by Jay Allan
“Yes, si…yes, Erik.” Teller smiled for an instant. “Understood.”
“Ok, let’s get moving, people.” Cain led the way through the hatch, the team following in single file behind him. They were an elite group; half were officers, the rest veteran sergeants with years of combat experience. “Keep your eyes and ears wide open.”
They were walking on sections of metal grating, a meter wide and suspended about ten centimeters above the plasti-crete floor of the tunnel. The corridor ran adjacent to a massive cylindrical pipe, at least ten meters in diameter. It was dank and dusty; from what they could tell, this maintenance tube wasn’t used all that often.
They were trying to be quiet, but the sound of their boots on the loosely bolted sections of the grating echoed off the walls and ceiling. Cain kept cringing when the noise got loud, but they certainly seemed to be alone here…and if the security system had not been disabled as they’d been promised, it didn’t matter how silent they were. Their movement, breath, body temperature, and a dozen other things would still give them away.
They passed the first access hatch. There was a metal ladder attached to the wall going up to the ceiling about 6 meters above. They could see a round door just above the ladder. If they’d been given good information, that door led to the surface.
They kept walking, reaching the seventh ladder about ten minutes early. The team was anxious, but Cain insisted on following the prescribed schedule exactly. He waited precisely twelve minutes, then he climbed the ladder and reached out to the controls for the hatch. It was unlocked as promised, and Cain pulled the lever. With a soft hissing sound, the door slid to the side, allowing a shaft of late afternoon sunlight into the tunnel.
Cain looked down the ladder at his team lined up behind him, and with a quiet sigh he pulled himself up and through the hatch…and into the ghostly world of his past.
The team had been in the Eastern Fringe for three days. One of the worst areas in Washbalt’s almost endless slums, the Fringe was well located for their proposed mission, close to the buildings of the Inner Core. Like most of the Alliance’s cities, Washbalt had a large secure area where the middle classes lived and where most commerce took place. Inside these protected areas there was typically an enclave reserved for the Political Class, Corporate Magnates, and elite visitors. Sector A in New York, Gold Coast/Old Town in Chicago, Beacon Hill in Boston…all the cities had a zone where the elite and privileged enjoyed a lifestyle the other 99.5% of the population could only imagine. All except Washbalt…it had five such areas…and the Inner Core was the most luxurious of all.
Alliance Headquarters was a massive building straddling the Inner Wall, the perimeter surrounding this bastion of privilege. It had entrances in both the Inner Core and the main business district. A towering monolith, it was a symbol of fear to all. Even the elites of the Political Class were wary of the Alliance’s massive intelligence operation. Its tentacles stretched into every corner of society, and more than one powerful politician had found himself disgraced, career destroyed by the machinations of those who worked within that kilometer tall tower. Some had even found their way to a grisly end in the infamous cells of Sub-Sector C.
Cain wasn’t afraid of Alliance Intelligence, at least no more than he would be of any dangerous mission. He refused to allow the carefully constructed mystique to exert its affect on him. Men with guns were men with guns, and these would not be the first ones he’d faced.
Nevertheless, he was afraid. Not of the mission, not of the enemies he had to face, not even of the consequences of failure. He was afraid of himself, of the past. For three days he had negotiated with the leaders of the Stone Hands, the most powerful and violent gang in the Fringe. In that time he had seen horrors, images that took him back more than two decades, to the streets of the Bronx. Back then he had preyed on the helpless Cogs just as the Stone Hands did, doing things he couldn’t imagine now. He’d spent his life since atoning, protecting the Alliance’s colonists from those who would do them harm. Now he was even protecting them from the Alliance itself.
Each moment spent in the urban hell reminded him of that time long ago, chipping away at the fragile peace he’d made with himself. He just wanted to complete the mission and get away from Earth as quickly as possible. But dealing with a gang is difficult, especially for an outsider. He knew their ways and how to deal with them, and his people were tough enough to take care of themselves…something a few of the more unrestrained gangers found out the hard way. But it still took time.
The platinum he offered was valuable anywhere, but in the crumbling slums it was a massive treasure. He’d kept two bars to show off; the rest they had buried in the sub-cellar of an abandoned building. Carrock, the Stone Hands’ leader, was about to have them all shot for disturbing him when Cain threw the two bars at his feet.
Now they had been negotiating for three days. Not because it required that much time, but because Carrock wanted to test Cain, to see what he would do or say while he waited. It was a poker game of sorts, each trying to get the measure of the other. Carrock was worried Cain would try to cheat him on payment or do something that would bring heat down on the gang.
Cain had an edge, though. Carrock had no idea Erik knew how the gangs functioned, that he knew it because he had lived it. Cain wanted to make sure the Stone Hands lived up to their end of the bargain…which meant providing weapons and leading them through the undercity. He didn’t tell Carrock they were planning to hit Alliance Intelligence; no one would agree to participate in something with the kind of repercussions the true mission carried. Instead, Cain had invented a robbery of the building across the street, the headquarters of Gavrit and Carlson, one of the largest importers of priceless extra-terrestrial stones and artifacts…an entirely plausible target.
The hardest part of waiting around was doing nothing while gang members victimized the helpless Cogs. Erik Cain was different now; he had been reborn through years of hard service, and he found it almost impossible to stand aside and watch the very crimes he’d willingly committed a lifetime ago. His troops could have helped; they wanted to intervene, but Erik stopped them. They may not have been able to change the big picture, but there wasn’t a doubt in Erik’s mind that they could have saved lives. But they didn’t…more guilt for him to bear, since it was he who stood in the way. Their mission was to get Garret out, and that was all that mattered. Getting into a fight with the Stone Hands wasn’t part of the plan. They needed the gang.
Now he was on his way to meet Carrock and make the final arrangements. With any luck, this time tomorrow they would be under Alliance Intelligence HQ. Unless something went wrong.
“Which way is north? I’m not going to ask you again.” The gang member couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Erik had him in a headlock and was twisting his arm behind his back. It was going to break any second.
“That way.” He was crying, his voice cracking. He motioned with his head…as much as he could with Cain’s arm around his neck.
Erik had seen the kid beating a helpless woman two days earlier, though he wasn’t sure if the little scumbag had killed her or not. Shithead’s not so tough now, he thought. Cain really wanted to kill the bastard, but they still needed him. “You’re going to help us get into the Alliance Intelligence building.” He loosened his grip, just enough so the kid could speak.
“Are you crazy?” It was a spontaneous reaction, one that prompted Cain to tighten his grip again.
“Do you see these guys?” Erik twisted the kid around, forcing his head toward the bodies of his two companions. When they had reached the original destination, Cain gave a quick signal, and Teller killed both in less than three seconds. They were sprawled out on the ground, one a particularly disturbing sight, with his head twisted sickeningly, open eyes staring up lifelessly.
The ganger was whimpering now, gasping for air. “Ple…please…”
“Then do as I say.” Cain loosened his arm, though less than he had before.
“I think it’s that way.” He tried to motion again, though it was hard with Erik holding him so tightly. “We don’t ever go there. It’s crazy to mess with them.”
“Crazy or not, that’s where we’re going.” Cain glanced down at the bodies. “And unless you want to stay with them…” – his voice was cold and ominous as he pointed to the two corpses – “…you’re coming with us.”
The kid was terrified and sobbing, but he nodded his agreement. Erik motioned with his head, and the whole group started moving. They had a mix of weapons – a few ancient assault rifles, some actual firearms, and an assortment of pistols and explosives. It wasn’t what Erik wanted for a team assaulting one of the most difficult targets he could imagine, but it was the best they could get from the gang. If Stone Hands had any better weapons, they weren’t going to sell them, not at any price. They were just too hard to come by.
Cain was looking for something specific. Vance hadn’t been able to give him as much intel on Alliance Intelligence HQ as he might have liked, but he did provide some useful info. Martian Security definitely had a source on the inside. Erik supposed for an instant he should probably be upset by that. He was, after all, an Alliance Marine. The Confeds weren’t the enemy, not really…but they were a foreign power. It only took him a second to decide he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t trust Vance, not really, but he’d take the Martian’s word over that of anyone in Alliance Gov.
It took most of an hour, but he found the way in…it was there just like Vance said it would be. The Alliance Intelligence building was self-contained, completely off the city’s grid, and its power was generated by a subterranean fusion reactor. There was a duct, a backup system used occasionally to expel excess steam into the unused tunnels around the building. Now it was going to serve another purpose, one its designers never intended.
The ganger was scared to death, broken and pathetic. Cain knew what he had to do, but he didn’t like the idea of killing such a miserable, pitiful creature. He couldn’t let him go, and they could hardly risk taking him with them – they’d have their hands full enough without worrying about a prisoner. Thousands of lives were riding on this mission, useful, productive lives. Innocent lives. Nothing was worse, in Erik’s opinion, than a merciless bully who turned into a whimpering coward when threatened. And he knew that if he let the little shit go he’d just kill and torture more Cogs. But despite his contempt, it was still difficult. Cain himself had been like this once, perhaps not as casually brutal, but troubled nonetheless. He was given a second chance, something this kid would never have. Erik didn’t like it, but he did what he had to do.
The duct was wide enough for them to crawl through one at a time. Cain was about to climb through first, but he faced a near-mutiny over the issue and finally relented, allowing Teller to take the lead. It was a tight fit, especially carrying weapons, but eventually they found their way in, cutting through the duct and dropping down into the control room of the reactor.
There were half a dozen technicians there, but Cain’s team managed to take them all out before anyone could sound the alarm. Erik knew there were monitoring devices throughout the building – their chances of going anywhere undetected were nil. They had to rely on speed and surprise. No one at Alliance Intelligence expected this kind of incursion, he was sure of that.
They stayed in the control room for a few minutes, reviewing the plan then they moved into the hallway, jogging quickly. According to Vance there was a stairwell just down the hall from the reactor. Cain wanted to avoid the lifts; they were probably closely monitored. They didn’t run into anyone else on the lower level, but they had no idea if they’d been monitored or detected in some other way.
The stairs were just where Vance said they would be – Cain was starting to trust the Martian…just a little bit. They raced upward, moving past the door marked Sub-Sector C, the entrance to the infamous torture chamber of Alliance Intelligence. Cain doubted Garret would be there – usually VIP prisoners were kept in the substantially more comfortable Sub-Sector B, one level above.
They reached the B level unmolested and scrambled down the corridor. I can’t believe our luck, Erik was thinking, just as four guards and a man in a perfectly-tailored suit rounded the corner. The guards wore one-piece black uniforms, jumpsuits really, with pistols holstered at their sides. The man was perhaps sixty, with a considerable dusting of gray on his neatly trimmed black hair. The uniformed guards seemed like hardcases – big and tough-looking, but the other man didn’t fit the image of a spy…he could have been a bookkeeper or a teacher to look at him.
The guards reacted quickly, but they couldn’t match the combat reflexes of Cain’s veterans. Assault rifles snapped up in an instant and fired. The guns were old and obsolete, but they were still deadly. Three of the guards fell immediately, all dead or mortally wounded. The fourth managed to duck behind the corridor and draw his pistol before Teller was on him, grabbing the hand with the gun and shoving a blade under his ribs.
The man in the suit was gone. He’d ducked around the corner faster than anyone expected he could move, and by the time Teller took out the last guard, he was gone. There was a trail of blood – the team’s fire must have hit him – and it ended at a sealed hatch. They tried to get it open, but it was a heavy door and they didn’t have time to waste. They were there to get Garret, not chase down some Alliance Intelligence administrator.
“Let’s go, down to the main control desk.” Erik snapped out the order decisively. “Garret is prisoner G1701 according to Vance’s intel. Let’s find his cell and get the hell out of here.”
There were lights dancing in front of Gavin Stark’s eyes. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable; Stark was tough in his own way, but he was a manipulator, not a warrior. He could feel every heartbeat pounding in his arm, and it was agony. His shirt and jacket were both soaked through with blood.
He managed to get away – he was surprised himself at the speed of his reflexes. The guards were all down; he was sure of that. There were plenty more guards on this level, and they would respond to the shooting. He had no idea how anyone got in without being detected sooner, but when he got out of here he was damned sure going to find out. If he got out.
I should be OK in here, he thought. He’d managed to duck into one of the maximum security holding cells. The door was solid plasti-steel, and without the access code the interlopers would need a massive explosive to take it out, one that would rip apart the entire corridor and everything around it. Of course, if they were here to assassinate him, that is exactly what they would do.
No, he thought, not assassination…they couldn’t have known I was coming down here. Then what? His mind was fuzzy; it was hard to think. Pain, blood loss…Stark was lying against the door trying to focus as he grew fainter and fainter. He could feel the slickness of his blood all around…on the door, covering the smooth tile floor. He reached for his communicator. “Stark here…intrusion…Sub-Sec…tor B.” He gasped for breath, trying to force his mind to cut through the growing haze. “Acti…vate protocol…C3.” His voice was weak, soft. He heard something in the distance. A voice was calling back to him, asking him to repeat.
“Protocol…C…3…” He wasn’t sure if he said it again or just thought it before he drifted deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Blow the fucking thing.” Cain’s voice was tense. “Now!” He had three men holding each end of the corridor, but there were guards coming from every direction. They’d found Garret’s cell – at least they thought it was his – but their fight with the guards had advertised their presence. An alarm was sounding now, and security forces were responding.
Erik had spent about thirty seconds arguing with Teller about blasting open the door. They’d set the charge, but it was a big one. It had to be; the door was heavily armored. Teller was worried the explosion would be too massive. They didn’t come all this was to blow Admiral Garret to bits in his cell. But if they didn’t get the door open immed
iately then none of it was going to matter anyway.
Teller still looked doubtful, but it wasn’t in him to question Cain’s orders. He looked at Erik one last time, and at his superior’s nod he flipped the switch. The corridor reverberated as the charge blew, filling the hallway with fire and smoke. Cain was the first one down the hall, rushing through the shattered remains of the doorway.
“Admiral Garret?” The room was full of smoke, and the lights had been knocked out, so Cain couldn’t see anything. “Admiral, we’re here to get you out.”
Cain was anxious, desperate to hear the admiral’s voice. It was only a second, maybe two or three, but it seemed like an eternity before the response came. First Erik heard coughing, then a scratchy voice calling to him. “Garret here.” More coughing. “Who are you?”
“It’s Erik Cain and the Marines, sir.” Cain started walking toward the sound, feeling around in the hazy darkness. “We’re here to get you out.”
“General Cain?” Garret’s voice was hoarse and he was struggling to speak audibly through the smoke. “How did you get here?”
“That’s a long story, sir.” Cain’s hand finally found the general, and he grabbed hold of Garret’s arm. “We’re still in the middle of Alliance Intelligence HQ right now, so I suggest we discuss it later.” He gripped the admiral’s arm more firmly and pulled. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They ran out into the hall. The Marines were holding both ends of the corridor, firing around the corners at the assembling guards. A couple of them had taken minor wounds, but no one was down yet.
“Back to the undercity…it’s the only way out.” Cain was shouting to Teller. “Leave two men on the right to hold the corridor, and move everyone else to the left. We’re going to have to fight our way down that corridor.” Cain didn’t know his way around the maze of hallways and passages, but he was pretty sure left was the most direct route back to the stairwell that led to the lower levels. He felt a momentary pang; the guys left to hold the rear had a pretty poor chance of getting out. He had the urge to go back and take the post himself, but he pushed it aside. He grinned morbidly, just for a second, as he imagined what General Holm would have said if he had taken up the rearguard. “Teller, those men are to hold for two minutes and then follow us. Two minutes and not a second more. No one commits suicide today. Understood?