Redemption Protocol (Contact)

by Mike Freeman

  14.

  Havoc walked with Stone toward two women and a man standing at the end of the bar. The three of them looked somewhat under the weather, but nowhere near as bad as Stone.

  “Hi. I was going to take Stone to the automed, unless anyone here is a doctor?”

  The two women turned to the tall man with silver hair. He hurriedly gulped down a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Oh cock.” He took a quick slurp of his drink. “Chaucer, doctor.”

  Havoc pointed at Stone.

  Chaucer looked Stone up and down.

  “Feeling a little under the weather, darling?”

  Stone nodded.

  Chaucer raised his arm toward the nearby armchairs.

  “Why don’t you step into my office?”

  Chaucer escorted Stone away. Havoc was left with the two women. He felt an icy breeze wafting over him.

  “Hi, I'm––”

  The nearest woman cut him off.

  “We know who you are, Mr Havoc.”

  Ah, Havoc thought, his criminal status finally resulting in the treatment that he was accustomed to.

  “And you are?”

  “Leveque. Psychologist.”

  The small oriental girl with messily parted shoulder length hair poked her head around Leveque.

  “Hi, I'm Violette Hwan. I’m a systems programmer.”

  Leveque regarded him icily.

  “And what is it you do, Mr Havoc?”

  Havoc worked in a male dominated industry. Talking to two pretty girls was an unusual treat. Leveque's level of hostility was much more familiar. Havoc could have skewered a rabbit on Leveque's tone of voice.

  “I don't know yet. I didn’t volunteer for this. I woke up here.”

  Leveque nodded as she took this in, clearly not believing a word. She stared at him, focused and determined. It looked like this level of hostility didn’t come naturally to her.

  “Well then more generally, Mr Havoc, what is it that you do?”

  Havoc thought it couldn’t hurt to try again, given it had all been so remarkably collegial to this point.

  “Please call me John.”

  “Mr Havoc suits me fine, thank you.”

  “Is there something you want to say to me, Miss Leveque?”

  Leveque pressed her lips tightly together while she thought about it.

  “Yes, yes there is. First it's Mrs Leveque. And I didn't volunteer for this either. I woke up in this place. I was redirected here while I was still asleep and on my way home.”

  Havoc gestured toward the meeting rooms.

  “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”

  Leveque balled her hands into fists.

  “No, I don't mind who hears this. I’m the crew psychologist. I have a professional responsibility to treat you. And I will do that. But before that, before we get properly under way, I want to say something.”

  Havoc nodded, Leveque collected herself and Havoc braced himself accordingly.

  “I don't approve of you being here, Mr Havoc. On an Alliance vessel. Of which the Tyurin Republic is a part. You, Mr Havoc, are a terrorist and a mass murderer. I knew people on Jemlevi. You killed them. You can't justify what you did. I can't understand why you're here.”

  Leveque shook her head.

  Havoc didn’t react. He never explained or resisted any more. The more he tried to explain, the more people assumed the worst. Plus, if he was honest, he just didn't care any more.

  Leveque’s eyes flared with anger.

  “How do you justify yourself?”

  He didn’t answer. Leveque had the whole room's attention as she continued, building in volume as she went.

  “I was on my way home to see my kids for the first time in four years and they redirect me here, without even telling me, so I'm not going to see my kids for years now, five years, probably, at least.”

  Leveque’s voice cracked a bit. Hwan reached out and squeezed Leveque's arm. Leveque clasped Hwan's hand in her own as she continued.

  “But that's not enough. I find I've got to share a ship with a mass murderer. Who killed people I knew. And he’s here to do, ‘I don’t know’. I don't want you here, Mr Havoc; I don't want your kind of people here.” Leveque waved her arm in the direction of the security personnel, who were sitting up as attentively as meerkats. “They should lock you up, or refreeze you or something. What I don't understand most of all is doing what you did, killing all those poor people, why you didn't give yourself up?”

  Tears spilled from Leveque’s eyes as she glared at him. She dropped Hwan's hand and stood up, jabbing her finger as she shouted at him.

  “Why didn't you? Why didn't you give yourself up and let people have justice? Why?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Havoc saw the meeting room doors were now open. Michael Abbott, Chief Ambassador to the Alliance, all nine thousand planets of it, stood watching him.

  Leveque shook her head, her bottom lip trembling.

  “Well?”

  Havoc thought Leveque seemed open and warm – the kind of person he would have enjoyed a conversation with, if he could have had that any more. Instead, he could tell she wanted to slap him, though she was too civilized to actually do it. He answered quietly.

  “There isn't a simple answer to that.”

  Leveque got hold of herself.

  “You’re scared of the outcome, that's all. You’re scared of dying yourself.”

  This was so patently ridiculous that he laughed abruptly.

  A spark of anger flared up in Leveque’s eyes. Her fury blazed for a second then extinguished. His eyes were barren and joyless. She could see it. He wasn’t laughing at her. He was laughing at the idea of what she'd said.

  She frowned. They regarded each other.

  “Yes, well, that's all I wanted to say, thank you.”

  Hwan put her arm around Leveque as they walked away.

  Havoc sighed. The diplomatic team was assembled on the raised step that ran across the front of the meeting rooms.

  Abbott's penetrating silver eyes were framed by his famous lion's mane of swept back golden hair. On Abbott's left stood a tall young man wearing a cavalry uniform and leather boots. He had the face of a bull terrier. Havoc thought he bore more than a passing resemblance to the Emperor of the Neuworld Empire. On the young man’s shoulder stood a younger looking lad in similar attire; his boyish good looks, curly hair and blue eyes marking him out as a young girl's heart breaker. Both lads were gazing directly to their right, straight past Ambassador Abbott, and with no small reason.

  On Abbott's right stood a stunning blonde with long hair that curled around her chest. She wore a fitted leather jacket, trousers that were sprayed on to her long legs before widening around her calves and black heeled boots with pointed toes. She stood with her hips tilted in a beguiling stance that only served to emphasize her alluring curves. Her face was attractive, but Havoc thought it had a cold, alabaster quality. His eyes traced familiar contours.

  Chaucer cast to Havoc as he refilled his mug of tea.

  > Oh, to be twenty years younger.

  Havoc glanced at Chaucer in response to his private radio communication.

  > You go for blondes, do you?

  Chaucer looked amused as he subtly tipped his head sideways.

  > I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about the gorgeous young prince. What a stunner.

  Havoc chuckled.

  Chaucer raised an eyebrow as he turned.

  > You're in with the blonde, darling. She can't take her eyes off you.

  “Hmm.”

  Stephanie Calthorpe was the Chief Adviser to Michael Abbott and eighteen years ago had been the fiancée, soon to be ex-fiancée, of a certain Mr John Havoc. She strode toward him with her shoulders back and her head up. Her swinging hips tantalized every man in the room. He admitted it. She looked fabulous.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Hello, Stephanie.”

  She stared at him as she bit down on her ful
l bottom lip.

  Darkwood leaned around the door of his meeting room.

  “Could I have a quick word now, please, John?”

  Saved, he thought, feeling like a calf hoisted out of the lion pit.

  15.

  Havoc joined Darkwood in the meeting room.

  “Come in, John, come in.”

  “Thank you, Mr Darkwood.”

  Darkwood turned the privacy glass opaque. His eyes were dark pools above his aquiline nose and his raven black hair was styled in a sophisticated wave from front to back. Havoc found Darkwood’s appearance innocuous; it was when Darkwood started talking that he grabbed Havoc’s attention – Darkwood’s voice was authoritative.

  “Please call me Lucius. But as you prefer.” Darkwood waved his hand magnanimously; 'you pick', it said. “First, John, I know you have an important question and I will answer it right away.”

  They stood facing each other on opposite sides of the small meeting room. Havoc couldn't quite get to the requested level of informality, at least not yet.

  “Thank you, Mr Darkwood.”

  “The busts don't weigh anything, John. You can relax. They are micro-thin ceramics. Neither do the paintings, the textures sit on aerogel. There. You can breathe now.”

  Havoc laughed.

  Darkwood, laughing, continued, “every one of you military types has got worked up about mass. As you can see, I'm a great admirer of Alexander. I’ve had it suggested that I blame my esoteric interior design on someone else, my brother perhaps, but I say never be ashamed of the things you love.”

  Darkwood looked at him. Havoc smiled and nodded. The atmosphere was relaxed. Havoc spread his hands, indicating the ship around them.

  “So can I ask, Mr Darkwood, what you...?”

  “Ah. Why am I here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had a regrettable advancement four years ago, John, you may have heard about it?”

  Havoc nodded. Darkwood's father and elder brother had been lost in space four years ago. Their ship had never been found. Darkwood's father had viewed business as an alternative form of warfare, where nothing but the annihilation of your competition was your goal, and had acquired enemies with a diligence that bordered on recklessness. The surprise was perhaps that he’d lasted as long as he did.

  Darkwood looked thoughtful.

  “Being appointed the head of Horizon and the ultimate governor of fifty planets has been something of a learning curve for me, John. Having achieved stability at home and, dare I say it, grown up a little in the process, I've become far more interested in what lies beyond. Our role in the universe. How we are, as a species, to survive and prosper.”

  “Is this one of your ships?”

  “Yes. My price of admission, so to speak. We're using one of Horizon’s ships because this mission is so very secret.”

  Darkwood said this in an amused way, adopting the tone of a not-so-subtle stage whisper. He was teasing the proven inability of the Alliance to keep anything secret for long.

  “Horizon sells these ships to the Alliance military, so it's not so lacking in features. She’s fitted out for long range travel and research since this is an LR mission and perhaps much more.”

  Darkwood eyes flashed and he smiled. Havoc was pleasantly surprised. He was sure that the guy running one of the largest privately owned conglomerates in the Alliance could toughen up if needed. But the fact he could also relax was a major bonus.

  “So, why me, Mr Darkwood?”

  “You're the best, John. Or should I say, you’re the best of those on the list I was strongly advised not to take by the Alliance.”

  Darkwood laughed.

  “I believe every name on their recommended list works, either directly or indirectly, for the various nations represented on our mission. Which is not exactly what I want, for obvious reasons.”

  “You realize my status with the Alliance?”

  “Yes I do. But your legal status is not a factor here.”

  Not for you, Havoc thought.

  Darkwood smiled.

  “Besides which, in the circumstances, you will clearly be my man. And a little moral ambivalence could be an asset on occasion.”

  Havoc stiffened.

  “Don't believe everything you hear, Mr Darkwood.”

  Darkwood watched him, his eyes bright.

  “Of course, John, of course.”

  “How did you...?”

  “Pertinax offered you. I understand you owe him a considerable sum of money.”

  “Do you know how I made it out?”

  “I know the medical details. I didn't want to know the specifics of the... situation.”

  Havoc nodded, interested.

  “Your colleagues found you dead. You were oxyperfused but the trauma was too great. You were taken to orbit and frozen. It didn't look impossible to resuscitate you; it just looked extremely... difficult.”

  Expensive.

  Darkwood was trying to find a polite way of saying that medical care costs money, Havoc had needed the best and his associates wouldn't ante up.

  “Your colleagues decided to ship you back to Gevale, payment on receipt.”

  A death sentence. The cheap bastards.

  “And no one was there to pick me up?”

  “Precisely. But Acharya Yadesi of the Morvent Academy was on your ship. Your presence came to light because on arrival there was a dispute at customs between the carrier, the customs people and the crew as they realized that there was no one there to... collect you.”

  Pay for him, in other words.

  “Acharya Yadesi, your Prince of Serendip for the day, overheard this commotion and in particular your name and decided to intervene on your behalf.”

  Darkwood stopped and looked at him with a curious expression.

  “I must say, John, I was fascinated to hear of a man that the Morvent Academy would go out of their way to help.”

  Darkwood paused to give Havoc the opportunity to elaborate.

  Havoc nodded.

  Darkwood gazed at him.

  Havoc said nothing.

  “And not only that, John. My sources tell me that none other than Acharya Laztal himself had a hand in your recovery.”

  Darkwood was shaking his head in what appeared to be nothing short of wonder. Maybe even a hint of... jealousy? Darkwood was clearly privy to information that Havoc was not. He wondered whether he should reveal his ignorance. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

  “Is that unusual?”

  Darkwood clapped his hands in delight.

  “Ha! Dear John, you have no idea.”

  Havoc looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs over his fingertips. His skin felt a little different. He gently squeezed his thumb and fingertips together. He tried to get a sense of what he was feeling but he couldn't place it. It was natural, perhaps, that he felt a bit odd after his death.

  He would have to stop calling it that.

  “So did I die?”

  Darkwood nodded.

  “You were clinically dead for twenty six hours plus the time you were frozen. If the Morvent Academy had not got involved you would not be here.”

  “And Pertinax?”

  “He claimed you immediately.”

  “My routing?”

  “You were routed from the Morvent Academy directly to dock. You must have noticed you were in a Morvent Academy transporter on revival. It caused no small amount of controversy as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Did they break me out for inspection?”

  Darkwood shook his head.

  “They did not.”

  “My identity?”

  “I cannot vouch for their private intelligence but publicly your identity was, how shall I say, accidentally obfuscated.”

  “They found out on arrival?”

  “Indeed.”

  Havoc raised an eyebrow at that.

  “My equipment?”

  “At the Morvent Academy’s request, your agent on Breggalia
forwarded five containers that arrived with you. It's stored in disc five with the security package. It's not been opened although let me say it's been heavily scanned and leaving it at that took an almost inhuman level of diplomatic wrangling. Ultimately though, it is my ship.”

  “Where do I fit into the team?”

  “I think it’s best to leave that to Tyburn. 'Respect the line' is the expression, I believe.”

  Havoc mulled it over.

  Darkwood was the kind of guy that could fade into the background if you weren't watching. Darkwood's agenda sounded genuine, but Darkwood choosing him was an odd choice to make. It was almost guaranteed to antagonize the Alliance. Maybe that was the point?

  “And my return?”

  Havoc’s implied question being, of course, how do you make sure I'm not defrosted with a noose around my neck?

  Darkwood nodded.

  “Don’t worry. We have all the dispensations in place for your arrival back in Hspace.”

  Havoc didn’t even need to try to imagine the million things that could go wrong with that. The Alliance may not have known it was him when they shipped his Morvent Academy pod through Alliance space the first time. They certainly would on his return. Assuming he returned, of course.

  Darkwood stood up.

  “So there we have it. Do you mind if I...?”

  “No, no, of course.”

  “Besides which I think you’re due elsewhere, aren’t you?”

  Tennis.

  Havoc hustled to the training hab.

  16.

  Havoc entered Sim Two of the training hab.

  He stood at the bottom of a tall cylinder, on top of an eight meter wide disc that was covered in advanced fabric. The fabric could move over the disc like that of a running machine but in any direction. The disc could also tilt, rotate and move up and down the cylinder – although Havoc assumed that wouldn’t be necessary for a tennis match; at least, he hoped not.

  Weaver had paired two sims together to provide the opposite sides of a tennis court. Rather than specify visual overlays, Weaver had used the sim’s holo field to project the court onto the sim itself, from the racket over the simulator wand in Havoc’s hand to the stadium packed with virtual spectators that surrounded him. Havoc could just imagine Weaver’s mischievous grin as she dialed that one in. Talking of which, a door opened in the middle of the royal box and out stepped Weaver.