by Trevor Wyatt
I don’t really know how to be with other people. I have always had a sort of contempt for the “civilians” I am sworn to protect. But is that because they deserve my scorn, or because I am afraid to compare myself to them, and find myself wanting? Because, after all, most normal people have relationships; they make friends, they socialize, they get married and have children.
I have done none of these things. I don’t know how to do those things.
Before I met Gresh, I never thought like this. I was always sufficient unto myself.
I can feel the old Anika Grayson pulling at me, urging me to forget the bullshit and stick to video games and casual sex. She’s pretty persuasive.
But I have been trained to take calculated risks. Trying to alter my personality now feels like a calculated risk.
I am going to have to do something about it. But what do people do when they become unhappy with themselves and yearn to change?
They seek professional help.
I set my game console aside with a sigh and pick up my pad. In its search field, I type PSYCHOLOGISTS.
I’m sure this process won’t be completed before I have to go back to work.
But a girl has to start somewhere.
High Crimes
Shadow Agent Chronicles Book 2
A Pax Aeterna Novel
Copyright © 2017 by Pax Aeterna Press
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
Want Trevor Wyatt in your inbox? Get freebies, new release updates, bonus chapters, and more!
Sign up for my newsletter!
No One
Patreus III looms into view in the view screen of the small ship as I make my final approach towards the colony. Run by StarTech, the corporate colony lies at the border of both the Tyreesian space and the The Human Confederation.
“What’s your status?” says the harsh, ratty voice coming through my ship’s comms. This is all still weird for me. I’m not accustomed to working without the overbearing principles and procedures that plague the Terran Armada.
I’m still getting used to not being addressed with my designation, which I’ve shed off for the Terran Separatists. That designation only brought me pain and suffering. Working for the Armada Intelligence always made me live with a target on my back, but now I’m free.
I’m free to do as I please.
I’ve always seen the Armada Intelligence as my life. After all, I joined when I was still a kid, thanks to the Director of Operations Command who found me just after my family died. As you can imagine, growing up in the Armada was all I’ve ever known. Leaving—or rather betraying the trust reposed in me in all my years of hard work—seems like an impossible eventuality.
However, after the events on Sonali Prime, it no longer seemed impossible or unthinkable. It became a reality. Freedom. That’s how it felt like on the day I went to work with the Terran Separatists. Freedom.
Freedom.
Who would have thought that I could have a life other than what I was used to in the Armada? Especially a life that went against everything I stood for with the Armada Intelligence?
I breathe in a lungful of the cold air in the cockpit of the small FTL-capable spaceship. The beeping instruments and slight hum of the vibrating hull and sub-light drive create a background din that I’m all too accustomed to at present. I’ve been with the Terran Separatists for a while, and the Terran Armada hasn’t come looking for me. How poorly they consider their officers. Pity.
“I’m beginning my final descent into the colony,” I tell my team leader on the other side.
“Have you made contact with them yet?” comes the immediate reply.
There’s hesitancy in his voice that’s coupled with impatience—all the terrible qualities you could ever find in a non-spy who tries to do spy work.
The Terran Separatists have been so ineffectual within Terran Union space until I came along. When I joined them, their guerrilla warfare began to pay off because I brought my wealth of operational experience to the table.
I wasn’t called No One in the Terran Armada Intelligence Operations Command for no reason, I would tell them. When they realized the scope of my involvement in the Sonali-Earth war, the formation of the Galactic Council, and the kerfuffle on Sonali Prime that made the intergalactic headlines (crazy fucker wanting to destroy Sonali Prime and all), they immediately committed me to working with their ‘A’ team to get things done.
And get things done, we did. I’ve led them from victory to victory. From conquest to conquest, our trail was littered with the bloods and bodies of men who have chosen to serve the Armada, officers with families to go home to and mouths to feed. We killed many of those who stood in our way. I didn’t like it, but it was necessary.
Nevertheless, these guys don’t want to learn the finer details of spy work—not that I want to teach them everything. One of the greatest rules of working with a group with an institutionalized penchant for disregarding human life is to always remain relevant. Ergo, I won’t be teaching them everything.
Still, there are some things that I need them to learn for my job to be easier; to make our collective jobs easier. I hate having to come to the rescue of someone just because they were too impatient to get things right.
Patience and endurance—these are the two cardinal virtues required for a successive spy work. Not necessarily a badass fighting ability. Not even brute force. No. Patience and endurance. If you’re impatient, you’ll most likely get shot in the head or miss something you shouldn’t have missed, and get your team into trouble.
There’s a word for that. Fucked.
I know because these guys have been getting themselves into trouble over and over again. What would they do without me? Nothing. Where would they be? Fucked.
“Have you made contact?” the man asks again. This time his impatience is obvious.
“Be patient,” I speak back to the man several kilometers away beyond the radio reach of the planet’s scanners.
“I’ll make contact after re-entry. There are some worlds that do a thorough scan of your ship, especially small ones before you even get within range. This appears to be one of such worlds.”
“But how are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t need to remind you of the importance of this mission, do I?”
The man begins to speak in a chiding and patronizing tone. I wish I was close to him so I could kick him in the balls—okay, maybe I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to blow everything up.
But I almost growl at the man’s immense stupidity.
“No, I understand perfectly,” I say. “In fact, it’s because I understand perfectly that I’m going to enter the atmosphere and wait until I’m hailed. My sensors already show that I’m being scanned.”
“Won’t they recognize the transporter signature?” asks another voice. It’s in another language that I am all too familiar with, but the onboard communications translator translates it for me to understand.
I tense up. I don’t know why, but every time I hear the Tyreesians talk, I get tensed. I have to think long and hard about what they’re saying because these bastards can be very tricky. A simple sentence can have as much as a hundred veiled meanings, each of which can be the intended meaning or even an entirely different meaning.
I’m not alone, because even my Separatists friends feel the same way.
They’re a necessary evil as long as they get what they want, which is to purge the Terran Union of its extreme preoccupation by tainting the human society with the blood of foreign species—by all and every means necessary, of course, including working with foreign species.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. I don’t think they’ve developed the technology so well. I don’t see a reason why
they should be able to detect its signature.”
“Get down there fast,” the man says. “We can’t afford to delay any more.”
I feel my face frown before I interpret it as it is. Delay? If anyone has been delaying this, it’s been him all the while. Now he wants to put the blame on me?
Fucking asshole. Go suck Sonali cock.
I’ve always known that he hated my meteoric ascension through the ranks of the Terran Separatists. I’ve acquired immense importance since the day I joined them. I intend to maintain my position—by all and every means necessary, of course. Hell, how else?
‘By all and every means necessary’ is how we roll.
“Roger that,” I say. “Stand by. I’m beginning atmospheric entry.”
The atmosphere of the planet grabs my ship like a sex-starved man grabs his lover. I push the control downwards, plunging the ship into a nose-dive for the planet. Through the view screen, I see the tip of my kite-shaped vessel catch fire, which spreads after covering the entire view screen with a sun-like glare.
The screen shields compensate, reducing the amount of light that’s making its way into the cockpit. The atmosphere of the moon is thin. Seconds later, the resistance to my re-entry ceases and my ship picks up speed ground ward.
I plug in the coordinates to Star Tech’s base, which is south of my position.
“Computer, take over.”
“Complying…”
I feel the control stick jerk as it shifts into auto-pilot.
“Take me to the coordinates,” I say.
“Confirmed,” replies the computer.
Suddenly, my proximity sensors begin to beep. I glance at the dashboard, particularly at my scanner and see two fighters approaching me. I look out my view screen and then my side windows. All I see are thick dark clouds.
I am about to glance down at my scanners when I catch movement. I look again and see an armed fighter flying parallel to my ship. There’s a twin jet on my other side.
“Warning,” says the computer, “you are being targeted. Engaging evasive maneuvers.”
I hold my breath.
“Negative,” I bark. “Maintain current course and bearing.”
I know StarTech’s protocol all too well. Or at least, I think I do. It’s been a while since I’ve dealt directly with these folks.
The warning beep keeps on going for a few more seconds. Then, it ceases and the fighter jets peel off, flying away.
I exhale.
StarTech’s assessment protocol for single piloted ships has come under intense scrutiny, especially from the Terran Council. StarTech, who has spent a lot of money in terms of legal fees and lobbying, has maintained that their protocol is necessary to prevent corporate espionage.
In their opinion, someone who has something to hide, or has some nefarious purpose on one of their corporate colonies, would evade or fire upon their ships just at the sound of warning.
I don’t agree with them, but since it’s working for them, great.
“Unidentified vessel, this is security command at StarTech Beta Research Complex, come in,” says a voice through my comms.
“Go ahead, command.”
“Maintain current bearing and course and land on the landing pad,” says the command. “An officer will be there to check you out.”
“Roger that, command,” I reply. “Please confirm pad number.”
“No pad number,” replies security command with a chuckle.
“It’s the only landing pad we’ve got. As you can imagine, we’re a small base. We don’t get many visitors.”
“Roger that, command,” I say, “I’m just here to deliver my goods and I’ll be off.”
“I hear you,” he says. “Security command out.”
I decide that I like this man at security command. I hope he doesn’t have to die.
The complex is a five-story building that is shaped like a star with five tips that correspond to five quadrants. It is located on a grassy stretch of land that’s bordered about five kilometers out by barren lands. There are several outlying buildings, but none as large as the main complex.
The landing pad is right beside the complex. It’s in a fenced-in area at the west of the complex, with a path that connects it to the complex’s side entrance. On the edges of the fence are floodlights to dispel the darkness.
The computer lands the ship square in the center of the landing pad and powers down the engine.
“Unload cargo,” I command.
Thankfully, this ship is equipped with a function that allows it to unload its cargo outside it without human intervention. I don’t want the customs officer snooping around the ship and finding out something they shouldn’t find out.
“Computer, power up the transporter,” I command again.
“Powering up, transporter,” replies the computer. As the computer speaks, I see a tall man saunter into the landing pad, a security guard behind him. The guard pauses at the entryway, while the man continues towards my ship. He spots my cargo on my right and heads in that direction.
“How long?” I say.
“Five minutes before transporter can be turned on and ready to receive,” the computer replies.
“Open a channel to the team.”
The computer doesn’t respond. Instead, I hear the team leader’s voice again.
“Are you in?” he asks impatiently.
“Yes,” I reply. “Get ready. Five minutes.”
The man chuckles sinisterly. “Oh, we’ll be ready.”
I manually cut the transmission and go out of the ship. I walk down the entry ramp to where the man is examining my cargo beside my ship.
“What’s this?” he asks without giving me a look.
“Seyshallian fruit,” I reply. “I’m delivering them here.”
“Really?” he says, reaching out to physically examine the cargo.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say mildly. “These things are dangerous if you get too close. That’s why we keep them in stasis. Predatory mega flora.”
The man withdraws his hand comically, even doubling back. He glances between me and the cargo, then withdraws his tablet from his pocket to tap in some information.
“Welcome to Patreus III,” he says and walks away, the security guard following him. I watch the man saunter back and out the entry-way without giving me another look, leaving me mystified.
No One
“What a fucking lousy customs officer,” I mutter to myself.
I return to the ship.
“Computer, status on the transporter?”
“Ready to begin transport,” it replies.
“Activate transport. Destination is the landing pad.”
There is a slight hum from the Tyreesian-made transport, like a whirling blade. I walk back outside in time to see numerous shafts of light appearing all around the fenced-in landing pad. The shafts can be measured to about three yards in length and they’re hidden by the fence of the landing pad. After ten seconds, the shafts disappear, leaving a company of men with high-particle assault rifles.
I shake my head to myself. Ever since the Tyreesians developed this technology, the other powers have been trying to catch up. For almost a year.
Unsuccessfully.
This is just yet another instance of a border world that’s being subjected to a Tyreesian inspired raid using the matter transport. Only in this case, they’re using the Separatists because the Separatists are a bunch of dumb fucks. They send us in, then transport in, take what they want, and get the fuck out.
Sure, one day the Terran Union is going to figure out appropriate countermeasures.
Not today, though.
They’re all dressed in thick garb with all manner of secondary weapons attached to holsters or pouches up and down their bodies. Their clothes are themed black, brown, and red; they wear boots on their feet, and some have bandanas tied across their faces to hide their features.
There are about a total of twenty me
n—and yes, I’m the only woman in this mission. They aggregate themselves silently, speaking in hushed tones into two groups. The man I’ve been talking with approaches me after giving orders to the two groups of ten men.
He’s holding a heap of clothes in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. As much as I hated it, the plan I agreed to was to come to the planet without any weapons. I didn’t know how well I was going to be searched so we didn’t want to risk me coming in our full regalia with an assault rifle slung over my back.
I’m actually dressed to evoke lust, in case the line about the fruit didn’t work, because there’s nothing in that cargo that resembles a fruit.
I take the clothes and the rifle.
The man looks up and down at me with incredible vileness. He towers over me, and has an imposing figure. A scar lines his right face, wrinkled with stress and not old age.
I know that the man is barely fifty years old. He isn’t the most brilliant of fighters in the Terran Separatists. Nevertheless, what he lacks in intelligence, wit, and creativity, he more than makes up of in in his brutish nature and boundless brutality.
I return to the ship and quickly change into some new clothes. I check the charges on the weapon. It’s at maximum charge. I draw a quick breath, and then let it out slowly.
“What are you doing?” comes the familiar harsh voice.
I’m standing in the corridor, with my back to the entry ramp. I turn to see Scar Face.
“Getting in the right frame of mind is what I’m doing,” I reply, walking towards him. He leads me back on the landing pad, where the two groups of armed, deadly terrorists are lining the two sides of the entry way.
They are silent, their weapons primed. Each has their finger on the trigger and ready to execute the carefully crafted plan—a plan crafted with the help of the Tyreesians. If we follow everything in the letter, we will run this colony to the ground and take what we need in the thirty minutes that we have left…but of course, nobody knows if we have thirty minutes left.