by Jim Graham
‘Of course,’ Chan said. All he needed to do was shower. His bugcam operator, Li, was two minutes away. ‘But I insist on exclusivity.’
Thomas nodded his understanding.
‘I’ll talk to them.’
Finally, Thomas issued a warning: under no circumstances should any word of the meeting to get out. If it did, he wouldn’t come back for him—and Chan wouldn’t get a scoop.
Chan watched the young lad leave, chuckling at the very idea that he would ever blab about an exclusive—before it was in the can.
81
It was time for a recap of the morning’s achievements, or lack of them, but Mary’s was filling up, and it was difficult to hold a conversation. And Scat was getting warm in his survival suit.
‘We need somewhere to rest up,’ he said. A booth at Mary’s or a fuel cell compartment in a soft-track didn’t qualify.
Thomas suggested they look around the Nettle’s warehouse along the wall on First Avenue, but Goosen was convinced the city would be monitoring it electronically, having already taped it off ahead of seizure. Instead, Goosen offered up his apartment. It was a police apartment, not a police condominium. Most of the tenants were out-of-system contract workers on regular assignments to the mines around Trevon. For the most part, the building was half-empty.
‘Call it hiding in plain sight, Scat. I’ll lose it soon, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. If I’m to be involved in this Nettles rescue, or escape—whatever you’re calling it—I’ll need to disappear myself.’
30 minutes later, the Trevon rebels made themselves comfortable inside a police-funded apartment; at least as comfortable as they could make themselves.
Scat sat on the sofa and glanced around.
Gee, he thought, I travel light enough, but Goosen had taken simplicity to another level.
The place was empty except for some worn-out furniture and a couple of photos on the wall. One was of Goosen, in uniform and holding a medal, shaking hands with some bigwig. Alongside it was another of Goosen beaming an ear-to-ear smile, his arm around a shuttle pilot who appeared to be scowling slightly. In the background was a shuttle, grounded on what must have been the Gap Plain. The tops of the sideboards were bare. A single book lay on its side in a small bookcase. On the coffee table lay a loosely bound, heavily earmarked script.
The room said it all: Goosen wasn’t a magpie, nor did he have any sophisticated tastes. He was a bachelor in his mid- to late-thirties, who wouldn’t discover style until a woman found it for him.
As Goosen poured the tea into different sized and mismatched mugs, Thomas got back to business. He explained what had happened at his meeting with Chan.
Paul then explained how keen Stafford was to help out.
They added that to the recent news that the city wasn’t dismissing its unreliable Trevon cops all in one go, but over a week or so. Perhaps. It was a hazy picture.
In addition, they were no closer to knowing when Nettles was shipping to Earth.
Thomas revisited the initial idea of busting Nettles out of jail, then out of Go Down, rather than possibly miss his transfer to the spaceport.
Scat was against the idea, the situation was very fluid, and their intelligence was threadbare. He preferred to stick to his idea of hijacking the V4: all the threads passed through it.
Paul agreed; a hijacking was more exciting and it would get more attention.
‘Besides, think of what you can do with an LM-V!’ he said.
Goosen was of a similar mind.
‘It’s a bigger coup, Thomas. It will get lots of coverage. And, thinking from a police officer’s perspective, it’d inconvenience Go Down citizens a whole lot less. Think of what’ll happen if we bust him out of jail: the whole city’ll be placed under lockdown.’
‘The locals would be aggravated, just like we need to them to be,’ Thomas replied, getting a tad animated. ‘And the cops doing the aggravating would be out-of-system cops. Where’s the harm in that?’
Goosen waved him down.
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he said, ‘I do, but it would crimp our style. We need to move around. If Go Down’s locked down, it’ll make it harder to organise the locals.’
‘So Go Down’s off-limits?’ Thomas asked, disbelievingly.
‘It may be best,’ Scat replied. ‘At least until we’re stronger and better organised. Go Down is the prize. Whoever controls Go Down controls Trevon. Let’s not kill our chances early on.
‘We should bring on the rest of Trevon first. Close Go Down off from the rest of the planet. Shut down the mines. Eventually close down the spaceport. To do that we’ll need manpower. That means we need to recruit. That means we gotta stay popular, and build on that popularity, not shoot ourselves in the foot on day one.
‘We’ll get Nettles when we hijack the V4. If we don’t get Nettles, then so be it: he can be a martyr for the cause. The V4 will be a bigger coup. Nettles is just a candle for the cake.’
It was the first time Scat had laid it out like that, although he had been pushing the possibility of not rescuing Nettles around his head all morning.
Nettles was one man.
And he was a politician.
While he lived, he would represent one faction or another, but probably not everyone. If he were dead, he would be a martyr, and martyrs were not threatening to anyone but the enemy. People of all persuasions would rally around a dead man. They rarely rallied around a living politician.
Thomas looked back at him, appalled. The rest listened as he pleaded Nettle’s case.
He had known Nettles since before working on Prebos. Nettles was tight with his father. He was a genuine and earnest secessionist. He should be rescued. He should head up the secessionist movement.
Scat shook his head.
‘But if we take him with us and he gets involved in the rebel side of things he’ll be heading up the activist arm, Thomas, not the political arm,’ he replied. ‘He can’t lead the political effort while he’s being hunted. He’ll be associated with us, and all that we’ll represent: violence, intimidation—all the rough stuff. He’ll lose his clean image.’
‘Not if we can free him then leave him somewhere,’ Thomas suggested, ‘somewhere where he can get some sort of refugee status; out of system, maybe, or on a neutral planet. Perhaps even a GCE world. He can lead from exile.’
‘Discuss it with your old man, Thomas,’ Scat replied. ‘We’re still aiming to free him, but we’ll do it on the V4. What we do with him afterwards is a political consideration.’
‘That’s a relief, Scat. You’d seriously consider leaving Nettles to the wolves, if you thought it’d serve the cause?’
Scat gave him the grim news without any spin.
‘Get used to it, Thomas. He’s a person, and we’ll lose a lot of them before this thing is finished. Everyone is replaceable. No one is more important than the cause.’
Paul tried to change the direction of the conversation:
‘Stafford’s up for more than a letter writing campaign. He’ll give us what we need so long as we bring him on board. My guess is that there are others like him, people who just need some guidance. We need to get this show on the road.’
Goosen nodded in agreement.
But they would only get their guidance once Nettles was on the move. Until then, Joe Trevon would have to wait.
On the second morning of their vigil, Scat sat next to an open window, lasing through the barrels of a shotgun they had brought with them from the Irwin bunker. It was a Winchester Model 21 Grand American, a 12-gauge side-by-side shotgun. He was shortening its length to that of a coach gun so it would fit into his backpack without the butt sticking through the flap. He had already melted down the pellets of several dozen shells and cast 2-inch long slugs, each of them capable of knocking doors off their hinges.
As he had cut through a couple of centuries of history, they went around in circles, speculating as to what was happening elsewhere in the Outer-Rim. They also talked about the so
rt of damage they could do to Lynthax that wouldn’t directly affect Earth.
During a pause in the conversation, Paul held up a doodle he had drawn on a piece of paper.
‘What do you think of this?’ he asked.
Goosen looked up from his marmite on toast.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Outer-Rim.’
‘So it’s a circle. What’s that chip at the top?’
‘That’s us, Trevon, breaking away. See the T?’
Goosen leaned across the table for a closer look. He took it between a massive thumb and forefinger to hold it steady. It was a 10-centimetre diameter grey or silver circle, more of a band, with a V-shaped chunk breaking away from the outer edge at the 12 o’clock position. Inside the chunk was a small capital T.
‘Very symbolic,’ he said just as his graf pinged. He looked down and let the doodle drop to the table. ‘Bingo!’ he said, before reading its contents out aloud.
They were moving Nettles to the spaceport later that evening.
82
Ara opened the front door to a familiar face. It was one of Khoffi’s aides. She stepped aside and showed him into the living room.
‘Khoffi, Stephen is here. Go on in, Stephen. I’ll make some tea.’
Khan got up from the sofa and tried to smile. He assumed Stephen was popping by to offer his condolences; he had not visited the office yesterday and so they hadn’t seen each other since Farrin’s death. He shook Stephen’s hand.
‘Good morning Stephen. Thanks for coming by.’
Stephen looked uncomfortable. He fidgeted and hesitated before speaking.
‘Morning, Khoffi. I’m sorry about Farrin,’ he said, looking back over his shoulder to see whether Ara was within earshot. She wasn’t. ‘How’s Ara taking it?’
Khan shrugged.
‘Not well. She isn’t saying much. Jasmine’s holding up, but we’re still keeping her out of school for the rest of the week.’
Stephen appeared to be losing most of his skin colour. He was breathing deeply. Khan frowned.
‘What’s up? Are you unwell?’ he asked.
Stephen grimaced and looked at the floor. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to talk about it.
‘Come on. Tell me. You look ill.’
‘You’re being posted back to Earth.’
Khan stared at him, speechless. Stephen fidgeted some more. Khan finally found his voice.
‘What?’
‘Tonight.’
‘What?’
‘They’re Cohen’s orders. I was to give you this.’ He handed over an envelope.
Khan held it in his hands.
‘What is it?’ he asked. He didn’t want to open it.
‘It’s your notice of dismissal and travel instructions.’
Khan slumped back onto the sofa holding the envelope on his knee. He looked down at it for a little while longer, and then slid his thumbnail under the flap, ripping it open.
‘He’s got to be kidding.’
‘I don’t think so, Khoffi.’
‘… “No longer have the confidence of all the interested parties?”… “Unable to make unbiased judgements?”…’ Khan looked up. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘He’s of the opinion that you can’t possibly act as a neutral party. He cited your complaint of unlawful death against Lynthax.’
‘You mean I shouldn’t ask for justice for my son? What the hell is he thinking?’
‘I’m not sure that’s what he’s thinking,’ Stephen said. ‘I think he understands you need to. It’s just that now the press has gotten wind of it, you can’t possibly serve as our rep.’
Kahn ran his hands through his thick black curly hair, took a deep breath through his nose and went back to reading the letter.
‘Tonight!’
‘Yes, Khoffi. On the V4. ISRA will pay to ship Farrin’s coffin on the same flight.’
‘But tonight?’
Stephen did not say anything. He had nothing to add.
Khan looked around the room. It was a fully furnished apartment so they need only pack their clothes, some records and a few trinkets, but even so …
‘I’ll go talk to him,’ Kahn said, getting back up. ‘He’s a reasonable man.’
Stephen gave him a very slow shake of the head.
‘It’ll be of no use, Khoffi. Lynthax has made it abundantly clear: you have accused them of murder, and the press is chewing at Petroff’s arse. They want you out of the system. If Cohen’s to keep their co-operation here and elsewhere over the next few months, he needs to clear the deck of distractions.’
‘Farrin is a distraction?’
Stephen looked mortified.
‘My God, Khoffi, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. You know what I mean.’
Khan nodded. His eyes welled up.
‘But if we leave now, Farrin’ll never get justice. The farkers will bury it.’
It was the first time Stephen had ever heard Khan swear.
83
Stafford confirmed they were expecting the V4 to drop into Trevon space around seven pm that evening. He passed Paul a physical copy of the incoming and outgoing passenger manifests. They expected its shuttles to arrive around eight pm, local time.
When Paul got back to the apartment, Scat speed-read its contents.
The incoming manifest didn’t reveal terribly much, except for the names of the replacement security personnel, something that Scat might be able to use down the road, if and when he had access to Earth’s web. For now, they were just names, with no reference to any of them on the Trevonnet. However, one thing did stand out: they all appeared to be single; their next of kin were parents, brothers, or sisters.
The outgoing passenger list included Nettles, Marvin, a few other political undesirables and some of Goosen’s colleagues, many of whom would have settled on Trevon, given the opportunity. It didn’t list the shuttle Nettles would be using.
Goosen and Scat then went back over it in slower time to see who was more likely to help them once Scat made his move to free Nettles and hijack the vessel. It was then that they saw the Earth Representative’s name.
‘Odd he should be rotating back to Earth in the middle of a crisis, Scat,’ Goosen said.
‘They’re clearing out, Birdie. Maybe they’ve found someone who’s more acceptable to Joe Trevon.’
Goosen scratched his nose.
‘But this one was,’ he said. ‘As I say, it’s odd. It’s as though they’re trying real hard to screw up.’
‘Unless he’s going back to brief ISRA on what’s going on.’
‘Doesn’t look like. His family’s listed as well.’
Scat flicked his hand across the list.
‘Move on Birdie. What else do we have?’
Goosen pulled his finger further down the page. Most of the rest of them were ex-cops. He recognised some of them as being sympathetic to independence, but agreed with Scat: there was no point in approaching them before Scat was on board the V4, just in case someone ratted out on him in return for a reprieve.
Scat looked at his watch. They had eight hours.
It was time to grab Chan.
84
Goosen followed the news crew from a distance, and watched them turn into the Blanco-Plan mall where the security cameras were on the blink. He followed them in, down the entrance ramp, and passed the news crew’s omni-wheeled cruiser as it came to a halt at their meeting place—a quiet area of the park, away from the elevators. In his rear view mirror, he could see Scat emerging from the shadows. He was already walking towards the Chinamen, pushing a hand deep inside a shopping bag.
This was the point of no return, then, Goosen thought to himself. This is where I become an ex-cop.
Goosen stopped his hire-pod, clambered out and jogged over to join them. Scat was already threatening Chan with the wrong end of his shotgun, his threats echoing off the vehicle park walls.
By way of hello, Goosen nodded at Chan, climbed in
to the news crew’s cruiser and switched it to manual drive. He then turned off the tracker, and disabled the on-board comms before pushing the bugcam operator into the back seat, telling Chan to sit next to him. As Scat settled down in the rear compartment, Goosen then guided the cruiser towards the exit where they picked up Thomas, who slipped into the front seat next to him. He then gunned the accelerator and drove out onto the street.
Chan sat in silence, watching Goosen struggle with the cruiser’s manual controls. His heart beat rapidly, but he forced himself to remain calm. Right now, he wasn’t sure whether this was the real thing or was just an overly dramatic security precaution. Either way, he needed to regain control.
He dug deep.
In perfect English, and as calmly as he were able, he reminded Thomas he was an employee of the GCE, a well-known personality, and that he would only co-operate and cover this meeting if he and his team were afforded the respect they deserved and could be assured of their safety.
Thomas was about to apologise when, from the rear compartment, Scat pushed Chan’s head forward with the muzzle of the Grand American. He held it there.
‘It’s my finger on the farking trigger, Chan. You don’t make demands.’
Thomas felt Chan’s breath on his neck, turned to look, and saw that the Chinaman’s head was all that separated his own from the end of both barrels. Reflexively, he slid across the seat towards Goosen, squeezing his eyes shut. Goosen threw his hands up to his ears in case the shotgun went off. Chan’s colleague stifled a scream with a hand over his mouth.
Chan stopped talking. Scat pulled the shotgun back.
The bugcam operator began to tremble. This was his first assignment with Chan. Bugcams were new technology, and this Trevon gig was its first outing. He wasn’t familiar with how Chan operated though he knew he often scooped a story ahead of the pack, and he was keen to learn how he did it. But in all his daydreams, he never thought he would earn his first scoop at the point of a gun. Already he was dreading a deadly outcome.
He closed his eyes.
Further on, Goosen pulled into a search bay at the dam wall exit. He flashed his Police ID and explained he was accompanying the GCE crew out to the spaceport to cover the arrival of the V4. The police searcher looked inside the cabin, recognised Chan from his news reports of the previous night and waved them on.