by Watson Davis
The air—warm, humid, thick with fragrant spices and stomach-turning fuel vapors—pulsed through the street like blood. Sweat dripped from my brow, down my cheeks to my chin.
A black limo, glistening with a mirror-like shine, droplets forming and cascading to drip into the street, waited on the street in front of the steps to the apartments, red hazard lights flashing, forcing traffic to flow around it. A beggar, thin and twisted, with skin dark like mine, sat on a wooden crate on the bottommost step, her right leg ending at the knee, the left foot bent at an unnatural angle.
Vanessa lounged across the street by a small coffee shop, an oversized black trench coat covering her armor, her hands in her pockets, her lips moving like she was talking to someone on her comm. Missy Malordo sat in a cart parked on the side of the road, her armor painted and worn like an Atmo Services engineer.
"Mr. Satele is leaving the complex." Kevin's voice rang in my ears from my on-board. "To you, Motayen Three."
"Roger." I pushed myself off the wall, standing a little straighter, stretching my arms and shoulders, my eyes searching down the street for suspicious movement. I switched to my team's channel. "We're up."
"I don't like the beggar," Missy said.
"I don't like anyone," I said, my eyes skimming over the beggar.
Vanessa snickered. "Cantankerous, that's what you guys are."
The apartment's doors opened. A man strode out, wearing an expensive, light blue business suit with a white shirt, all carefully tailored, his body long and lean and trim. He looked like a model playing the part of a business executive instead of an actual business executive, oblivious to the world around him, his stride long and arrogant, daring people to get in his way; he held his hand at his temple, his face a mottled, angry red, lips pulled back from his teeth as he barked orders to his underlings.
"There's our boy." I stepped away from the wall toward the street, scanning to my left, my hand dropping to the pistol on my hip. Missy slid out of her cart and into the road, blocking traffic and earning a flood of angry honking for her trouble.
Mr. Satele crossed the ferrocrete courtyard before the apartment complex in a few urgent steps, gliding down the steps while gesturing with his hands to punctuate his unheard conversation on his comm, ignoring the beggar reaching up to him asking for credits or food.
I held my breath, hand tensed, ready to draw my pistol; my eyes darted to every movement, assessing possible dangers, possible assassins, until Mr. Satele jumped into the black limo and the door slammed shut behind him. I flicked my comm to the command channel, exhaling. "He's on board."
The limo eased out into traffic.
"Dorothea, behind you," Missy said on the team line.
A woman in loose robes charged out of the purse shop behind me, threading her way through the crowd, moving on a diagonal away from me and following Satele's limo. I whirled and lunged forward, kicking my foot out and catching her ankle, tripping her into a man holding a double-scoop ice cream cone. The ice cream pinwheeled into the air. I threw myself on the woman's back, taking her to the ground. The ice cream splattered on the pavement.
No armor; she was not wearing any armor, and her body gave beneath my weight, her ribs cracking, a new purse skittering on the ground. I ran my hands along her body, verifying her hands were empty, checking for pistols, for bombs, biological agents, anything weaponized. Nothing.
"She's clean." I shifted forward over her, my hand pressing the side of her face into the dirty ferrocrete sidewalk just in case I missed something. "All clear?"
"Clear," Missy answered first.
"Clear," Vanessa said.
The limo drove off.
"He's away," I said on the command channel. "To you, Motayen One."
"Roger," Edmund said, his team taking over for the next stage of the journey.
I stood and stepped over the woman, snagged her purse by the strap, and riffled through the contents, then sent in a request to Medical Emergency to send an ambulance. The woman rose to her hands and knees, sobbing, coughing, struggling to breathe.
"Nemesis damn you, you fucking bitches." The man knelt over the melting remains of his ice cream, tears welling in his brown eyes.
That must be some good damned ice cream.
I lifted the woman to her feet, bowing my head, saying, "Sorry. I'm so sorry." I winced at the man, holding up my palm to him. "Just an accident. I'll buy you another fucking ice cream."
"What?" He glared at me. "You will pay for this."
“Yeah?” I shrugged. “Isn’t that what I said?”
I peered down at the woman, one hand under her arm and supporting her weight, the other brushing at the mucky water staining her lavish robes and pants, smearing the stain more than removing it. "An ambulance will be here soon. I suspect you have three broken ribs and some soft-tissue damage."
"Thank you?" she said in between gasps, pulling away from me and eyeing me with suspicion as she bent and hugged her ribs. "My side really hurts."
"They should be here soon to take care of you."
A rust-eaten, beaten-down lorry skidded to a stop in the street two meters past the apartment complex's steps, the engine grinding, the driver shifting gears, leaning over the stick with sweat dripping from his forehead.
Something’s not right.
I straightened, switching to my team's comm line. "Resume your positions. Everybody look alert."
"What?" Vanessa, at the top of the steps, turned from me, her hand at her temple, acting as though she had received an important call. "What's wrong? What do you have?"
"Need a second," Missy said.
I couldn't see Missy from my vantage point.
I released the woman, letting her drop back to her knees. She squeaked. I crouched, my palms on the butts of my pistols.
The door to the apartment complex swished open, expelling a lanky woman—long, skinny arms and legs, all elbows and knees, in a red blouse with a fluffy collar and blue jeans—holding the hand of a whimpering little boy in a long gray shirt and blue trousers.
I shifted over to the Motayen team channel. "Edmund, we may have action back here. Satele's partner and child."
"What?" Kevin said. "The lady that walked out?"
The lorry lurched backward, wheels squealing, ramming into a man and knocking him to the ground, then rolling over him, the back wheels popping up over the curb.
"Are you sure?" Edmund asked. “How do you know her?”
“She’s in the supplemental docs,” I said.
Satele's wife, Elleth, picked the boy up, whisking him up into her arms, and took the first two steps down to street level. The back doors of the lorry flew open and three men and a woman in black light armor exploded from the rear of the vehicle, rushing up the stairs toward Elleth and her son.
Both pistols drawn, I aimed at the junction of the helmet and throat armor of the black-clad guy closest to me, squeezing off six rounds, three from each hand, at the same spot; one would likely not be enough to break through, but six was more than enough. The man tumbled to the steps, the back of his neck ripped open.
Vanessa, her helmet in one hand, fired her pistol with the other, the shots going high and wide.
The female among the would-be abductors grabbed Elleth's arm, hunkering down and yanking her back toward the lorry. I leapt over the woman with the purse and ran into the street, aiming at the kidnapper's faceplate, putting four shots around the eyes—not enough to pierce the armor at that spot, but she jerked away, raising her hands to try to save herself and releasing Elleth in the process. Her armor locked up, trying to minimize the concussion. The enemy woman staggered to the side before toppling, falling to the ground.
"Dammit, Hero," Missy shouted. "Put on your fucking faceplate."
No time. I yelled, "Missy, take out the lorry!"
Two of the remaining kidnappers reached toward Elleth as the enemy woman regained her feet and pulled pistols from her armor's holsters, waving them toward Vanessa. I discharged four cart
ridges into the side of the woman's head, my clustering not tight enough to crack the helmet but enough to stagger her again, sending her shots wild into the air, down into the pavement, and ricocheting into the screaming crowd.
Shots cracked behind me.
"Switching to armor-piercing," Vanessa said, her helmet now on her head. She stood straight and tall and plugged the enemy woman in the faceplate, the armor-piercing shell doing its job, terminating the woman's life and pitching her back.
Dammit. Why didn’t I load up with armor-piercing rounds, too?
Vanessa swiveled, discharging her weapon twice more. One of the other men folded to the ground, his upper body slumping over before he tipped forward and fell.
The last armored male kidnapper snatched the boy from Elleth's arms, but she held on for a few steps, falling to her knees, her hands losing their grip before she tumbled down the stairs.
The beggar flung herself from the box she was sitting on, drew pistols out of the box and fired them, popping the man in the knee. The man sprawled on the ground, tossing the boy aside, then bounced and retrieved his weapon. I fired six shots into the joint in his armor between his upper and lower arm, right into the elbow. The armor gave way, and the man screamed in pain.
The beggar, now having two operational legs, whipped her pistols around, her eyes wide with focus, angling to my right, back toward the lorry.
"Hero!" Vanessa roared.
"Blaster!" Missy screamed.
I spun, pushing myself back, twisting my body, bringing my pistols up.
The driver was kneeling on one knee beside the lorry, blaster rifle at his shoulder, targeting me, the discharge chamber filling with plasma glowing a blinding blue.
I fired. He fired. I fired some more. The blaster bolt struck me in my left side, whirling me about. I landed on the deck, my cheek falling into ice cream—strawberry, by the scent. The driver collapsed, the blaster falling from lifeless fingers.
Everything got blurry after that.
Downtime
Director Gus Perisho's office door opened. A man walked in with a face so ordinary that if Gus passed him five minutes later, he doubted he would recognize him: straight dark brown hair, light brown skin, a roundish face—a face so painfully nondescript that Gus doubted it could be the result of nature but instead a bit of facial reconstruction designed by experts. The man's thousand-credit suit fit him well but not too well; not too expensive, nor too cheap.
Gus stood, smiling, presenting his hand. "Gus Perisho, Human Resource Allocation and Development. May I help you?"
"Mick Frankl, CounterEspionage." Frankl strode forward, a pleasant expression on his bland face. He took Gus's hand, surprising him, his grip firm with a strength not hinted at by his size and shape.
"I was on my way to a debrief." Gus indicated his entire office. "But please, make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you so much." Frankl wandered over to one of the chairs by the globe of Titan, the one pointing toward the door. He brushed off the seat with a swish of his hand before sitting down, relaxing into it with an almost regal air of confidence and control, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair with his hands draped over the ends, his right leg crossing over his left.
"The teams I work with usually don't deal with CounterEspionage, so you'll have to forgive me." Gus sat down in the chair opposite Frankl, shifting forward to place his weight on his left forearm, angling himself away from Frankl but facing him straight on. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
"I'm here to do you a favor." Frankl reached out and touched the globe with his fingertips, not looking at Gus, but appearing to study the globe.
"A favor?" Gus nodded, a chill spreading through his stomach in response to the tone of Frankl's voice, all his senses now on alert. "What kind of favor would that be?"
"Free time." Frankl flicked his wrist, sending the globe spinning, and then eased back into the chair and spread his hands. "Who doesn't want free time? And that's what I'm offering you."
Gus leaned back into his own chair, breathed deep, steadying himself before folding his hands in his lap. "How am I to discover more hours in my day?"
"You are going to call up all your friends and associates in the company, and you are going to tell them to stand down,” Frankl said. "You no longer need to concern yourself with the Frozen Lotus Unity lab or anything related to it. You are going to stop coordinating your little treasure hunt; you are going to stop pounding on the Intel databases like you're some kinda Shylock Homes tracking down clues, and you are going to order your team leads to let it go, too. How long has it been since you were able to go home to Don and really be with him without this whole Santina thing troubling you?"
"Santina?" Gus forced the smile to stay on his lips, not liking Frankl mentioning his partner, not liking the implied intimate knowledge, the implied off-the-premises threat, even though he wasn't sure what was being threatened. Gus tapped the fingers of his left hand on the armrest of his chair. "I admit, since one of my teams brought her in, I feel protective of the girl. She's been damaged, and worse than she imagines."
"Yeah?" Frankl feigned surprise, raising his eyebrows in an expression of almost incompetent ignorance. "You need to let that go. She has seen some of the finest trauma docs in the solar system, yourself included. She'll be fine once we take her to her new home."
Gus blinked. "Once you take her to her new home?"
"Yes." Frankl pushed himself forward to the edge of his seat, setting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head with a smirk. "Did I neglect to mention we'll be taking Santina Steger off your hands?"
"What?" Gus licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "I was going to—"
"Ah, ah." Frankl raised a hand. "She is no longer your responsibility. We will find a very nice home for her, rest assured."
Gus’s chest tightened, a lump mushrooming at the base of his throat. He struggled to breathe. "I'm sure she would like to say goodbye to some of the members of the Motayen team."
"She's already as good as gone." Frankl stood. "You run along to your debrief now, and forget Santina Steger ever existed."
"Well, then." Gus shifted in his seat, his favorite chair now uncomfortable. "Well, please give her our best wishes."
"Of course."
# # #
The man sometimes known as Mick Frankl plopped down in a cold office chair in an unassigned office, cleaned for bugs by his direct reports ten minutes before, in the security division's administrative tower. A sandwich in one hand, a soda in the other, he rotated in the chair, kicking the reinforced door closed, hearing it lock, comfortable in the knowledge it would keep anyone from walking in, no matter what clearance they thought they had.
He took a bite of the sandwich before putting it down on one side of the shiny briefcase sitting on the desk. He sipped his drink and set it down on the other side.
He opened the briefcase, revealing an old-fashioned console and monitor. His fingers flew across the keyboard, logging in and getting a command line, invoking a program, and switching to a secure mode.
An encrypted signal reached out to an old, broken-down piece of hardware attached to a battered vent which appeared to once have been meant to clean the exhaust from the station; that piece of hardware relayed the signal, the beam bouncing around until it reached its destination.
Roscoe's frowning, lined face appeared on the monitor before Frankl. They nodded to each other.
"I like this Perisho guy." Frankl shrugged. "Given time and training, I think he could be a candidate for CounterEspionage."
"I don't pay you to recruit new talent for your branch of your company."
"I'm always recruiting new talent." Frankl smacked his lips. "He's not going to play along. He didn't respond the way I would have liked."
Roscoe laughed. "That's why he would be good in your division, right?"
"True." Frankl nodded, pursing his lips. "And also why I'm going to play up the terrorism angle."
"The old maid is waiting for her delivery, and she's not patient," Roscoe said, his eyes hard. "You're not going to encounter any problems doing what you need to do, right? No misgivings?"
"Comedy isn't your forte," Frankl chuckled. "We're picking the package up now, and taking care of the loose ends in a way that will remove any suspicious info and get the point across to the people who need to get the point."
# # #
The door to the cafeteria slid shut behind Santina, and she strode down the corridor, the lights dimming to signal the change of shift to this station's version of evening, the air sharp and cool from the rattling atmo vents. A janitor knelt beside a garbage chute, a janitor she didn't recognize—middle-aged with gray in his curly brown hair, heavy blue gloves on his hands, and a tool belt around his waist.
Santina waved with the spoon in her right hand, her left hand holding a dish of mango ice cream, and smiled, nodding at him.
He pursed his lips, looking away.
She stopped beside him. "Hi, I'm Santina. I haven't seen you around here. Are you new?"
"Yeah," he said, rising to his feet and stomping away.
Odd. She had introduced herself to all the janitors, and all of them were kind to her. Must be having a bad day, poor guy.
A green dot flashed in Santina's peripheral vision, signaling a new message. She slowed down and tapped her temple with the knuckle of her right index finger, her session with Dorothea and Vanessa displaying in her peripheral vision, confirmed by both; a blink removed the alert.
She sighed, happy they had arrived back on the station in good health, happy the routine could get back to normal; she walked faster, fighting the urge to skip like a kid. She raised her cup of ice cream, took out a spoonful, and slipped it into her mouth, savoring its fruity goodness.
"Santina," a rich baritone voice said to her left, from a crossing access corridor.
She jumped, startled, yanking the spoon from the dish and flinging a dollop of ice cream against the wall.