Then it came to her. The name. The story. What is he doing here, now? It can’t be a coincidence.
Reo Jones. His name hit her like a cold blast of winter wind.
His was one of thousands of profiles that she and her peer Knights had reviewed, sent up the chain of command through local operatives and police. His story stood out in her mind. She couldn’t quite remember the details, but the fragments that floated to the top were not pleasant. She knew Reo was to be watched; he had close ties to known rogue elements; and that he was considered dangerous but not a direct threat to The Republic.
My day just keeps getting better. . . .
He had been a Knight Errant candidate. On his home world of Mizar, just after the communications blackout, mercenaries working for one faction or another—she couldn’t remember—attempted to seize the small armaments factory there. Jones was to defend the pass they would have to use to reach the factory. He failed. The factory was looted then burned by the retreating mercs.
The resulting explosion sent fire raging through the nearby town, killing hundreds. Reo Jones was found after the mercenaries left, his ’Mech undamaged. He was convicted of dereliction of duty, and his name was removed from consideration for Knighthood—a polite way of saying The Republic didn’t want him. His own parents had died in the attack. He was not like the Black Paladin, the betrayer Ezekiel Crow, who had sold out Liao and Northwind. Reo wasn’t a traitor; he was a failure. In her eyes, that made him more pathetic.
More memories surfaced from the briefing she had seen. Alexi knew that he had served in several low-life mercenary units, and if word was correct, Jacob Bannson, the dangerous business tycoon, had taken him onto his payroll. Then Reo had basically disappeared . . . until now.
She decided it was best to determine if this was indeed Reo Jones and confront him now with his presence on Wyatt, rather than wait until he made his move. She walked toward him with a military-business stride, but he appeared to ignore her until she closed the last few meters. Alexi stopped in front of him and balled her fists on her hips before she spoke.
“Can I help you?” she demanded.
He turned to face her, removing his sunglasses to reveal deep-set blue eyes. “Why, no, ma’am. It’s just that it’s not every day a new Knight Errant arrives on Wyatt—especially one bringing a lot of hardware along with her. I’m just a little curious, that’s all.”
“Why would you care what the Knights Errant are doing, Mr. Jones?” She used his name deliberately.
“Well, Knight Holt,” he drawled, proving he knew her name as well, “you could say that I’m just an interested local, wondering why The Republic would suddenly start paying attention to this little backwater world.”
“I’d say that it is none of your business,” she retorted.
Reo Jones smiled confidently, totally relaxed. “Maybe. Maybe not. I like to determine for myself what is my business.”
She gritted her teeth and stepped closer to him so that her voice wouldn’t carry. “I know all about you, Mr. Jones. If you’re here playing lackey for Jacob Bannson, then you would do well to turn your attention elsewhere.”
He shook his head. “There’s a lot of stories about me floating around out there. Don’t believe everything you hear or read. I thought that Knights Errant were supposed to be smarter than that.” It was a minor verbal jab, but she knew her face betrayed his hit.
Alexi abruptly changed the subject, hoping to catch him off guard and perhaps learn something that might be of use.
“How did you end up on Wyatt?”
“I’ve been here for over a year now,” he replied, looking away and studying the DropShip as workers unloaded the massive crates she had brought with her. “I came to Wyatt for a little peace and quiet. It seemed like the perfect place to get away from it all. Heck, it doesn’t even show up on the star charts; what could be more isolated than that?”
“So you want me to believe it’s a coincidence that you’re here?” Doubt hung in the air between them.
Reo shook his head. “Sir Knight, I don’t care what you believe.” He began to walk away from her, then paused, turning back. “I’m just a simple citizen of The Republic, out for a stroll.” He looked at her consideringly and added, “Say hello to Demi-Precentor Faulk for me.” He gave her a final broad grin, and walked away.
Alexi watched him go, but made no move to stop him. As a Knight Errant, she had authority to deal with reasonable risks to the security of The Republic, but he had done nothing that she could claim served as probable cause. Reo was just an irritating risk. No, he’s not a risk. What’s the word I’m looking for? Wild card.
She was frustrated by her inability to contain Reo Jones’ actions; she was more frustrated by the fact that he knew she was going to meet with the demi-precentor. That meant Reo Jones was either connected, smart, or both. Either way, he deserved close observation.
* * *
The ComStar compound on Wyatt looked positively pastoral as Alexi Holt approached. The massive hyperpulse generator and its large dish antenna were pointed upward at the blue sky; it seemed to be both aimed at the sky and awaiting messages that simply were not coming. The size of the massive array forced Alexi to remember that the HPG was essentially a combination of cannon and JumpShip engine. It opened a hole in hyperspace and shot data through that hole to a receiving HPG. The power required for such a near instantaneous connection was staggering, and the size of the structure towering over her conveyed that quite effectively.
She realized that what made the complex seem so peaceful was that this HPG was not throbbing with power. The constant, faint hum she should be hearing was conspicuously missing. And this particular installment looked more like a garden than a communications center. The perimeter of the building consisted of a low stone wall covered with vines. A few security personnel guarded the entrance and patrolled the grounds. Though she had no doubt they were heavily armed and trained to protect the facility, with the HPG not working, there was no real threat.
She paused for a moment and considered the open gates leading to the inner courtyard surrounding the HPG. A century or so ago, this would have been unheard of. In those days, ComStar protected its precious interstellar technology so obsessively that few people even reached the gate of an HPG. Those who did penetrate the aggressive security measures would have been greeted by adepts wearing robes and chanting technological phrases as if they were prayers. But that was a long time ago. The horror of the Jihad had purged the religious elements from ComStar once and for all. No one called on “the Holy Blake.” ComStar had returned to its origins as a corporate entity.
Her ID was verified at two checkpoints, then she had to wait in a small reception area for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, a smartly dressed man came and escorted her to the office of the demi-precentor in charge of the Wyatt HPG.
Faulk was a sleek-looking man in his thirties wearing a precisely pressed suit. His smile revealed perfect white teeth, and his manner reminded her more of a marketing executive than someone struggling to get a complex HPG back on line. His blonde, carefully styled hair stayed in place as he rose and shook her hand, gesturing to a seat in front of his desk.
“I’m David Faulk, Demi-Precentor of Wyatt. Welcome to Wyatt, Sir Knight,” he said, taking his own seat.
“Thank you,” Alexi replied, surveying the room. The moderately sized office held no personal touches. No photographs of family, no awards—no evidence, in fact, that this actually was Faulk’s office.
“I received word of your imminent arrival here a few weeks ago from one of the JumpShips passing through our system. My superiors sent me a message telling me something about your assignment.” His words were careful, not revealing too much. But that in itself revealed something about him to Alexi. A political beast. He’s trying to ferret out of me what I think my orders mean.
“I assume your superiors told you that Exarch Levin has made it a priority for ComStar to get the HPG network operation
al as soon as possible. Paladin Kelson Sorenson sent me here because he believes you have the potential to restore the HPG here on Wyatt sooner than elsewhere.”
He flashed her a quick smirk. “Yes, I’d gathered as much from the media. I trust that Paladin Sorenson understands the complexity of the task we are facing here.”
She tipped her head to one side and returned the smirk. “I can assure you, Demi-Precentor, that he doesn’t care.”
The glint of cockiness faded instantly with her words. “Well, you and the Paladin should care. We’ve been working very hard to get this generator back online. But we’ve been plagued with a wide range of problems.”
Alexi looked pointedly at Faulk’s pristine desk. “Yes, I can see you’re working quite hard on the problems. Paladin Sorenson has sent me here to assist you in solving them. Humor me—explain the problems you’re facing and what you’re doing to fix them.”
“Very well,” he said, his forehead furrowing slightly as he leaned back in his seat. “On Gray Monday the network went down. It was taken down a few different ways. In our case, the virus appeared to retune the factory settings of our HPG’s core, but we’re not sure how it did that—it should be impossible.”
“Isn’t each core preset to work on the destination world?”
“Yes, and the factory settings were worked out hundreds of years ago. In every HPG failure, before the core burned out the system began to send out duplicate messages, millions of them. That’s a common symptom of a malfunction for any core, but this cascade happened so quickly that the technicians were unable to shut down the system before the problem destroyed the core.”
She had been briefed on this by ComStar HQ on Terra, though the phrase Gray Monday was new to her. “Some of your stations were physically sabotaged by terrorists,” she prompted.
Demi-Precentor Faulk nodded. “Our newer facilities weren’t as susceptible to the virus. These were taken out by terrorist actions, explosives, sabotage—whatever was needed. Whoever did this knew a great deal about our network.” His words revealed his true feelings. Not the network. Our network.
“I’m with you so far, Demi-Precentor,” she replied.
“We had special problems here on Wyatt,” he continued. “The damage corrupted our HPG core. The core’s the heart of the generator, and ours was not only depolarized, it also suffered an imbalance. As you have pointed out, each HPG core is uniquely constructed and tuned for the generator for which it’s intended. This has to be done in the factory, because the tuning requires equipment and skills you can’t duplicate in the field. It took months to get one built for us, then shipped from Terra. Remember, Knight Holt, that we lost more than eighty percent of the network. Wyatt wasn’t the only station that had this problem, so there were a lot of cores being built.”
“I am aware of the scope of the problem,” she replied.
“We got our core, installed it, and spent weeks on troubleshooting and simulations. Everything checked out fine. We turned it on, and initial start-up was perfect. When we sent our test message, it started replicating. A few thousand at first, then a few million. We started overloading the receiving station that was online with us.”
“You knew it was going to burn out,” she replied.
He nodded. “I finally ordered our technicians to physically cut the power to the core.”
“Then what happened?”
“Pulling the plug damaged the new core. The imbalance in the core fried the firmware and resonator assembly. What happened here was a new problem, one we hadn’t encountered before.”
Alexi sat silent for a long moment. “Well, Demi-Precentor, what is ComStar doing to fix it?”
He glared at her. “I told you, this is a problem we have never encountered before. Plus, we fried the replacement core. That part alone costs billions of C-bills to manufacture and months to custom-build.”
“I understand,” she returned. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“A replacement core is being shipped here as we speak. Also, my superiors have told me to inform you that they have sent one of their most gifted technicians, some sort of savant on HPG mechanics, to accompany the new core. ComStar wishes to assure you and your Paladin that we are fully committed to the repair of the Wyatt HPG as soon as possible and are providing the resources to make that happen.”
“I appreciate the official position of ComStar,” Alexi said back, choosing her words carefully. “When does this replacement core arrive?”
“The hardware and installation technicians are due in-system in a week,” he replied curtly. “In the meantime, I will arrange for you to inspect our generator and facilities and review our records, per your Paladin’s request.”
She nodded, standing. “I appreciate your cooperation, Demi-Precentor,” she said again. “One more question; this genius technician who is coming, what can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing more than his name,” Faulk replied. “Harwell. Tucker Harwell. Also, that his sister, an INN researcher for ComStar, was reassigned here to help him adjust more quickly to working in the field.”
Alexi nodded. “When you get a chance, please send me what personnel data you can on him. I’m staying in the militia barracks.”
2
Customs, Adriana Spaceport
Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
17 April 3135
The customs agent eyed him suspiciously. At least, Tucker felt he was giving him the eye. The line for customs was short, only Tucker and five other ComStar techs who had arrived on the same ship, but it seemed like the process was taking forever. The customs area was hot and humid, making him feel sticky. The overweight, Asian-looking man used a small metallic wand to stab at his clothing and shaving kit, obviously looking for something that just as obviously wasn’t there. Adding to Tucker’s misery, he had picked up a sinus infection two days ago, making his head stuffy and his eyes itchy.
The customs office didn’t make him feel any better. It was a plain, white-walled brick building floored in lifeless gray carpeting and illuminated with flat-panel white lights. It smacked of a government facility: no pictures on the walls other than posters warning visitors about the risks of bringing unauthorized foods to Wyatt. From the look of the facility, it was in need of maintenance, probably the least of which was the paint chipped off the walls and the plentiful scuff marks. Tucker also noticed that it was not set up to handle a lot of people. Wyatt didn’t get a lot of visitors.
The man stared at his identification again, scrutinizing the holoimage and then Tucker. “You’re ComStar, eh?”
“Yes,” he said, wiping his raw, red nose.
“Here to fix our HPG, I suppose,” the customs agent sniffed, handing back Tucker’s identification.
“That’s the hope,” Tucker said, stuffing the ID into his inner jacket pocket. “Our security detail and parts are still aboard the ship, waiting for your people’s clearance. With any luck we’ll have you up and running in a few weeks.” His voice rang with confidence.
“Luck?” the agent said with contempt. “Bloody ComStar.”
Tucker cocked his head to the side. He had not heard that exact phrase before, and never heard ComStar spoken about with such disdain. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” the customs agent said, snapping shut Tucker’s suitcase. “What? You think because you’re ComStar that you’re special? Let me tell you, boy-o, most thinking people think ComStar was the ones that took down the network. And here you come with the parts, three years later, to fix something that you damaged.”
Tucker was speechless for a moment, stunned by the vehemence from this total stranger. A new voice shattered the strained silence. “I take it, officer, that you are done here?” Tucker turned and saw a friendly face, one that made him smile.
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” the customs agent groused.
The woman, older than Tucker and just slightly shorter, barely lowered the tone
of her voice. “If you have charges you wish to file, do so. If you have evidence or probable cause to detain this man, declare your case and act on it. Otherwise, he leaves now,” she said, pointing at Tucker.
The customs agent glared at her. “Bloody ComStar,” he repeated. “Get him out of here,” he said, turning his back and walking away. Tucker walked a few steps before turning to the woman and embracing her. “Patricia, what are you doing here?”
She smiled warmly. Her hair was worn straight and unadorned and she tossed her head slightly to get it back in place after his hug. “Can’t I show up to welcome my little brother?”
“But how did you know I was here?”
“I met with Precentor Buhl several months ago. He told me that he was considering you for an assignment, and arranged for me to be sent to Wyatt.”
Tucker was astonished. That was impossible. “Patricia, I was still in school then. I hadn’t even talked to Buhl about an assignment.”
She smiled more broadly and shrugged her shoulders. “From what I hear, he’s a very astute man. He must have had you in mind for months before meeting you. He must have wanted you to have a friendly face here.”
He stood with his mouth half-open, stunned. He had heard that Buhl was a visionary, that he was one of the true leaders of ComStar. Now Tucker had witnessed that quality. The interview he had gone through was just a formality. Precentor Buhl had planned on sending him to Wyatt long before they had actually met. His respect for the man went up a notch.
“Incredible,” was all he managed to stammer. “What have they got you doing here?”
She patted him on the back as they walked out of the customs area. “Archives research for INN. Wyatt was the site of an aerotech production facility before the Jihad. Bowie Industries was destroyed in the first few weeks of fighting, and the defending Com Guards were wiped out to the last man. ComStar has me documenting what happened to the facility. They fund quite a bit of historical research.” She spoke casually about her work, as if it were boring. “But what about you? Congratulations are obviously in order for passing your training.”
Target of Opportunity Page 3