, Newman went on. “It’s a very old book written by a great Chinese general named Sun Tzu. From the fifth century BCE – but it got popular again in the twentieth century. Not just in military circles, but with business strategists. They saw an allegory between battlefields and markets.”

  “I’ll make sure to send you a copy,” Horus cut in.

  Newman waved a hand. “Don’t feel pressure to read it, Stan. It’s required reading for all executives – among other things,” he said with a knowing glance at Horus. She returned it with a sheepish smile, but before she could say anything, he went on. “In fact it’s not even the most important piece of literature on our list. But it’s relevant to our discussion.

  “See, The Art of War, a lot of it is about how to play to your strengths, and how to adapt to your weaknesses. How to leverage advantages, how to avoid disadvantages. Deception is a common theme. Fighting a battle is much more than the actual clashing of swords or exchange of laserfire.”

  He leaned into the corner of his chair, drawing slightly closer to Runstom. “For example. One tactic can be summed up as, ‘When you are weak, appear strong. When you are strong, appear weak.’”

  He paused, as though expecting a reaction. Runstom cleared his throat. “I think I understand, sir. Mr. Newman.”

  “Franco.”

  “Franco.”

  Newman regarded him with apparent patience, then cracked a smile. He pointed at Runstom. “You employed this tactic on Vulca, Stan.”

  Runstom felt his head pull back in a reflexive retreat. “I—” he started, then swallowed. Vulca. Largest moon of Sirius-5. Site of Vulca City. Site of the Vulca Research Park. Runstom there in his role in public relations. A ModPol Onsite Rapid Defense Unit had also been stationed there. A trial unit. Very small, but it was a small property. Still, it had been valuable enough for Space Waste to attack. Specifically, they’d gone after the observatory, well outside of town. Apparently to steal equipment.

  He tried to replay Newman’s words in his head, but they slipped away. “Tell me about what happened that day,” Newman said.

  Runstom frowned. “Space Waste attacked. A sneak attack. They hit a power station and the observatory.”

  “The power station,” the COO interrupted. “Why did they strike there first?”

  Runstom shook his head. “We thought they were going after the city.”

  “Don’t say we, Stan. It was the unit’s leadership that believed that Space Waste was threatening the city and the people within.” He pointed at Runstom again. “You knew there was more to it than that. This is another page from The Art of War. Space Waste was manipulating their enemy by threatening that which they hold most dear: the lives of their potential customers. The ORDU became preoccupied and the city went on lockdown.”

  Runstom had rolled the events of that day around his mind over and over. Always feeling that he never quite fully understood. Whose plan was what. Space Waste’s erratic attack. The cloaked intelligence the unit had received; the intel Runstom was not privy to. The intel that seemed to hurt more than help. The commander of the unit, Captain Lucy J. Oliver, how she seemed to be as clueless as he. Together they had shared a quiet distrust of the shadowy motivations behind the orders they were compelled to follow.

  There was more to it than Runstom knew – would ever know. The art behind the attack and its defense.

  “What did you do?” Newman prompted.

  Runstom drew a breath. “Only a couple of Defenders were left when the rest went on patrol. Not enough to take to the observatory and repel the Wasters.” He hesitated; publicly, he’d been praised for his actions on Vulca. His superiors were happy with the result. But he’d been waiting for someone to come down on him for the unauthorized actions he’d taken. Newman and Horus looked at him, both exuding patience. “So I went into town. Rounded up whoever I could.” He made a fumbling gesture with his hand, trying to coax the words out. “There were people there who were willing to … protect themselves. Protect the observatory.”

  Newman smiled. “Protect their friends and family,” he said, nodding. “Compared to the Space Waste force, was your little posse stronger? Or weaker?”

  “Weaker.” Runstom’s guts drained away as he answered.

  “When you are weak, appear strong.”

  Runstom thought back to that day on Vulca. He’d only managed to secure a dozen or so vehicles, but he made sure to spread them out. And what few weapons the Defenders had, he’d distributed, favoring the loudest and brightest munitions. “We made a lot of noise. Kicked up a lot of dust.”

  “And you ran off the Wasters,” Horus said. “A brilliant tactic.” She looked at Newman as she said this, perhaps hopeful that he would back up her praise.

  “I put innocent lives in danger,” Runstom said coldly.

&nb
sp; “You saved innocent lives.” Newman locked his gaze with Runstom and held it for a moment.

  Runstom nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “In fact,” the older man said, breaking the gaze to glare at Horus, “we’re lucky that we landed the account in the end.”

  The office fell into silence, under a spell cast by the chief operating officer. Horus was frozen, wanting to speak but unable to. Runstom could feel the words just inside her throat, unable to escape. He knew this because his throat was locked in the same way. There would be no more speaking until the three of them understood the unspoken.

  Runstom suddenly wished he had read the war book Newman had spoken of. As though within the ancient texts, insights would be revealed. All the plans and machinations of ModPol would come to light. Instead, he had only what little Newman had said. Using advantages, avoiding disadvantages. Deception. Knowing what the enemy holds dear.

  And that these strategies went for the market as well as the battlefield. On Vulca, the enemy on the battlefield was Space Waste. So who was the enemy in the market? ModPol was trying to sell defense services. They had no competition. He scolded himself. Of course they had competition: the status quo. Local defense.

  He’d saved lives that day. The unspoken was that some of those lives were not meant to be saved. In that market, the enemy was the customer. The Wasters were never going to attack Vulca City directly, but if he hadn’t run them out of the observatory, it was likely they would have taken lives there. More than they had. And with the small Onsite Rapid Defense Unit – the “trial” force – defending the power station, the enemy – the people of Vulca – would see that they were weak, that ModPol was strong, and that the galaxy was a damned dangerous place.

  The intel. Had ModPol known that the attack was coming? Had the orders to send the ORDU on patrol been designed to provide the perfect balance of threat, bloodshed, and defense?

  Runstom felt like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He wasn’t supposed to do anything that day. He was supposed to get locked down like the rest of the town. To quake with fear along with the residents. To mourn their losses. And then to sell them on defense services, so that something so terrible would never happen again.

  “No one blames you for what you did, Stan,” Newman said. In an instant, he released the tension in the room with a smile. “You were underestimated. The Art of War teaches us that the general who advances without courting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his people and do service for his organization, is a jewel of the kingdom.”

  Runstom felt his flesh rise at the praise. A mixture of pride and disgust flooded his nerves with electricity. “That’s … I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Of course, we always knew you were an asset, Stan,” Horus said. “I have to admit, part of the reason we made you a public relations officer was because we didn’t know how to use your talents here.” She laughed with a small bounce. “We didn’t even really know what those talents were! We just knew we needed to get you out there.”

  “When you are weak, appear strong,” Runstom said aloud, this new earworm stuck in his head. “And when you are strong, appear weak?” He looked up at Newman.

  The chief operating officer nodded. “You’re thinking about Eridani.”

  The ModPol transport ship had Xarped into Eridani. Appeared poorly defended. An irresistible plunder for Space Waste. Yet … a trap. A battalion of Defenders hiding in the storage bays. A squadron of fighters hiding among a field of asteroids. A major blow to the Wasters, so many of them captured and sent to the zero-G prison. And a victory for the market, newly born on EE-3.

  “How did you get the Wasters to take the bait?” Runstom heard the words coming out of his own mouth. Detached.

  “An insider, naturally,” Newman said. As though espionage and misinformation were just pieces on the board, as ordinary as any soldier or weapon. He glanced at Horus.

  “Now, Stan.” She stiffened as she talked. Another rare moment of uncertainty for the woman who preferred to be called Big Vicky. “I just have to remind you that anything said in this office is of the highest confidentiality.” She glanced at Newman, then back at Stanford. “The highest. This information doesn’t leave this room.”

  Runstom wanted to laugh, but instead held his breath. After a moment, he blew it out in mock seriousness that he hoped was well covered. “Yes, Vicky. Understood.”

  “His name is Tim Cazos,” Newman said. Again Runstom held his breath, but this time to keep from gasping or shouting. “He was implanted inside Space Waste in the guise of a ‘hacker’.” The chief operating officer actually employed air quotes around the last word.

  “Tim Cazos,” Runstom repeated robotically. “As a hacker.”

  “Cazos lead the Wasters to the spot of the ambush.” Newman paused, as though to let that information sink in. Then he added, “It’s thanks to Cazos that we were able to capture so many. Including their leader, Moses Down.”

  Runstom wanted to steady himself against the plastic and wood table, but feared if he moved even a millimeter he might vomit. “Lead them?”

  Newman nodded. “As you know, the detection equipment that the Wasters managed to steal from Vulca was the outdated stuff they were getting ready to toss. They didn’t realize it, because their sole tech expert was apprehended during the raid. So when we implanted Cazos, we had him fake an interface that would mock out the use of the old equipment.”

  “Highest confidentiality,” Horus repeated.

  “Of course,” Runstom said with a nod, his mouth on autopilot. He thought he should try to look surprised at the revelations pouring forth from his superiors, but he couldn’t remember what surprise was supposed to look like.

  “We’re getting ready for another move,” Newman said. “With Cazos.”

  Runstom practically chomped down on his tongue. A move. With Cazos. The name of the corpse that he’d found in the cold storage on his OrbitBurner. The same corpse that Runstom had ejected outside of EE-3, the corpse that evaporated into dust as it dropped through the planet’s atmosphere. Was it some kind of test? Were they even aware that Cazos was dead? Did they want to see if he knew? Or did they even care?

  “We want you to be ready,” Horus said.

  Runstom swallowed. Another move. “I’ll be ready.” He looked from one to the other. “You can’t give me any more information,” he guessed.

  Newman smiled and stood. “Thanks for your time today, Stan.” He nodded at Horus. At the door, he turned to Runstom. “Your mother would be proud.”

  Runstom flinched, but Newman was already out the door. He turned to Horus. The Sirius-Fiver was already at her pad, tapping something out. “I have your next assignment, Stan.”

  He took a breath. She had changed the subject without warning. His next PR assignment. Not this business with the secret spy whom she may or may not know to be long dead. That would wait. “Okay,” he said.

  “You came into port with Jack Jackson,” she said. Her voice was stern, but she spread her mouth into a wide smile. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Exactly.” She waved a hand. “ModPol Justice. Those fuckers can’t do a damn thing right. He was on the run. Someone tries to pick him up. Not officially, of course. I figure those jackasses thought they could cover up their mistakes if they made him disappear. Unfortunately for them, Jackson made friends on Terroneous.”

  “Vicky,” Runstom started.

  Again she waved. “Like I said: I don’t want to know. Wherever he was, however you found him – maybe you always knew, who cares? Point is, he’s here now. He’s with you, and he’s safe. We want to keep it that way, right?”

  “I want him to be safe.”

  “And he wants to go live with his friends on Terroneous.” She leaned on her elbows, spreading the fingers of both hands upward. “This is perfect, Stan. We need an in with the FSC.”

  “Uh, the eff …?”


  “The Federated Security Committee. It’s the closest thing that passes for a central body on Terroneous.”

  Runstom had a vague recollection of this committee from the broadcasts that he’d seen. “They were demanding Jackson’s return.”

  “Exactly,” Horus said with a smile. She pointed at him. “And you’re going to return him. Because you – and by you, I mean we, and by we, I mean ModPol Defense – rescued him.”

  “ModPol Defense.”

  She flapped one of her large hands. “I know, I know, it should just be all of ModPol. But trust me, Justice has few friends on Terroneous. We need to get a foothold with Defense there first. If we can earn their trust, then we can start working on Justice. But Defense is a planet-wide service. Moon-wide service. Whatever. Justice has to go state to state, township to township. None of the local governments are unified. The FSC is the closest they have to a global alliance.”

  “So, Jackson … you want me to … present him?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “We’ve made arrangements for an important meeting. We haven’t informed them yet of what it’s about, but we will soon. We’ll want them to get as much media coverage as they can. Remember, Stan: you are a public relations officer.” She smiled in a way that was probably meant to be disarming, but only made Runstom more nervous. “And you’re good at it. Just be yourself.”

  Runstom shifted in his chair. It didn’t seem right, to use the whole mess for publicity. He just wanted to get Jax back to his people. To his home. To his life.

  “And like I said.” Horus turned both her palms up. “I don’t want to know.”

  And that was it. Runstom sat back in his chair. The offer was before him. His boss would look past the complications of Jax’s recovery – which Runstom didn’t want to enumerate, even in his head – so long as they used his return for a little PR boost.

  He forced a smile to match hers. “Of course, Vicky. I look forward to meeting the FSC.”

  *

  Jax thought he might be the happiest he’d ever felt in his life. The couches in the shuttle were the most comfortable he’d ever sunken into. The gravity was dialed up just enough to keep him from flying around. And he was going home.