by O. J. Lowe
“Are you saying he’s wanting us to take him out? Mazoud?” Wilsin sounded surprised. “He has the gall to do that?”
“Of course, he does,” Brendan said. “What do you think all this data is? It’s his way of saying this man is a threat to me, but also you. Here’s the damning evidence, bring your own blaster and shoot him in the head for me. I’m washing my hands of the entire affair but don’t want the political backlash. What, you mean that also does me a massive favour? What a happy coincidence. Well, it was just my duty,” he scoffed angrily. “Someone ought to tell that man duty and self-interest are two polarising ideas.”
“He wouldn’t listen anyway,” Arnholt said. “My point, Agent Roper is that if you think Nwakili isn’t a threat in all this, you’re mistaken.”
Nick said nothing.
“What are we going to do then?” Wilsin asked. “Because the Field Chief is right. Just because you know he’s trying to play you for his own ends, doesn’t mean he’s not right in what he says.”
Arnholt considered it for a moment and Nick knew from the look on his face Wilsin had made a good point. After all, he was right in what he’d said about Brendan’s assessment.
“For the time being, we do nothing. We have only Nwakili’s word that Mazoud is acting strange, or we would, had Mazoud not been complicit in the attack on Wolf Squadron. That alone should be enough to bring about an investigation on him under normal circumstances. That said, however…” He seemed to struggle with the word and just for a moment, Nick felt a little sorry for him. “Right now, any sort of direct action against Mazoud is not a recommended course of action. I do not feel it would be a good idea.”
Both Nick and Wilsin opened their mouths to protest, only to be silenced as Arnholt sighed. “Sometimes, it’s best to know when to do nothing. I don’t feel happy about it. Mazoud is a legitimate business man. It’s a questionable legitimacy but what are we if we ignore the laws laid down by the Allied Kingdoms Senate? Sometimes we can bend them but to break them is to bring down a shit storm none of us can survive. We need more evidence. It’s a hard path we walk.”
“So that’s it then?” Nick asked. He couldn’t help himself. “We just ignore him and hope he goes away?” That was frustrating but still, he couldn’t blame Arnholt. He wasn’t as autonomous as he liked people to believe, Unisco still had to answer to the Senate and Divine forbid something catastrophic should happen under Terrence Arnholt’s watch. About the only thing to be said was he wouldn’t be the first one kicked out of office following a disaster beyond his control.
“I didn’t say that, Agent Roper. Watch your tone. If Mazoud is acting erratically, he’s done well to keep it from showing so far. But he can’t keep the façade of sanity up forever. Sooner or later it will slip. And the Suns are a ruthless organisation. The moment he shows himself unfit to lead, someone will slip a knife in his back. It has been their way for years. We have a happy retirement plan compared to the leaders of the Suns. None have ever lost control of the organisation and gone onto a new career after. The rest of their lives have often been numbered in hours rather than days.”
“Right. I see.” He couldn’t help but feel the plan lacked for something. It might be okay to just sit back and hope it all sorted itself out. But Arnholt had made his point about sometimes nothing being the best thing to do and he couldn’t help but hope it was the right call. “I back your judgement, Director.”
“Good,” Arnholt said, in a tone that said he’d expected nothing less. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. And I hope you’ve both learned something here. Mainly, don’t take politicians at face value.”
“Oh, I already knew that,” Wilsin said perkily. “Especially not Vazaran ones. Aren’t most of them the most corruptible people you could ever meet?”
“On that regard, Premier Nwakili is not as bad as you might think,” Brendan said. “He might be a snake, but he’s not corrupt as far as we can tell. He seems to genuinely care about doing a good job for the people. He just has his ways. Schemers and spies and all that.”
“What does that mean?” Wilsin asked.
“It means that if you’re raised a schemer, you scheme. If you’re a spy, you spy. How you got this far is usually how you continue. You stick to what you know.” It was Nick who replied as he stretched out his arms behind his head. “Am I right?”
“Exactly.”
“Am I the only one who hates this political thing?” Wilsin asked, the two of them making it to the range. Mel Harper was already there, X7 in hand and firing at makeshift targets, double tapping them with disinterest.
“You’re not wrong. It’s supposed to make things simpler, but it feels like it just makes the water dirtier. You can’t see the riverbed for the slime,” Nick mused. “But it’s the way of the world. Can’t change it. Can’t change human nature.”
They stopped, Harper ceased firing and lowered her weapon, ejecting the power pack and turning to face them. “I’m amazed to see you two walking around together. Thought you’d be fighting like alley cats to avoid each other before your bout.”
“Professionalism, Melanie,” Nick said. “Want to try it sometimes?” He grinned at her, before tilting a head towards the range. “Nice shooting.”
“You’re a comedian, Nicholas.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Wilsin said, mock pleading. “Don’t feed his ego, whatever you do. It’s already spiralling out of control.”
“Really, now I’m hurt,” Nick said. Harper stepped aside, holstered her weapon and let the two of them onto the range. “Cheers, Mel. Got to keep the eye in.”
“I think we’ve all shot more people than we thought we’d have to on this mission,” Harper said. “It was supposed to be a quiet trip.”
“Yeah but nobody’s died,” Wilsin said. “Nobody important anyway. Apart from Inquisitor Mallinson. And Jeremiah Blut.”
That shut Nick up mid-sentence. For the moment anyway as he picked up the goggles and strapped them to his face, handing the pair just vacated by Harper to Wilsin. They were required for keeping track of scores on the range. Every Unisco base had a target range, all of them higher tech than this, but they’d done their best to ensure their agents could keep their skills up in the field. “Low blow, Dave.”
“Oh, I just know your bout is going to get a bit tasty,” Harper laughed. “If you’re flinging comments around like that.”
The range consisted of a large expanse of field covered with large rocks and a single big tree stump, the grass burnt where stray shots had landed over time, the acrid stink lingering over the area. Holographic projectors lay scattered about the field, throwing up targets in random sequences, not only hostiles but also civilian targets to avoid being fired on, one of Alvin Noorland’s proud little inventions. Nick hadn’t been here for a while, but he knew from experience knowing where the holo-projectors were hidden didn’t make it easier.
“First to fifty kills?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at Wilsin. “Loser writes a letter of apology to the others other half?”
“Now who’s throwing out low blows?” Wilsin asked dryly. “Struggling to get my dick wet out here.”
Nick laughed, drew his X7 and ran a quick check over it. “Okay, okay. Loser buys drinks after the bout?”
Wilsin shrugged. “Okay. Acceptable. Ready when you are.”
They started to fire simultaneously as the first target emerged behind the tree stump, the red colouring designating it an enemy. It dropped quickly as the flurry of shots hit it and the goggles awarded the kill to Wilsin. Nick swore angrily, swung around and shot the second target in the face. One-one. More started to emerge and they continued to fire, pausing only to replace energy packs in their weapons. Plenty of spares lay around the range, secreted away inside waterproof casings, as well as the recharge stations. It was a good way to whittle away the time, useful too. It might have been a while, but Nick felt the muscle memory returning to him after the brief period of inactivity. Gr
anted it wasn’t quite the same as being shot at in the field but he’d never met anyone who relished field training, given they tended to simulate it with stun balls and a tactical team. It wasn’t fun in anyone’s mind, the sort of experience that gave you just that, experience, as well as the incentive to avoid being shot with a stun ball again. They were painful, the blasts fucked up your nervous system, simulating getting shot to the exact detail.
Melanie Harper wandered into Noorland’s laboratory, not entirely sure what to expect. It wasn’t an unusual feeling. Plenty who entered Noorland’s rooms found it that way. It was an ever-changing hole of chaos, his office and labs at the Unisco building in Premesoir were the same. Various tools from laser cutters to automated welders to sealant gel dispensers lay on tables, bits of half-finished equipment and bits of tech which might never see the light of day all being assembled. Some of them she recognised vaguely, others she couldn’t even try to give a name to.
The man himself lay on the ground, a mug of something black and steaming by his head as he held a gadget about the size of a human palm to the light, the other running a scraping knife delicately across the grooves in it. She could hear the faint sounds of knife on metal, his face screwed up in concentration. Harper chose not to announce herself until he was done. Doubtless he knew she was there. She could smell his drink, it had an odour of chicory and rice, some sort of local delicacy whose name escaped her right now.
For five minutes or more, she stood there patiently, not entirely sure when he’d be done or if she’d be better off coming back later. He hadn’t reacted to her presence, maybe he truly wasn’t aware of her being there.
“Are you going to say something Agent Harper or stand there all day?” he suddenly said, his expression not moving towards her. “Nice perfume by the way. That’s your giveaway.”
She tried not to react. It was a nice trick but one any half decent Unisco operative would have observed. The fact Noorland worked in a place like this didn’t mean he was incapable. Far from it. He’d been a highly competent field operative before it had been decided his future lay elsewhere. “You’re needed for a briefing. They’ve gotten everyone up there. Arnholt sent me down to get you.”
“I’m busy.” Noorland didn’t sound impressed. “Hold on…” Still his scraper ran across the metal disc, no sign of getting up coming from him. “This is delicate work. The key’s in the grooves.”
“I’m sure it is.” She tried to sound polite, difficult when he was doing his best not to acknowledge her. “What are you building, anyway?”
“Projector plate for a particle barrier.”
“I didn’t know Unisco needed a particle barrier right now.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It’s classified. Need to know. Eyes only.” He sounded disinterested and she felt a flash of annoyance rush through her. That was the thing about Noorland. Everyone said how much of a genius he was, nobody ever mentioned what a dick he could be while doing it. Outside the office, he wasn’t too bad. On duty, he was a nightmare.
“You going to come over when you’re done?”
“I’ll be a minute.”
“Okay. I’ll pass it on.” She still wasn’t entirely happy about being relegated to the role of messenger. “See you over there.”
“Okay. Have fun.”
She paused a moment. “Why are you building a projector plate from scratch?” She couldn’t help but ask the question. “You can buy them, right?”
“Not to these specs. And well, the ones you buy are limited. They run on limited power and lifespan. Try to modify them, they’ll stop working. It’s like they build them to fail. Meh they probably do. Who wants something that works brilliantly for the rest of your life? It’s a consumer business after all, right? Sell cheap and frequently. It’s what’s wrong with the kingdoms, I tell you. Meh, mine’s better. Sorry, what was your question?”
She got the feeling she wasn’t going to get anything useful out of him. “Sorry. I’ll leave. Bye, Al.”
“See you in a minute.” Finally, he turned to look at her. “Seriously. Just let me finish this. It’s delicate. Once you start, you got to finish. Otherwise it compromises the entire pattern. We don’t want that, okay?!”
Okocha was bent down by a central projector in the middle of the floor of the briefing room, his fingers working overtime to set it all up. The call had come for all available agents to attend, Nick even told to come despite his leave. Brendan had informed him they wanted another set of eyes, another opinion and nothing had changed with his situation. A little frustrating but not unsatisfying. He’d given him a nod and gone to sit down near Lysa Montgomery, David Wilsin and Tod Brumley.
Arnholt was stood by the wall, tall and straight backed, no hint of a leaning and he watched Okocha like a hawk. Seconds later, a hologram flashed into life and a figure Nick didn’t recognise appeared in the image, a tall woman with short cropped black hair and iron coloured eyes. Neither did Wilsin or Lysa but Brumley nodded.
“That’s Agent Perrit,” he said quietly. “She’s a credit sniffer.”
“A what?” Lysa asked, glancing around at the combat instructor with interest.
“She follows the credits,” Wilsin said, adjusting himself in his seat for comfort. “You never heard that term before?”
“I’ve never heard it called that before,” she admitted. It was true, she hadn’t. “But why’s she here.”
“Guess we’re about to find out,” Nick said as Okocha stepped away from the projector and nodded at Arnholt. Roughly about the same time, Al Noorland sloped in, stretching his arms with a mug in his hand.
“Okay, attention,” Arnholt said, his voice calm and quiet but drawing maximum attention. “We’re here because Agent Okocha has a presentation to make in regards of our situation, a collation of the events here over not just the last several weeks but several years. We want operational theories and thoughts. Anything looks suspicious, you bring it up. Those of you who don’t know, this is Agent Beverly Perrit, she’s been following inquiries in conjunction with Agent Okocha at the other end of the line.”
“Hi,” Perrit said brightly. “How’s the weather out there, guys?”
Okocha cleared his throat, a ball of holographic jumble appearing out the top of the projector and he reached down to it, pulling it out to scatter the one image into a variety.
“Right,” he said. “Okay so it starts with this tournament. Always does. There’s been some strange stuff ongoing here. Let’s look at that first. Six years ago, Reims decided to bid to hold the Quin-C here and made all the arrangements. They managed to outbid Cerulia and Litnos in Serran and Tam Rivers in Premesoir to hold it here. But the big problem they faced was it was highly inadequate to hold a tournament. So, they needed huge amounts of revenue to turn it into what we’ve seen today.”
“Speak for yourself,” Perrit said dryly, bringing a laugh from some members of the team. “It’s raining where I am, and I can see a hair salon for Vazarans out the window.”
“As we all know, the cities bidding for the tournament usually end up paying for getting it all up to scratch,” Okocha said. “It’s different in this case. There’s no real government out here, Reims offered to pay for it. Hence the fortune it no doubt cost. These hotels and stadiums don’t come cheap.” He paused to take a drink of water. “Agent Perrit, you’ve been checking into Reims’ financial activities. You found anything untoward?”
“Only that they’re absolutely haemorrhaging money. I’m not joking. Not just Reims but every company under their remit, every company Claudia Coppinger has a controlling interest is slowly being gutted so gradually it’s hard to spot unless you’re specifically looking for it. Profits are down massively, they’re making just enough to keep afloat, to pay their employees and their taxes but that’s it. Companies excelling before Reims got their hands on them are now struggling to keep their heads above the water.”
“So, is it bad management?” Fagan asked. “Or…”
“I don’
t think so. They’ve not dropped the quality of their work. They’re still making a stupid amount of credits in theory but they’re spending them as fast as they make them and it’s not entirely clear as to where they’re going. Some of them were earmarked for the Quin-C development, some are marked for going down on research and development. Judging by some of the sums here, they’re sinking more into R and D than any other company in the five kingdoms. In short, they could pay for the tournament and they have but they might have overreached themselves with it.”
“Bad management and greed,” Fank Aldiss mused. “Is there a worse combination?”
“Yep, anger issues and live ammunition,” Wilsin said. It brought a smattering of laughter, Brendan cleared his throat to warn them back on the issue.
It was Okocha who spoke next, rubbing his hands together before moving a holographic file close to the centre.
“I went back and did this digging, I wondered why Claudia Coppinger wanted so badly for this tournament to be in Vazara. I mean, she isn’t Vazaran, so she can’t claim national pride. I did find this, and I just want to share it with you all, see what you think. Very rare footage, she doesn’t like to be recorded apparently.”
He pushed down on it and the video clip started to play, a picture of a middle-aged woman with brown hair stood on the steps of the Ubiqitor. Everyone recognised the structure, they’d all seen a picture of it at some point, the big temple in Tagos, the former capital of Vazara. She’d chosen a good spot, right in front of the bust of Gilgarus and Melarius. The sound abruptly came on, catching her halfway through a sentence.
“… Lovely country. Why do I want it here? I can’t give you just one answer. And I don’t think I should be able to either. What I should ask you, not just you the media but the ICCC and everyone who loves spirit calling, why shouldn’t you want it here? I’ve spent a lot of time in the kingdom over the years and it’s been good to me.”