Department 9

by Tim C. Taylor

  “Stop playing games, man.” The general was controlling his anger better now. “I have the best propaganda team on the planet in the basement of Forefront Media’s HQ, but the Militia attackers are jamming me, and they’ve cut the cable link. You have to reconnect us, or all will be lost.”

  “Roger that, General,” Fitz replied and took a sip of coffee. “Unfortunately, we appear to be bogged down in heavy fighting. We are attempting to break out to your position.”

  Gzeiter mashed his brows together into an angry frown. Behind Fitz, the backdrop of the Horne Street Station café should have been clear on the vid-link.

  “Are you with me or not?” Gzeiter asked.

  “Of course. I’m sorry to have lied, but I panicked. The truth is, you caught me on my coffee break.”

  “Trucker! It’s vital we get our message out. The revolution cannot proceed to victory otherwise.”

  “Cannot proceed to your victory. That’s what you mean.”

  Basement Ops sent a message that scrolled along the bottom of Fitz’s slate: New anti-In’Nalla message going viral. Unknown origin.

  Now that was interesting. It couldn’t have anything to do with the general.

  “I knew you were a problem from the start,” said Gzeiter. “You’re an agent provocateur. A legionary. What are you, Special Missions?”

  “Oh, SpecMish have had their fingers in this world for a while now. Probably longer than you have, Panhandler. But, no, General Gzeiter. I represent the interests of the Outer Torellian Commerce Guild.” He winked at his astonished command team to make it seem like a joke. Several were impressed, though, as if this admission explained a whole lot of madness.

  “The damned Smugglers Guild?” Gzeiter sputtered.

  “Tut-tut, Gzeiter. That’s a federal speech crime, don’t you know? Careless talk can be dangerous on this world.”

  He severed the link and rekeyed the Chimera channel.

  “Basement Ops, speak to me…”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 56: Revered Leader In’Nalla

  “Who do you want to run your world?” asked In’Nalla, the auto-studio in the news wagon relaying her question to the screens outside in the square and to EB-Link across the star system. “Me or off-world mercenaries with an off-world agenda?”

  In’Nalla!

  In’Nalla!

  The chant filled the square.

  Again! She moved by habit to contact Asher to fix her situation, forgetting who had betrayed her.

  A screen beside her showed the Court of Public Opinion had now swung thirty percent in her favor. The two rebels on the stage had climbed back into their fliers and were about to brave the concentrated fire from thousands of angry citizens in the square. Already, a few were taking potshots from upper floors of the surrounding buildings.

  The only way for her to lose now was for the fliers to completely change tactic and try to blast the armored news wagon to slag. Everything they had done had been about winning public support, and some of her most loyal supporters were clinging to the hull of the wagon as a living shield. She didn’t think the GACs were a danger.

  It was time to arrange the pursuit and destruction of her enemies.

  Starting with Blayde Asher…

  She froze momentarily.

  Asher…that turncoat worm had recruited Sanderson. Was the big man part of her plot? The evidence was inconclusive. He might be entirely innocent of treachery, but that wasn’t a chance she could take.

  “Sanderson,” she said as calmly as she could, while reaching into her jacket for the concealed needle pistol. “As soon as those fliers leave, I’m going to exit the wagon. You will leave first to check the way—”

  In’Nalla never intended to complete her sentence.

  She called on years of drills for this scenario to draw her weapon, flick off the safety, and aim.

  Sanderson was already dodging sideways and throwing a pistol at her.

  Her shot went wide, sending a double puff of smoke out of a processor stack in the bulkhead rack.

  Then Sanderson’s pistol barrel smacked a stinging blow against her temple that made her see flashes for a couple of seconds.

  It gave him all the time he needed to launch himself across and apply a grip like a fusion-powered vise to her gun-hand wrist.

  Her training emphasized shooting the bastard first. If they got a hold on you, it was game over. So, she dropped her needle pistol.

  “Are you going to murder me?” she asked haughtily, still far from sure Sanderson had ever intended to betray her.

  “No,” he replied, patting her down for more concealed weapons. “Though it is very tempting. I don’t like you, In’Nalla, but I took an oath to stay above politics.”

  “Oh, so you’re still Legion.”

  “I’m on sabbatical.”

  She rolled her eyes. No one leaves the Legion.

  “My name isn’t Marc Sanderson.”

  “Oh, you do surprise me.”

  “Marc Yergin, 27th Independent Field Squadron, 141st Brigade. Nydella Sanderson, 4th battalion, 83rd Brigade. They died. So did many others, and they gave their lives for a far bigger cause than your petty world with its grubby politics. I can’t murder you in cold blood, not because I can’t stomach the act, but because you simply aren’t important enough.”

  “Works well for me, Legionary. It means you will die.”

  “No. I’m going to walk out of here just fine.”

  “Delusional! Like so many others of your kind. Your only hope is to surrender to me and beg for clemency.”

  She knew soldiers. Had seen many of them break. Seen the calm that came over some of them when they realized they were caught in a trap they would never escape from alive. At first, she’d mistaken the man’s confidence for the calmness of an imminent demise, but Sanderson really did think he’d won.

  “Take a look at the screen behind you,” he said.

  She did.

  “Oh, sweet fuck!”

  The screen showed the Revered Leader of Eiylah-Bremah in her privacy bunker.

  “I want a dirty bomb,” she said in the recording. “Radiation. Fallout. Fear!”

  Godsabove! Do I really look so unhinged?

  After a brief pause, a male Zhoogene voice replied, “Not a problem. I can do that.”

  Another pause and then, “Wouldn’t it be better to blame the bomb on the Panhandlers? You want to unite the public behind you, right? Wouldn’t that be easier if you blame off-worlders?”

  “You’re right, damn you. Nuke that city into radioactive glass and make it look like a Panhandler atrocity. Blame them both if you can.”

  In’Nalla switched off all the screens.

  “It looks like Department 9’s changed horses,” said Sanderson.

  “Department 9? He said he was Blue Chamber.”

  “He? We are talking about a Zhoogene posing as Militia Lieutenant Ren Kay, right?”

  In’Nalla looked away in shame. It was mortifying to see her half-crazed face calling for the mass destruction of her own citizens, but more than that, she was ashamed to have been played so easily by that damned Zhoogene.

  A last spark of defiance lit her soul, and she regarded the man who called himself Sanderson. “You want Ren Kay dead as much as I do.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t promise anything—” She had to fling her arms out suddenly when the news wagon began to rock, angry fists pounding on the outside, calling for her blood. “But I’ll try to get him to reveal something about himself. Maybe you can use it to end him.”

  Ren Kay answered as soon as she called. He was out of his Militia uniform now, just one more unremarkable civilian in a city undergoing a revolution. “It’s damned fortunate you called,” he said. “I can’t get a signal through to you in that wagon unless I ride your outgoing channel. Don’t suppose you’d care to step outside?”

  “Help me,” she begged.

  “No,” he replied. “You’ve done an exce
llent job for us, Revered Leader, but we don’t need you now.”

  “What do you mean? You worked for me. You committed atrocities.”

  “Under your orders. The evidence will clearly show you staged the Massacre of Krunacao, Revered Leader.”

  “Why? What could you possibly hope to gain?”

  “Our agenda is to shake the Federation out of its stupidity. You should understand, In’Nalla. Societies without a challenge to face drift into dysfunction and division. They need firm leadership for their own good. That’s what you were trying to do on Eiylah-Bremah, and it’s what we shall succeed in doing across the Federation and beyond. The outrage citizens will feel about your actions will be one of our propaganda coups. It will help push the bleating sheep of Far Reach citizenry into calling for strong, centralized and, above all, coherent leadership. So, you see, you have succeeded in furthering your political goals, even though you won’t be alive to see the benefits.”

  In’Nalla frowned at the man’s image. He wasn’t even gloating properly. He was gesturing like crazy at a workstation, setting up something, but what? Not, In’Nalla supposed, that it mattered to her anymore.

  With a flourish, Ren Kay completed his workstation task and peered out of In’Nalla’s wrist slate with piercing golden eyes. He was looking behind her.

  “If that’s your new bodyguard in there with you, say hi from me. Marc Sanderson, I believe he’s calling himself. How romantic. I’m so sorry about Sergeant Sanderson’s tragic demise, Sergeant Sybutu. She was your lover, I understand. But, hey, look on the bright side. You’ll be joining her very soon.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 57: Osu Sybutu

  “Unlike those pansy-ass posers in Naval Intelligence, SpecMish almost never gloats or threatens,” Bronze had told Sybutu back on the Phantom. “On the rare occasions they do, it’s at the final moment before their target is eliminated.”

  Bronze’s words rang through Sybutu’s head as he looked in horror at In’Nalla’s wrist slate. She was still venting her anger at Ren Kay, but the Zhoogene’s threat to him had been made and sounded very final.

  He worked the bolts to the hatch and shoved suddenly, with all his might, against the crush of people on the outside, fighting to get in.

  He was still pushing when In’Nalla’s wrist slate exploded.

  The door blew open with Sybutu still hanging on. The pressure wave felt as if it were crushing his chest like an old steel can. Shrapnel fragments thudded into the light armor beneath his clothing.

  The roar of the blast filled his skull, but legionary training took over, and he checked himself for injuries. It hurt to breathe. Something had pierced his leg behind his right knee. And his head throbbed. But he didn’t think anything vital had been pierced.

  Inside the vehicle was a different matter.

  In’Nalla’s arm had been blown off by the booby trap set in her wrist slate by Ren Kay. Thick blood dripped from every surface.

  He checked her over. She was still alive, but only just.

  Her blood-soaked eyelids flickered open, but she couldn’t focus on him.

  “I did what I thought was best for my people,” she croaked. “Always.”

  He contemplated the tyrant of Eiylah-Bremah for a long moment. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “But that doesn’t mean a damn. Pretty much every tyrant in human history believed they were doing what’s right. You were nothing special.”

  She gave a death rattle. Then her head slumped against a rack of inert camera drones, and she was gone.

  Sybutu stood by what he’d told her at the end, but he hoped she hadn’t heard his final words.

  He regarded her for another moment or two. Then he got his shit together. He was Sergeant Osu Sybutu, a sapper of the Legion on a temporary posting to Chimera Company. And he had a job to do.

  He jumped outside the news wagon.

  The crowd parted for him, giving him space.

  Streaming with blood, mostly from In’Nalla, his body scorched and torn, likely made him a fearsome sight.

  “Keep away!” he growled.

  The crowd backed up further.

  He keyed the Chimera channel on his comm set. “Fitz, Basement, Vetch, In’Nalla’s dead. What’s your status?”

  “We’re on overwatch,” said Vetch. “A hundred feet above your head.”

  “Basement Ops here,” said Enthree. “Outrage is flowing around the world. No one is going to weep for In’Nalla.”

  “Good work, everybody,” said Fitz. “I’m calling this a victory for Chimera Company. I’ll call in Commander Slinh. Now is the time for her to pick up the pieces, with a little help from Colonel Lantosh. Sybutu, seal yourself back in that wagon until we can get to you.”

  “Roger that,” Sybutu said. “I might not be able to get a signal out, so I’ll say now that Ren Kay of Department 9 knew a helluva lot about me. I think that blast was intended for me as much as for In’Nalla.”

  “Regrettably, I suspect you’re right. Basement Ops, your new target is Kaylingen Spaceport. Sybutu! I told you to get your jack ass inside that wagon. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sybutu hopped inside and sealed the hatch.

  He tried to remember why Fitzwilliam was in charge and what his strategic objective was, but his head was still filled with white noise.

  After setting the screens to a wide-angle exterior view, he sat numbly and waited.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 58: Izza Zan Fey

  After sweeping for surveillance devices and triggering the privacy shroud, she activated the quantum link communicator.

  Fitz hadn’t left a message.

  Not that she expected one. The deep cover protocol required that he communicate first and only when he was ready to proceed to the next stage.

  So she switched on the link but didn’t transmit anything. Knowing that she could if she wanted was better than nothing. It was tenuous, but she felt the two of them were connected.

  She had been allowing herself to sit like this on Phantom’s flight deck once every four days. But a loneliness had eaten away at her all day, and she’d finally yielded to it, despite having been there the previous night.

  As always, she settled into his seat, resting her heels on his customary spot on the flight console and taking solace in the majestic stars watching her through the cockpit window.

  “You’ve been exceedingly naughty,” snapped Fitz.

  She almost fell out of the seat! She had never expected him to speak.

  He sounded cross, but without being able to see and smell him, she wasn’t sure if he was genuinely angry.

  “I expect officers to show decorum aboard Phantom. She is not a clothing-optional vessel. And leaving me a message like that was outrageous.” This time she could hear his grin, and she mirrored it. “The link was meant to be used for emergencies only.”

  “But it was an emergency. I have needs.” She smiled. “I need you, Tavistock.”

  “Can’t you…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. She knew what he was about to say and how difficult it was for him. “Can’t you find…distractions? It’s not as if you have to try hard.”

  She thought back to the people who’d been sharing her quarters since he’d been gone. Since he’d left her. Deep cover hadn’t been her idea, she reminded herself bitterly. “No, I’ve tried. But it doesn’t work. I wish it did, but it appears I can accept no substitutes, however unlikely that sounds when I say it out loud.”

  “I’m pleased that being apart isn’t too easy,” said Fitz. “Neat trick, drugging your own husband. I know it’s poetic, because that’s what I’d just done to the boys, but it hurt all the same. My own stupid fault, I know. But it hurt.”

  Izza resisted the impulse to apologize. Deep cover had been his idea. And when he’d told her he was having second thoughts, she’d known she had to act decisively for the both of them.

  “Please tell me being separate
d won’t have been for nothing,” he said.

  “It won’t. Your gut instincts were right, my love. The eyes of the galaxy are upon you, not me. Activating deep cover protocol has allowed me to make excellent progress. Nyluga-Ree took the bait. I’ve left what you need for now at Drop Point 17.”

  “You are a marvel, my lady.”

  “I know. And here’s more proof of that. I’ve set a low-bandwidth video mode for this connection. We can enjoy twenty minutes without depleting the q-bit store much. Are you in private?”

  “We shall be undisturbed.”

  “Good.” She activated the video link. “Tavistock! What a strange way to wear a hat.”

  “Would you rather I remove it?”

  She ran her fingers through her head foliage and felt her eyes begin to glow.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 59: Tavistock Fitzwilliam

  Despite the band starting up with a funky up-tempo, electro-thump number, Fitz resolutely sulked in the wings of the Global Palace ballroom.

  Tonight was the opening of the peace conference, just two days after In’Nalla’s fall. Tomorrow, the hard business of putting this world back together would begin in earnest. Fitz had every intention of not being there with the hungover victors of the revolution.

  He’d expended a lot of political capital in insisting the word ‘reconciliation’ not be used in the official name of the conference. To those toasting victory, that word meant firing squads and show trials, and Fitz thought Eiylah-Bremah had suffered quite enough of those, thank you.

  Unfortunately, part of the cost of that bargain had been for him to make an appearance tonight and do so with hat off.

  Hat off, everything off, as far as he was concerned. So, he left his shades in the pocket of the formal velvet robes they’d given him.

  Everyone stared at his mutant eyes.

  Well, let them. He raised his glass of wine in acknowledgement at the scandalized stares. Just so long as he kept everyone’s attention on him…