Could she have done it? Would she have? Now she wasn’t so sure.
She rolled her neck, took deep, controlled breaths.
She needed answers. She needed to see her brother. She needed her employers, if they were still around, to keep their part of the bargain.
Which meant continuing to the rendezvous. Which meant facing whatever dangers lay ahead. She was a fighter, she told herself. She could handle it, she told herself.
She was strong.
Wasn’t she?
And if anything, she would get those answers. Whatever they meant for her, now that everything had gone to shit.
Cait pulled herself up and stepped back out into the street, keeping her head down as she walked through puddles, splashing her legs with black, dirty water as she headed deeper into Salt City. She’d picked the route deliberately, skirting the busy central thoroughfares of the slum and instead tracking along a strip of abandoned industrial buildings. She was alone, and that was the point. If anyone approached her, from any direction, she would know it.
She walked on, lost in thought.
Salt City wasn’t a city at all. It didn’t even have a real name. It abutted the Fleet capital, New Orem, with no border or barrier, just a steadily crumbling zone of half-finished construction, relics from when someone had tried—and failed—to spread the prosperity of the capital northwest, absorbing the slum that occupied the bed of the great salt lake that had once made the region famous. Salt City was a mid-sized patch of nothing in the heart of the Fleet, an expected side effect of the Fleet being the planet’s primary employer. The conglomeration of humanity that stretched from one side of the Confederated Utah Territory to the other was a near unbroken metropolis home to thirty million people; as the Fleet capital, New Orem had more gravity than a supermassive black hole for those looking for work.
Salt City was a refuge for those drawn to the promise of a dream-like career in Fleet service—most from South America, having crawled up into the northern continent after most of the land masses south of the equator had been eaten by a Mother Spider—only to find that, really, the Fleet didn’t want them. So, with their homelands now a smoking, radioactive wasteland, they had no choice but to stay, camping out on the salt plain.
Salt City was born, and the Fleet didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about. Things like Spiders. Things like war.
So Salt City grew alongside New Orem, a virtually independent state: unrecognized, disorganized, but autonomous. It developed its own economy. It was a place Cait had grown to know these past few months, ever since she had left the Academy, ever since she had been contacted by a group that told her that everything she knew about the Fleet, about the war itself, was a lie.
That everything she knew about what had happened to her brother was a lie too.
The group that had entrusted her with a very special mission, one requiring her specialized skills, one that would start a chain reaction that would reveal everything—everything—about what the Fleet was really doing.
Cait slowed, looking up from under her hood. She tracked toward the flat, featureless wall of a factory, then slid into another alley, diving into the deep shadows. She held herself against the damp wall, and she waited.
She was being followed. It hadn’t required psychic powers to sense the presence that had been trailing her through the last few empty blocks of the industrial zone.
This was not part of the plan. The plan was to head to a prearranged place, the rendezvous, where she would be met. Then they would take her to her brother.
But now she was being followed.
Shit. It was them, wasn’t it? They knew she had failed—no, no, that wasn’t it. They had sent the other shooter, because they had lost their trust in her. And now she was being stalked. They were going to take her out, before she reached the rendezvous.
Cait cursed inwardly. Of course. The route she had chosen through the backwater industrial zones. The perfect place for an ambush. Nobody would see. Nobody would hear.
Oh, God. This was it.
Her tail was getting closer and the world buzzed in Cait’s ears as she crouched down in the darkness.
Across from her in the alley was a pile of rubble. There was a clicking sound, a ceramic tap; Cait jerked her head up at the sound and, almost without thinking, reached out her arm to receive the triangular shard of concrete that lifted itself off the top of the pile and flew toward her. The block was heavier than she had expected, jarring her arm as she caught it. She looked at it in her hand, trying to focus on the here and now while her vision clouded with spinning stars. She hefted the block. Heavy, awkward, but she would still be able to get a good swing with it.
Or maybe she wouldn’t need to swing it at all. The block was suddenly lighter; Cait opened her fingers and watched as the shard floated a centimeter in the air over her open palm.
Out on the street, the tail had slowed, perhaps realizing they’d lost their mark. Hard footsteps sloshing through puddles stopped, shuffled, stopped. Boots turned on the rough road; then the person headed off toward a dark street directly across from Cait’s alley. She peered out from the shadows, watching the man’s receding back. He was wearing a long pale coat that trailed out behind him as he walked. It wasn’t very discreet, not for a tail, not for an assassin sent to kill her. Maybe he was the one who had shot the Fleet Admiral.
Cait wobbled on her haunches as a dizzy spell hit. The man was gone. Maybe … maybe he hadn’t been following her. Maybe he was up to crimes and conspiracies of his own. This was Salt City, after all.
The concrete shard dropped to the ground, the clinking sound it made helping Cait to snap out of it. She sighed. She felt ill. She slid down the wall a little more and sat on the damp ground as she waited a few moments, counting time, eyes scanning the street, waiting for the sick feeling to pass. The rain eased, leaving behind huge, still puddles in the rutted pavement, the pools reflecting the underpowered street lighting.
Cait licked her lips. Her mouth was dry. That power, that talent … it took it out of her. But, she thought, that was what it was. A power. She might not have been able to control it, but she took strength from what had just happened.
She was a warrior. She was on a mission. She had to see her brother again and maybe, just maybe, she was strong enough to survive whatever was coming next.
Cait counted in her head again, then, satisfied that she was alone once more, stepped out of the alley to continue her journey.
9
“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”
Kodiak opened his eyes and saw a dark shape looming over him. The world was nothing but fuzzy shades of gray. Something moved in front of his face. Another face, just a dark oval. He blinked and coughed and tried to speak, but his mouth and throat were dry. He felt like death.
And then he remembered.
“Here.” A familiar voice. Braben. The dick who shot him. Kodiak tried to sit up, to get into a better position to throttle the Bureau agent, but his limbs refused to move. He could feel them all right. They were all there, apparently intact, but they were immobile. He was lying on a hard surface, completely paralyzed.
Something warm and clammy touched his lips—the lip of a plastic bottle—and although his mouth didn’t open as much as he really wanted it to, the cool water that filled it was glorious. He took four sips, each increasing in size as Braben held the bottle. Then he sighed and slumped back, realizing that he’d managed to lift his head a little. After a few moments, he felt better—much better—although as his heart rate kicked up it banged a matching rhythm inside his skull. Kodiak sighed and winced as the headache took hold.
“Yeah, you’ll feel lousy awhile.” The shadow that was Braben appeared to shrug. “Side effects I guess. What do I know?”
Kodiak coughed. “You shot me,” was all he could croak out before he let his head rest against the table again.
Braben laughed. “Drink some more,” he said, this time offering the bottle to
Kodiak instead of feeding it to him. Kodiak let his head roll to the side to see, and then he lifted his arm and grabbed hold of the drink. The bottle felt like it weighed a ton. Kodiak quickly rested it on his chest, then craned his neck up to drink. He coughed, mid-gulp, and turned his head to cough up a mouthful of water.
Braben’s shape took a step back, and it seemed like he was looking down at his shoes.
“You’re doing this deliberately,” he said.
Kodiak smiled and drank again, this time taking big, clean swallows. Then he pushed himself up on his elbows. The thump in his head reached a crescendo and he gasped in pain, but then the feeling subsided. He shifted on the table, taking stock of his situation.
He was still wearing the scarlet evening suit from the casino, although it was creased to hell, the bright fabric dirty, smudged. He was lying on something black on the hard table. The material was stiff plastic, almost waxy to the touch. There was a zipper near his feet.
He was lying in a body bag.
The realization sent Kodiak into a coughing fit. He held the drink bottle out and Braben took it from him. Then Kodiak leaned forward, trying to control the cough, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His eyes were sore and filled with tears. For a moment he reveled in the darkness behind his hands; then he dropped them and turned to Braben.
Special Agent Braben. His former partner stood beside the table, looking like he’d just come from a relaxing weekend away. He was wearing the same suit as on Helprin’s Gambit, but the shirt had switched to brown and the tie to metallic silver.
Kodiak looked around the room. It was well lit but somehow remained dingy, all concrete and steel. Cold too, although Kodiak wondered if that was just him. He pulled the edge of the body bag away from the table, the stiff plastic rustling. Underneath was chrome steel.
They were in a morgue.
He looked up at Braben. “How long have I been out?” he asked, reaching for the water bottle again. Braben handed it over, then he stuck his thumbs around the top of his belt and swayed back and forth on his feet.
“About ten hours.”
Kodiak shook his head and drained the bottle. “No wonder I feel like shit. What the hell did you drug me with?”
“No drugs.”
Kodiak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised an eyebrow. Braben grinned and flicked the edge of his fancy jacket to one side. The lining was red, the same color as Kodiak’s crumpled suit. The same strange-looking weapon Braben had drawn at the station now hung on a belt holster instead of one concealed against the agent’s side.
“Took us that long to get back to Earth, and we couldn’t risk anyone finding out you weren’t dead,” said the agent. “Helprin’s men were watching us from the moment we entered his domain, and he had scanners on us for a long time after we left. Business like his, I guess he likes to keep an eye on people coming and going. So anyway, I just kept shooting you every now and again to keep you under.”
Kodiak blinked in disbelief. “You just kept shooting me?”
“Yeah, every now and again,” said Braben. He looked down at the gun on his hip. “Staser, new thing.” He let his jacket fall back into place. “Think they were rolled out just after you left. Got a great stun setting on them.”
Kodiak pulled his feet out of the bottom of the body bag and swung his legs over the table. Braben stepped forward, ready to help, but Kodiak brushed him off. “I can manage, you trigger-happy asshole.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as the world went gray and wobbly. Some extraction plan. Who knew being executed for treason would hurt so much? Then he opened his eyes, glanced around the morgue at the other tables. They were occupied. With a frown he quickly slipped off his table and rubbed his face. He was annoyed at the interruption of his grand plan, his one chance at hurting Helprin. But they wouldn’t have pulled him out without good reason. He felt his natural curiosity piqued.
He dropped his hands. “So why did you bring me out of there?”
Braben looked at him. Kodiak shrugged. “What?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what? I’ve been locked in that casino for hours.”
Braben gave a low whistle and buttoned his jacket. “Okay,” he said slowly. “The Fleet Admiral has been assassinated. It’s a red ball, all hands on deck. The chief will give you a full briefing.” He headed toward the door.
“Assassinated?” Kodiak’s head cleared immediately, a surge of adrenaline giving his tired body new life. He pushed away from the slab and walked over to Braben, waiting by the door. Kodiak stared at his partner, but Braben’s expression was set.
Kodiak parsed Braben’s statement through his mind again. Assassination of the Fleet Admiral. A thousand other thoughts suddenly fought for attention—was it terrorism? Some kind of attack? Was it a precursor to … what? Another assassination? Another attack? Was this just the first move in a new kind of conflict? Like they didn’t have enough, fighting a war with the Spiders. But there were a lot of organizations who didn’t like the way the Fleet was running things, who had threatened just this kind of action.
Braben cocked his head. “Von?”
Kodiak rolled his neck, trying to clear his mind. “Holy shit,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Braben nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
Kodiak stepped past his partner, pushing open the doors and striding into the corridor. Then he stopped and turned, holding the door open. “You coming or what?” he asked. He was impatient to talk to the chief, get the full picture of what had happened.
Braben adjusted his tie and followed.
10
By the time the two agents reached the corridors of the Bureau proper, Braben was back in the lead, Kodiak at his heels.
Nothing had changed, as far as Kodiak could see. Then he wondered why he thought anything would have considering he’d hardly been gone a year. Same building. Same corridors. Same carpet and same lights and same coffee machines and water coolers. The walk from the morgue was a long one, a walk he remembered too. So far the only thing that was new was Braben’s fancy gun.
That, and the mood, the atmosphere. Braben had said it himself: this was a red ball, an emergency so bad they’d called everyone in—including him, pulling him out from a long undercover mission, throwing away months of planning and preparation.
Red ball.
They walked on, Kodiak’s expression grim. The Bureau was busy, filled with agents, some of whom Kodiak recognized and some of whom he didn’t. The Bureau was buzzing with energy, none of it positive. It felt cold, fearful. Like something dangerous just below the waterline. Like something else was about to happen, like the Fleet Admiral’s assassination was just the start of something new and terrible.
As if to underline that point, Kodiak and Braben stopped in the corridor and moved to either side as a line of marines in full combat armor marched past. When they were gone, Kodiak turned to watch their plated backs.
“This is going to take some getting used to,” he said.
“That it is.”
Kodiak tried to remember the last time he’d seen the heart of the Fleet at real battle stations. There was a war on, but here in New Orem that was almost an abstract concept, something happening somewhere else. The front lines were light-years across, but they were a very long way from the Earth.
Thankfully.
They walked on. Kodiak nodded at those agents he knew as he passed them. Some returned the gesture; most looked the other way. Kodiak started to wonder how many people actually knew what had happened to him. He was an agent gone rogue, one who had broken into an evidence server and lifted a whole heap of money before disappearing. He was a wanted man.
So the official story went, anyway. He just hoped that the Bureau staff would at least be briefed on his status by the chief. The last thing anybody needed was that hanging over his head, distracting not just himself but those he would need to give orders to. They’d brought him back to work,
after all.
Soon enough, they reached the Bureau bullpen, the command center of the whole operation. It was a large circular chamber, the main floor sunk down to separate it from the six glass-walled planning rooms that ringed it. From the outer ring, eight short flights of steps were spaced out evenly, leading down to the operation floor.
The bullpen proper was a chaos of desks and tables and agents, the air thick with so many spinning holodisplays that Kodiak could hardly see to the other side of the room. He paused at the top step, getting his bearings. Braben, walking ahead, stopped and turned around.
“You coming, Von?”
The bullpen went quiet as every agent stopped what they were doing and turned to watch Kodiak. Kodiak cleared his throat, feeling his face turn the same shade of red as his crumpled suit. Then he gave a little nod with a tight smile he hoped looked more like grim determination than the nervousness it felt like, and jogged down the steps to join his partner.
Braben licked his lips and then turned back around and kept walking, heading across the center of the room and toward one of the planning rooms on the opposite side of the bullpen, the glass walls of this one opaque gray, the room set to private. Kodiak followed Braben, very aware that everyone was staring at him as he walked.
Braben stopped at the planning room door. He nodded over Kodiak’s shoulder at the bullpen behind them. “Don’t worry, there’s a briefing set for later today, once the chief has filled you in.”
Kodiak frowned, nodded. “Glad to hear it.”
Braben pushed the door open and gestured for Kodiak to enter.
The planning room was filled with a long table, lined with chairs. As Braben closed the door, Kodiak felt a slight pressure on his eardrums as the sound-canceling surfaces clicked on. Whatever was said or done in this room was now completely secret.
“Welcome back, Von.”
Bureau Chief Laurel Avalon sat on the other side of the table. She tilted her head, watching him.
Kodiak glanced at Braben, then walked around the table and pulled a chair out in front of Avalon.
The Machine Awakes Page 7