Timberwolf: Wrath is Coming

by Tom Julian

  “All by himself?” Timberwolf grinned, already knowing the answer to this next part.

  “If he gets Highland, the Assault Corps will jump off the sidelines and stand behind him one hundred percent. He’s their patron saint. We won’t be able to hold them back. The first thing they’ll do is turn on the D.P.E. and we’ll all be dead in a week.”

  “So I guess that’s it?”

  Conrad shut off the monitors and Kizik blinked away. Timberwolf got up to leave. “What’s in the box, Timber?” Dr. Tier called to him as he reached the door.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Timberwolf left before Dr. Tier could ask again or order Capote to block the door. The burly man followed Timberwolf swiftly, knowing his presence was no longer needed.

  “Is this the right thing?” Dr. Tier asked Conrad once they had the room to themselves.

  The young man was good counsel because he didn’t have any fear of being wrong. Dr. Tier respected that and overlooked his arrogance. She had never seen him hesitate before, but he did now. “It’s a very bad call, but we can’t sit this out.” Dr. Tier nodded and Conrad showed himself out. He knew when she needed to think things through on her own.

  Goddamn, Dr. Tier thought. She popped one of the blue pills she kept in her pocket in an unmarked container. It was Terecine, an illegal opiate. For just a second she felt the shame of being an addict, but then the calming effect of the stuff came over her and the pressure in her head gave way to a heavy giddiness. As the stress melted away, she ran through a few of the images of Timberwolf’s encounter with Kizik on a tablet.

  Jackhammer had been the name of the operation. The team had been told that Kizik was the target and that he was weakened and confused by a biological agent dropped weeks before. Neither of those things was true. Kizik had been at full strength and the real target of the operation had just walked out the door. Who’s your best guy? She recalled that it was those four words that had kicked all of this off years ago. Who’s your best guy? Such a casual question for all the trouble it caused.

  CHOICES MADE

  Gray loved the activity, being part of the prep before a fight. The Clergy had sent intelligence that Sergey Dacha was aboard a freighter called Noel heading out to Saavas. They’d catch it within a few days and board it, taking Sergey. It should be a cakewalk, and Gray wanted the crew to gain the experience of working together.

  He swept through Nemesis, slapping men on the back and sharing off-color jokes with the shy, pious youngsters. Some warmed to him, eyes wide with the unexpected camaraderie. Some backed away sheepishly, unsure how to react. Gray was a legend of the Assault Corps, a former general of brutal efficiency. But here he was, smiling as he helped clean rifles and prep armored rigs, his fingers black with grease. He made his way through the ship, learning each man’s surname, mostly Believer names chosen by religious families.

  Sebaldi…Barnabas…Blaise…Vitus…Windwhistle…Mose…Pinther…

  But it wasn’t just that his excitement was getting the better of him. Gray knew his crew was untested, regardless of what their dossiers said. He needed their absolute dedication and he knew how to get it. The crew had been told he was a former drill sergeant, a breaker of men, but they were seeing a protector, a favorite uncle.

  Thaum…Ahmed…Cisus…Scariot…Mountainrock…Ulric…

  Gray needed them to adore him so when he changed, it would shock the living hell out of them. He needed them to hear his voice as the voice of the Almighty and obey Him ferociously.

  Dov…Neviim…Tanakh…Bison…Forestground…Swiftsilver…

  They’ll love me now so they’ll hate me later.

  And then they’d sacrifice anything to stay in his good graces.

  Gray watched Michael, clipboard in hand in the cargo bay. He barked orders as crewmen hustled about hauling containers, growing crisp at the slightest misstep. Gray knew he had anger in his own soul, a profound amount of anger, but he pitied Michael for snapping at men for not moving boxes fast enough. If only he’d stayed in the Assault Corps, he’d have been a better man, Gray thought.

  But Gray hadn’t given Michael much choice. After his days running basic training, Gray was given command of a Breacher unit that snuck up on enemy vessels and planted nuclear charges. Michael was top-rated, but Gray cut him from the squad for disobeying an order. A direct order, expressed loud and clear. Timberwolf had been in that unit as well, two sides of the same coin.

  The Breachers had been Gray’s first combat command. He had gotten it late in his career when he was in his early forties. An injury fighting insurgents on Ceres had prohibited him from getting rated for combat drops and he’d sat out the war with the Phaelon as he’d trained class after class of rabid dogs to go fight them.

  Gray had lived vicariously through those he trained, reading messages and posts from men slogging through the Red Forest on Phaelon Prime before the nukes were used, the surge through the Knife Valley, the final approach on the Throne country. Even as he was safe and bored at Fort Chancellor on Earth, he felt like a part of him was out there, giving the Phaelon hell.

  Of all the men he’d ever trained, Timberwolf Velez was the best—such that he even scared Gray a little. It was an absence behind his eyes when he fought, like his mind was elsewhere while his body operated. He was unnaturally calm and collected under pressure, physically vicious and unnervingly precise.

  Timberwolf and Michael together had been a deadly combination, the backbone of the Breacher squad. But we all make choices, Gray thought, though he knew that wasn’t true. Michael had made a bad choice for the right reason, but Timberwolf never seemed to make any choices; he just was. He simply did his job as efficiently and effortlessly as possible. He existed as a natural force, as reliable and unforgiving as the pull of gravity.

  He realized he’d been staring at Michael, and for an instant the past was present and the three of them—Gray, Michael, and Timberwolf—were over Enceladus again. The old freighter they were training on was breaking apart. Timberwolf’s rig was dark and the man was stuck on the ship’s hull.

  I can reach him! Gray remembered Michael’s voice crackling desperately again over his earbud. Hold! Gray had ordered.

  But Michael didn’t hold. He dove down and pulled Timberwolf from the disintegrating hulk and through the ice blow kicking up from the moon below. There was no doubt he had saved Timberwolf’s life.

  Gray had been grateful and thankful, eternally so. To lose Timberwolf, the best chip that had ever come from his own block, would have been devastating. But even as he’d saved Timberwolf, Michael had failed to follow Gray’s order to hold. Cutting Michael from the squad had been cruel, though necessary, and Gray was sorry about it still—especially now, looking at the man Michael had become; petty and grudge-filled, here for the substantial paycheck, not the mission.

  Michael could have gone back to a regular Assault Corps unit. Men were cut from elite units like the Breachers all the time. Gray had offered to leave the details of his dismissal out of Michael’s file, but the man was too proud. He left the Assault Corps and bounced around as a mercenary, earning the chip on his shoulder as well as the burns on his face. Looking back, Gray would have chosen to do it again—let Michael fall so Timberwolf could rise.

  For a horrible instant, Gray recalled the time at Purity Hospital after operation Jackhammer, a more desperate time. Timberwolf was raging, six orderlies were trying to hold him back, and then he melted to the floor, face soaked in tears. What’s here? What’s in my head? he screamed over and over for hours. What’s here? What’s in my head? Gray had thought that if anyone could, Timberwolf could handle contact with the Arnock. Gray tracked his own downfall to that moment as Timberwolf lay on the floor, the horrible choice that had started both their ruin.

  Gray shook the memory and grinned, thinking that Timberwolf was out there right now, tracking and watching for them, kneading together the intelligence and lying in wait. There was an endgame in play here, an old clash
infused with new rules. He knew that at some point soon, Michael, Timberwolf, and he might have guns pointed at each other. He wondered who would be man enough to pull the trigger.

  THE BELIEVER

  Believer Citadel—Haven

  Jacob Bin Cavill was a cardinal of the Believer order. He had thought himself a cagey person, someone others got out of the way for. That was until he met Emmanuel Gray. That bastard. That unworthy, soulless hypocrite.

  Before meeting Gray, Jacob was the prime cardinal, with 612 lesser cardinals under him, overseeing the order on over two thousand worlds. Now he was just one of six cardinals serving Prime Cardinal Claire Dais on the Believer cradle world of Haven. In the short history of the Believers, there had been forty-five prime cardinals; their peers jostled for power and pushed each other aside as the winds of power shifted. The longest reign had been six years, the shortest a week and a half. Cardinal Jacob was in his third year when he was pushed aside. All because of that forked-tongued charlatan.

  Cardinal Jacob sat in his humble quarters, deep within the Believer Citadel on Haven. He sneered at the thought of Sister Claire, plump and purse-lipped, sitting in his old desk on the top floor. He thumbed through the latest report from Izabeck on a smart-device, reading aloud the part that had bothered him the most. Gray had been ranting to the men after he’d used a filthy Sabatin on Fangelsi, “Military men will protect the human race again against all not made in God’s image.” He speaks the Word of God like a barkeep!

  Cardinal Jacob had spent the last of his credibility getting his man Izabeck onto Nemesis. He had also arranged it so that Gray’s crew was comprised of pure Believers, instead of mercenaries. He had the thanks of two dozen powerful families for giving their sons the chance to take part in a sacred mission. But Cardinal Jacob knew Gray would look to spite him even for this, maybe get a few of them killed out of malice.

  When Gray first arrived on Haven, after he’d been forced to abdicate as governor of Nova Turin, he’d been a wreck—a wanted man chased by the D.P.E., a dozen bounty hunters, and even his own beloved Assault Corps. Cardinal Jacob had personally given him a promise of sanctuary. He did it because he saw in Gray a man of conviction—someone who had stood for what he believed in, even as the walls had literally fallen down around him. Cardinal Jacob saw in him a persecuted soldier, some used-up husk offered up to hang beside the thieves. There was also the question of the Dacha brothers. Cardinal Jacob had felt Gray could be very useful in that regard.

  Gray seemed to embrace the Believer faith warmly. It was always easy for soldiers to do. At Cardinal Jacob’s encouragement he took the Oath of The Clergy and soon the bounty hunters, the Assault Corps, and the D.P.E. agents stopped waiting around over Haven. Once he was within the fold, Cardinal Jacob had pulled him aside.

  “Would you care to see the story that God has laid out for you? The reason why you’re here with us?” Cardinal Jacob had asked.

  “I have closed eyes and wait for God’s judgment,” Gray replied, with a wide smile.

  With that, Cardinal Jacob took Gray to an office within the Believer Citadel where spectacled analysts crunched numbers on powerful computers and monitored the investments of the order. Izabeck followed along and kept Cardinal Jacob’s long coat from touching the floor. Cardinal Jacob showed Gray that The Clergy was rich beyond measure, with fingers in the pies of mining operations, terraforming efforts, shipbuilding, pharmaceuticals, and finance. Beyond their own affairs, The Clergy monitored everything that moved in interplanetary commerce. Their sophisticated algorithms and A.I.s combed through practically every transaction done by anyone, whether it was legal or not. They mined this data for trends in the market and made even more money investing on all the exchanges.

  Cardinal Jacob showed Gray a large monitor that displayed what looked like a slowly spinning 3-D spider web of a star map. Gray squinted at the tangle of lines. With a wave of Cardinal Jacob’s hand, a subset of the connections turned red and the others faded away. Cardinal Jacob did it again and again until the display simplified. Soon Gray saw it, just as Cardinal Jacob had expected he would. “What’s that?” he asked. “There’s nothing there and everything points to it.”

  Jacob smiled. “That’s Highland.”

  Cardinal Jacob recalled Gray releasing a laugh at this point that should have warned him of his ambition. It was like a child getting the present he had always wanted and that he had pledged not to share. “How can you be sure?” Gray asked.

  “For 126 years, Highland has operated as a defense contractor. They used to be located on Earth, then on Luna, then out on Chimera, then they disappeared. Well, they kept operating but no one knew where from. Their location has never been determined. The assumption is that they did it to protect themselves, dealing through intermediaries and shell companies so they could supply weapons to all sides during the stellar conflicts. No one is sure who currently operates Highland or where their money goes.”

  Gray’s military mind clicked on. “Tell me your theory.”

  “No one runs Highland.” Cardinal Jacob let that just hang out there and waited for Gray to respond.

  “No one runs Highland?” Gray asked. Cardinal Jacob nodded to Izabeck, who departed, uneasily letting the then-prime cardinal’s coat touch the floor.

  Cardinal Jacob smiled. “Now my garments are dirty with money. No matter.” He then brought up a collage of images on the display. They looked to all be of one small man who couldn’t be taller than four-foot-six. Gray noticed subtle differences between them though—a slightly different hairline on one, a birthmark on the cheek of another.

  “We’ve tracked three distinct individuals we’re calling the Dacha brothers. We don’t believe them to be technically human. Maybe clones.”

  “You said that no one ran Highland.”

  “From their actions, they appear to be reporting to a higher intelligence. We believe that to be an A.I. of some sort.”

  Gray soaked this in. “So you’re saying Highland is on auto-pilot and these Dacha brothers are part of the machine?”

  “They are the living keys to the machine.”

  “They need to be alive?”

  “Our analysts say no. Their DNA should be enough to access the A.I.”

  “You want me to secure Highland for you, don’t you?”

  “Not at all; I want you to do it for God,” Cardinal Jacob answered.

  His mind snapping back to the present, Cardinal Jacob looked to the end of Izabeck’s report. “We leave to take the second key. All men wearing the distinct symbols of their faiths. All men praying to the same God.” Oh faithful Izabeck, so wrapped up in this and playing his part. His reports always sounded like scripture.

  Cardinal Jacob thought a moment about Izabeck’s ultimate fate. He had accepted it without question, like he was being asked to fetch a cup of coffee. When the time came though, would Izabeck have the will? Cardinal Jacob pondered that. Izabeck would have to have the will if he was going to get for the cardinal what was his.

  A valet arrived outside Cardinal Jacob’s door to collect his bags. He was looking forward to getting away from the Believer Citadel for a while. It was always good to go see God’s creation.

  THE OUTPOST

  Mr. Timberwolf Velez, special security consultant, had arrived on the ugly brown pinwheel that was The Outpost station two weeks ago. He hadn’t said much to anyone. He made lots of requests for files and information, but nothing in the way of chitchat. Salla Birdwing, the young vice governor of The Outpost, had been assigned to get him whatever he needed. He had clearance to see anything and everything. She thought he was handsome in a dangerous way. He was quiet, but coiled with energy, concise and demanding. He was a tall man, olive skin with dark hair. She’d shaken his hand once and his grip was like a vise.

  At first, Salla had been concerned that the higher-ups were finally getting wise to what Gibson Drogel, the military governor of The Outpost, had been letting through the place. Salla was shocked herself when s
he arrived the year before. The customs procedures consisted of a thumbprint and a wave through, and usually some money changing hands. But no, Timberwolf wasn’t interested in the day-to-day and Drogel’s petty schemes. Salla could tell he was looking much deeper than that, at patterns, outlying shipping routes, intermediaries, and extremely large sums of money. He’d actually been clear that no customs procedures should change. Still, she couldn’t piece together what he was looking for and she was good at piecing things together. The best she could discern about Timberwolf Velez was the obvious, that he was a D.P.E. agent.

  She sat in the corner of a small café in the outer hab ring, thumbing through a tablet computer. A group of haulers from Templar-Delta passed by her table. A young man in the group nodded to her and smiled. She smiled back, in an official business-like capacity, of course. Salla was pretty, but not delicate, and didn’t suffer from lack of attention.

  She looked through one of the only files she could find on Timberwolf. He was once a member of an elite Breacher squad known as the 1st Lightning Division. They had the distinction of being one of the only units to ever use nukes as part of their standard arsenal. During the Nebula War, their job had been to sneak up on heavy Tiaski freighters and plant charges on them. She flipped to another page and then she saw it—a photo from a military magazine from two decades before. Timberwolf was a much younger man, half-suited up in a pressurized fighting rig of armor. Next to him, arms animated and in mid-shout, was Emmanuel Gray.

  At just the sight of Gray, she had to flip away from the page for a moment to catch her breath. He had been governor during the troubles on Nova Turin. He had turned the security forces on the miners after the strike. He was the reason she no longer had two sisters and a dad.

  She hardly noticed Drogel sit across from her at the small table, holding a tiny cup of espresso in his large soft hands. He was a red-faced man, with thin ginger hair. Where Salla’s uniform was by-the-book perfect, Drogel looked like he slept in his. His blouse was wrinkled and adorned with a gaudy field of medals, few of which she recognized. Salla had a game where she would try to look them up. Some were for things such as punctuality and report filing, awarded via the mail and usually tossed in a drawer.