by Piers Platt
I’m never going to get rid of the memories. Not without that money. And I need Paisen to get that money. Hell, the Group is going to find me again soon enough – I need her just to stay alive.
Rath lay back on his side, pillowing his head on the Forge. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged them. He could feel sleep taking hold already, his heartbeat slowing as his body relaxed again. He shivered again, grimacing as he submitted to the dreams.
Damn it, Paisen. Where are you!?
* * *
He stayed at the dam for two weeks, spending each day scouring the facility for any small clue as to where 339 had gone, or whether she had been there since their initial encounter. At night he slept fitfully, but the respite allowed his wounds some time to heal. On the morning of the fourteenth day, he made a final, thorough search of the entire area, and came up empty again. He left one of the micro-drones attached to a wall in the spillway, broadcasting its feed. Then he pulled his Forge on and hiked back through the woods to the road, eventually hitching a lift with a farmer back to the closest town.
“You want me to drop you off at the rental center?” the farmer asked him.
“Hm?” Rath had been lost in thought.
“The rental center, so you can get yourself a car,” the farmer prompted.
“No,” Rath shook his head. “Wait – yes. The rental center would be perfect,” he said.
Paisen had an air car and a hoverbike when I saw her last. Maybe she rented them, and they have some kind of record of that.
In town, Rath thanked the farmer, gifting him two of the micro-drones, before pushing open the door of the rental center.
“Need a vehicle?” the woman behind the counter asked, looking up from an ancient paper crossword puzzle book.
“Uh, no,” Rath told her. “I’m a private investigator, trying to track down a woman that might have been here some years back and rented a car from you. I was hoping you might let me check your records …?”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve never done that before, so let me check with my manager.”
She made a quick phone call, and explained the situation. Then the woman hung up and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but he says we only share our customer data with the police, and we’d need to see a warrant first.”
“Ah,” Rath said. “Right. Do you rent hoverbikes?”
“Mostly air cars and moving vans, but we have a couple bikes, yes.”
Rath dug through his memories, dredging up the report he had filed after the assignment, to find the make and model of the bike Paisen had left at the spillway during their first encounter. “Do you have any Ryuko SkyStreamers? The medium-range model?”
She frowned. “Don’t think so. Our bikes are all Steeplechasers.”
Rath sighed. “Okay, thanks for your time.”
“No problem. Good luck finding her!”
Rath rode a public bus back to Lakeworld’s largest city, then spent the afternoon auctioning off his auto-pistol and grenades via a black market website. They didn’t net him much in the way of cash, but it would be enough for another few space flights, if he was careful. He was reluctant to build more – his Forge’s supply canisters were nearly half depleted, and once gone, replacing them would be prohibitively expensive.
And the Group is probably keeping tabs on anywhere that sells Forge canisters.
When the funds deposited to his account, he walked across town to the spaceport, stopping inside to stand in front of the massive departures board and scan the options available to him.
Where now? I don’t have a clue. I could go back to the rental center and pose as a cop, but I don’t know what a warrant looks like. It’s probably electronic. Even if I got their data, there’s an excellent chance Paisen didn’t rent from them, and even if she did, she would have just left a cover identity on file … the name and home address would all be bogus. How do you find a missing contractor, who can take on any appearance she wishes, and has spent years successfully hiding from both the galaxy’s most powerful criminal organization, and the Interstellar Police?
Above him, the departures board flickered through a set of changes, letters and numbers cascading and rearranging to show the flights that were now available. A planet caught his eye. Yeah. That’s the last place I should go right now.
But slowly, his smile faded.
Well … why not? I’m not going to find her on my own: I need help. From someone who has found contractors before …
6
“Good morning, Miss Dartae,” the security guard said.
The young woman looked up from rifling through her messenger bag and smiled back. “Good morning! How are you today?”
“I’m good, thanks, ma’am. And you?”
“Been better,” she admitted. “I think I left my badge at home.”
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll just sign you in with bio-signatures.” He pressed a button at his station, and a retractable arm extended from the security gate. “Fingerprint on the scanner as usual, and then the eye scanner will confirm it.”
“You got it,” she said. She placed her finger on the scanner and waited while the arm aligned its lens with her eye.
“Hey, weren’t you taking vacation?” the guard asked, as they waited.
“Yup,” she agreed. “Just dropping by quickly, I left something in my office I need to pick up.”
“One more time with the eye scan,” he said. “It came back fuzzy, probably because I was talking to you – sorry, Miss Dartae!”
“No problem,” she said.
“There we go! You’re all set,” he told her. She stepped through the gate; he met her on the far side, holding out a temporary badge. “This will work for today, get you through the internal gates in your department.”
“Thanks,” she said, flashing him another smile.
She made her way deeper into the building, passing through two more security gates – unmanned this time – before entering a long hallway. On her right was a locker room; on her left an observation window looked into a laboratory, where a group of engineers in clean room garb were assembling a device on a table. One looked up and saw her, and waved. She smiled and waved back, then headed down the hall until she found an office labeled Ongela Dartae, PhD. – Tactical Applications Development. She ducked into the office, set the messenger bag on the desk, and booted up the computer, using her fingerprint to log on.
She searched through several folders until she found what she was looking for, and then plugged a small data drive into the machine. A warning message popped up immediately, reminding her that external drives were not permitted, per security policy. The woman waited patiently as the drive ran a script, and then the message disappeared, and she copied the files across with several quick commands.
* * *
The security guard looked up from his monitors as the woman entered the building. He frowned. “Spill something on your shirt?” he asked her over the intercom.
“Morning, Jacksin,” she replied, then looked down at her shirt. “Oh, did I spill something? Where?”
“No, not that shirt, Miss Dartae – the one you were wearing when you first came in,” he replied.
She frowned. “Jacksin, are you confusing me with somebody else?”
He shook his head, “No, ma’am.” He typed on his computer for a few seconds. “You checked in this morning already, just ten minutes ago. I have it right here on the screen. You said you came back from vacation early because you had to get something in your office, but you forgot your badge.”
“I came back from vacation early because Dr. Goodpren called and asked me to. And I have my badge.” She held it up, and their eyes met. “Jacksin, sound the alarm.”
* * *
You have got to be kidding, Paisen thought, as the alarm klaxons blared through the office’s PA system. The data had finished copying, so she ran one more program from the drive, deleting the computer’s short term memory to erase any trace of her recent
activity, before shutting it back down. She pulled the data drive out of the researcher’s computer, and slipped it into a pocket on her Forge’s messenger bag.
“Attention, all personnel: internal and external gates are on lock-down while security conducts a building search. Please remain in your designated areas and comply with all security requests. This is not a drill.”
She pulled up the building’s schematic on her heads-up display, but knew already it was a futile gesture – once locked down, the lab was designed to be completely sealed.
I can stash the evidence, though.
She looked around the office quickly, searching for a place to hide the bag. The air conditioning vent she deemed too obvious a solution, and the ceiling was solid, with no removable tiles or utility pipes. Finally her eyes lit on a small tree in a deep planter in the corner of the room.
When she was done, she walked down the hall to the locker room, where she dumped a small trash can filled with potting soil into one of the toilets, watching to make sure it flushed cleanly. She sloughed off Ongela Dartae’s face, darkening her skin tone and hair at the same time, and adopting a neutral identity she had crafted some years back. She was washing the dirt off her hands at the sink when the security team found her.
She eyed them in the mirror. “Hello, gentlemen.”
* * *
Paisen stood in line behind another defendant, largely ignoring the proceedings. Like the building it was situated in, the courtroom itself was showing its age acutely, with paint flaking off the pre-fabricated walls and a myriad of stains on the carpeted floor. Paisen wondered how many of the stains were from blood.
“Next,” the judge sighed. Paisen felt the bailiff push her forward until she stood on a set of white footprints painted on the carpet. She waited in silence as the judge reviewed the case on his datascroll.
“What were you doing inside the building?” he asked her, not bothering to look up.
“Trespassing.”
The judge snorted. “Apparently.”
“Don’t I get a lawyer?”
“Do you see anyone else getting a lawyer?” the judge asked, rhetorically. “I don’t know where you’re from, but out here we don’t really bother with them. Faster and easier if I just handle it all. Is there something you’d like to say in your defense?”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Paisen said.
“Anything that we know of,” he agreed. “But the report says breaking and entering, and identity theft. Did you do that?”
Paisen cocked her head to one side. “If I plead guilty, will you cut my sentence down?”
The judge shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
She considered for a second, then nodded. “I broke into the lab.”
“Five years, hard labor,” he decided, tapping on his datascroll. “Eligible for parole in eighteen months. Next!”
The bailiff ushered her out a side door into a small anteroom, where an armed guard was waiting. The guard checked her name against his datascroll, scanned the tracker cuff around her ankle to ensure it was still active, and tested that her handcuffs were still firmly in place. Then he nodded to the bailiff.
“I have custody,” he confirmed. He took Paisen by the elbow and led her out a side door onto the street. A large wheeled bus with fencing welded on over the windows stood idling at the curb.
“Get in.” The guard handed her a ration bar and a bottle of water. “Bus leaves at sunset.”
He palmed the door switch and it slid open. Paisen climbed onto the bus, and found an empty seat toward the back. On impulse, as she did every day, she checked the counter bracelet she had taken from Rath, sliding it clear of the handcuffs and tapping on the device’s button. To her surprise, a golden 50 appeared, rotating slowly in the air over her wrist. She turned it off quickly.
He made it. I wait four years for him, and he makes fifty the same day I get busted earning some cash on a freelance job. Well, I hope he escaped. And I hope he just lays low and waits on Lakeworld … and doesn’t try something stupid.
She leaned her head against the window, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
7
Director Nkosi found it slightly unnerving, as always, to be briefing a blacked out viewscreen, knowing the three senators on the other end of the line could hear and see her clearly. But the director’s face betrayed none of that uncertainty as she completed the quarterly update.
“Q2 saw a total of three hundred and seven successful missions, up from two hundred and ninety-two in Q1. That brings the quarter’s revenue to a record high just shy of a billion dollars, while profit is up thirty-two percent, year over year.” She advanced the slide presentation, showing a new chart. “We attribute the increase in revenue to the client referral program piloted in Q4 of last year, which is continuing to show strong results for us. And lastly, our public incidents remain close to zero for the year.”
“With the notable exception of Alberon, Director,” one of the senators pointed out. Despite the software garbling the senator’s voice to make it unrecognizable, the director detected more than a hint of annoyance. “I would argue that the Guild has never been more in the public eye than it is today,” the senator continued.
“That mission, Senators, was ill-advised. We conducted it at your behest, let me remind you, and over my objections,” Nkosi shot back.
“Which makes me wonder if you torpedoed the mission on purpose,” the senator replied.
“Absolutely not. I won’t deny that your oversight role has been a source of tension for me in running my family’s business, but I would never do anything to jeopardize the growth and success of that business,” the director told them.
The line was silent. The director cleared her throat to cover the awkwardness. “With that as segue, I’d like to take this opportunity to share a proposal with the Oversight Committee, if you’ll permit me?” she asked. Nkosi tapped on her computer, and a new set of slides appeared. “Senators, you’ve seen the numbers from this quarter. If trends continue, this will be the eighth straight year of increased revenue and profits for the Group. Not coincidentally, it also marks my eighth year as director, after the family asked my uncle to step down … under him, the Group was not only unprofitable, but was headed for insolvency.”
“Indeed. That’s why we demanded his resignation and asked the family to appoint a new director,” one of the senators agreed.
“And I’m thankful you did,” the director gave the camera a tight smile. “But I’ve proved my worth, I believe: the numbers show it. We’re operating leaner, with lower costs and fewer public incidents, all while achieving a higher mission success rate and netting higher fees. I believe it’s time to look for growth opportunities. We polled our customer base and we believe the market is still underserved, and in fact, the survey showed there are a number of other services the Group is well-positioned to provide.”
“What are you proposing, exactly?” a senator asked.
“A two-fold strategy. First, organic expansion. Over the next five years, we’ll recruit and train enough contractors to increase our headcount by sixty percent. We are the market leader, but the majority of contracts are still being fulfilled by independent, local operators, at much lower price points than our own. But we control a forty percent market share, and the market is expected to grow, so increasing by sixty percent is actually a fairly conservative staffing plan – there’s potential to add more, if we see fit.”
She tapped on her keyboard, and the slides advanced again. “Second, I’d like to pilot a program where we roll out additional services to bolster our traditional offering. Specifically, we’ll begin offering a suite of services centered around espionage – corporate, mainly, though we believe there’s a lot of opportunity for inter-government spy work in the Territories. Our contractors are perfectly equipped to deliver against those client needs, though we will likely invest in some retraining efforts to round out their skillset. And those espionage services can also be put
to work directly for you, augmenting the limited activities of the official agencies that do that work for the Federacy today. To date, our annual growth rate has been constrained by the limits your committee placed on me. We project these initiatives will lead to a twenty-five percent compound annual growth rate over the next five years. We have the capital set aside, it just remains for you to give me the green light to invest it.” She finished, and steepled her hands on the desk.
The silence dragged, and again, the director had the impression they were discussing something offline, keeping her on mute. Then one of the senators spoke.
“Director, thank you. The quarterly results, as always, are strong. Frankly, we need a minute to discuss your expansion proposal, however.”
“Of course,” she said. “I await your decision.” She hung up and sat back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the arm rest.
* * *
“Is she off the line?” Senator Lizelle asked.
“Yes,” Senator Blackwell said. “Just the three of us.”
Senator Mastic started in. “The plan is compelling – and the espionage expansion is particularly interesting, I have to admit,” she observed.
“The Federacy is sorely under-equipped in that capability today,” Blackwell agreed. “The last Security Committee report I read said that the Territories, in aggregate, have more funding and better capabilities for intelligence-gathering.”
“In aggregate,” Lizelle noted. “Lucky for us, they’re not acting in concert against us.”
“Not yet,” Mastic said, pointedly.
“I’m sorry, are you two actually considering this plan?” Lizelle asked. “It’s a clear violation of the principles this committee was founded to uphold! Principles which were set down and have not changed in over two hundred years, I might add.”