by Piers Platt
* * *
“I have loss of signal on 621,” the tech announced. “Not getting any readings from biometrics, either.”
“EMP grenade?” the supervisor asked, standing from his own desk to walk over to the tech’s station.
“Checking, wait a second.”
The supervisor bent over the tech’s shoulder to watch the replay on the viewscreen.
“Doesn’t look like it was his grenade – both hands on the steering wheel,” the tech noted. “Could have been someone else’s ….”
The supervisor frowned, gnawing the inside of his lip and watching the video replay.
“You think KIA?” the tech asked, after the silence had stretched uncomfortably.
“Could be,” the supervisor mused. “Show me the last couple frames from his visual feed before it blacked out. There! The flash – that’s an explosion, not an EMP grenade. Something hit his car, some kind of heavy ordnance.”
“Ouch,” the tech noted. “So put 621 on the KIA list?”
“Put him MIA for now, with a note to follow-up in a week. He’s most likely dead, but you never know.”
The tech pulled up his database program and accessed Contractor 621’s personnel file. “Probably for the best,” he said. “Did you see 621’s last psych assessment?”
“Yeah,” the supervisor nodded. “The reviewing doctor recommended we retire him early. Could be why he was assigned the Jokuan mission – high risk factor.”
The tech finished editing the personnel file, and then cast a furtive look around the control room. “Any update on 339?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The supervisor shook his head. “Nope. I heard there’s a collection team assigned to track her down, but so far they don’t have anything.”
“Why didn’t they just disable her remotely when her ship came out of FTL drive?”
“She never came back online. Without the communications link to her biometrics, they don’t know where she is, and they can’t access her hemobots.”
“How is that possible? Her ship had to have come out of FTL drive months ago, and she can’t have just been setting off EMP grenades since then to disrupt the feed.”
“I don’t know. I think she probably had her enhancements removed somehow – hemobots, neural interface, everything.”
“Maybe she’s dead,” the tech said.
“339? Not likely.”
20
Ashish was putting the finishing touches on an article about Juntland’s declining tourism industry when the notification popped up on his screen: “New private message for Amateur Conspiracy Theorist.” He frowned at it for a second, trying to place the screen name.
Oh, the Guild thing … haven’t checked that forum post for months.
His cursor hovered over the Dismiss button for a second, but purely on impulse, he clicked Open instead.
JohnJaneDoe: “Responding to your post. Was recruited by a juvenile detention center guard. Taken to a location for initial testing, then sent directly offworld.”
Ashish frowned and opened up the private chat window.
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “Describe the location where you were tested,” he typed.
JohnJaneDoe: “Mobile kitchen.”
Ashish exhaled loudly and leaned back in his chair. “Fuck,” he said.
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “Kind of shocked I found a legit guildsman.”
JohnJaneDoe: “Quid pro quo. Prove you have reliable info, too.”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “You are an orphan. You were younger than eighteen when you were recruited.”
JohnJaneDoe: “Keep going.”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “After testing, you took the shuttle up to the transfer station, where you boarded a cargo spaceship, not a passenger liner.”
There was no response for several seconds. Ashish realized his heart was pounding in his ears.
JohnJaneDoe: “True. Your turn.”
Ashish drummed his fingers on the desk. What to ask first?
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “How many kills have you made?”
JohnJaneDoe: “50. Do you know where the Guild conducts training?”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “No. Weren’t you there? Why do you want to know?”
JohnJaneDoe: “Being on a planet and knowing which one it is are two different things. That’s also two questions. My turn. Do you know where the Guild’s operations center is located?”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “No. What’s at the operations center?”
JohnJaneDoe: “Controllers who give us orders and monitor / assist us during missions. Do you know how recruiters are initially approached by the Guild?”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “No. I have identified several recruiters. But I don’t think they will spill the beans if I ask them. Why did you decide to talk to me?”
JohnJaneDoe: “You don’t have much info at all, do you? Give me something useful or we’re done.”
Ashish scratched his head, thinking.
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “Guildsmen are equipped with facial implants and trained to closely mimic other people’s faces within a few seconds of seeing them.”
JohnJaneDoe: “Something useful, meaning something I don’t already know. What is the name of the shell corporation that runs the Guild?”
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “Don’t know. What I do know: the Interstellar Police have been completely unsuccessful at penetrating the Guild. They’ve only caught fourteen guildsmen in total, and all have died or escaped prior to sentencing.”
JohnJaneDoe: “Mildly interesting, but not particularly useful.”
Ashish frowned.
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “Still there?”
There was no response. He decided to try his luck.
Amateur Conspiracy Theorist: “You’re ultra-wealthy now, with payout from 50 kills. Why are you so interested in locating the Guild?”
The cursor blinked quietly for close to a minute. Then, suddenly, a new message appeared. Ashish read it eagerly.
“No fucking way,” he breathed.
AnonChat System Message: “User ‘JohnJaneDoe’ has logged off. Save this chat for offline viewing?”
* * *
“I didn’t want you to worry,” Ashish said.
“Ashish, this is a death threat – I deserved to know about it immediately. Not years later!” Anh put the manila envelope on the coffee table, and leaned forward on the couch. “Instead you just lied to me and bought us a new home security system,” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
His wife checked the video feed from the baby’s room on her phone, sighing. “And you still want to write this story? Because one of these killers made contact with you?”
“No, I’m asking for your advice,” Ashish said. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“This is one of those career-defining moments,” Anh said.
“Maybe,” Ashish agreed, nodding slowly.
Anh was quiet for a time, thinking. “I can see it means a lot to you, but I don’t think you should write it. This,” she pointed at the envelope, “is all too scary, too real.”
“Okay,” Ashish said, exhaling.
“Are you mad at me?” Anh asked.
“No. I’m actually a little relieved. I think that’s what I wanted you to say.”
“Okay,” she said. “What now?”
Ashish picked up the envelope. “I’m going to get rid of this and all of my work so far on this story. Clear it off my computer, everything.”
“Get rid of it tonight, Ashish.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Okay,” Anh said. “I’m going to go take a shower: it looks like the little one is asleep.”
She stood up and kissed him lightly on the forehead. Ashish watched her leave, then went back to his office. He signed onto AnonChat and posted a final message in the Guild thread he had started, announcing the end of t
he thread, locking it for further comment, and then deactivating the “Amateur Conspiracy Theorist” screen name. Then he spent ten minutes scouring his computer and phone for all of his notes, copying them onto a spare data drive before deleting them off of his computer and phone completely. He removed the data drive and dropped it into the manila envelope, then walked through the kitchen into the garage. His air car started up when he sat down in the driver’s seat.
“Post office, please,” he told it.
“The post office is closed, sir,” the car responded. “Would you still like to fly there?”
Ashish checked his watch. “Oh, crap … it is.” He had planned on mailing the envelope to Martin Beauceron, but now the post office was closed for the weekend. He bit his lip, looking at the envelope on the seat next to him. I promised Anh I’d get it out of here. “Go to the bank instead.”
The car rose on its hoverjets, the garage door folding upwards. “Navigating to Juntland Savings and Loan,” the car said. It backed smoothly out of the garage, and then started a gentle climb upwards.
21
Rath had feared his nightmares before, when the gruesome kills replayed themselves in his dreams and snatched him from sleep, waking him in a panic. But when he awoke, he could always reassure himself that the dream was over, and find some scant comfort in Rebecca’s company. The only thing worse than being woken by nightmares each night, Rath learned, was being unable to wake up from the nightmares. The images and sensations played themselves out, over and over, sometimes accurate to the smallest detail, other times a perverse exaggeration. Through the seemingly endless night, Rath slept on, helpless to stop the visions.
He seemed to wake up one day, and Rath was sure that the medical ward he saw around him was just some new, diabolically twisted nightmare sent to tear away the last shreds of his sanity. He ignored the medical staff for three days and forced himself to stay awake, reluctant to go back to his dreams for even a minute, but when he nodded off on the third night and a nightmare woke him up in the same hospital bed, he started to believe. A short, dark-haired surgeon came to him the next morning.
“I’m Doctor Archus,” she said. “How are you feeling today?”
“Pain,” Rath croaked, his throat sore from disuse.
“Mm-hmm, there will be that,” Archus agreed, checking Rath’s chart on a datascroll. “You’ve been in a medically-induced coma for a little over three months now.”
Rath winced – he would have sworn it had been ten years.
“You’ve got some serious healing to do still, but you seem to be through the worst of it, which is why we woke you up. If I were you, I’d write a nice ‘thank you’ letter to your hemobot manufacturer, because without them, you would not be here.”
Rath could not think of an appropriate response. Archus continued, undeterred: “You took a piece of shrapnel through the abdomen – a big one. We patched up most of your organs, but had to replace your kidneys with synthetic ones. They work just like your old ones do, so no worries there. That’s not the full butcher’s bill, though.”
Rath dug through his memories of the mission. “Broken leg?” he ventured.
“Yup, your left leg fracture is largely healed, though it will be stiff from lack of use for a while. But we had to grow you a new right leg, too, and graft it directly onto your hip. That one’s going to be really stiff for a while, until you complete a few months of physical therapy and get those brand new muscles working again.”
“How long?” Rath managed.
Archus cocked her head to the side. “Generally, six to eight months, but with your hemobot capabilities, you might be back in shape in half that. We’ll be out-processing you in about a week, so you’ll be out of here soon.”
“Where’s here?”
“Good question,” she said, smiling. “You’re on board a Red Cross Orbital Aid Vessel. We’re providing humanitarian assistance during the Jokuan civil war, since local facilities are a bit … overwhelmed. But your war is over, soldier.” She patted his left leg and gave him a reassuring smile.
Rath reached over to his left wrist, where he found the counter bracelet. He tapped the button by the lens, and watched as a golden 25 appeared, and then rotated into a 26. He sighed – his war was far from over.
* * *
They had Rath on his feet again two days later, and four days after that he could shuffle around on his own with the help of a cane. On the morning of his discharge, an orderly brought him a bag containing the equipment he had been carrying on the mission, and his Forge. Rath had forgotten about it, assuming the Group would issue him a new one. He hobbled over to the battered backpack and laid his hand on it affectionately.
Hello, old friend.
As he left the hospital, he received a message from Headquarters notifying him that he was on convalescent leave for five months. He caught a shuttle over to the orbital transportation hub, wheeling his Forge on a luggage trolley so that he didn’t have to carry it himself. He felt as if his legs were only receiving partial instructions from his brain – they rarely did what he wanted them to do, and after even a short walk, they throbbed painfully. He needed a second painkiller dose to cross the transfer station to his spaceliner, and even stopped for a rest at the vessel’s boarding gate. At least the scar from his stomach wound did not hurt him, though it itched from time to time. The spaceliner left for Volpes that evening, and Rath was glad to put Jokuan behind him.
On Volpes, he continued his therapy routines, slowly building up his strength and flexibility each day. But after several hours in the gym, he had nothing left to do for the rest of the day, and Rath soon grew bored of the movies on his entertainment center. It was nice to see Rebecca again, but he made it a point to limit his simulator time to evenings before going to bed.
He stayed in the simulator to sleep through the nights, and his dreams came back, as he had known they would. He programmed Rebecca to stay awake while he slept, either cradling his head in her lap or spooning with him, so that she could stroke his hair or whisper soothing words to him when he jolted awake in fear. He slept no more than four or five hours a night, and his physical therapists complained often that his exhaustion was impeding his own recovery, but there was nothing Rath could do about it.
After a few weeks, Rath decided to finish his high school diploma online, but he was somewhat dismayed to find that it only took him one month of studying to do so – much of the test was simply memorization, so a read-through of the textbooks allowed him to pass easily. The schoolwork made Rath think about life back on Tarkis, before the Group – about Vonn standing with him at the bus stop in the morning, or taking him down to the VRcade on Saturdays, where they used a credit-spoofer to play unlimited free pinball until the owner chased them out. Rath wondered if the two of them still held the high score on the machine.
When he could walk for two miles without needing to rest, Rath booked a flight back to Tarkis. The one-way ticket cost him most of his monthly stipend, so he saved up by staying away from the bars and high-end restaurants, eating ration packs for a month instead. He packed his travel gear, simulator suit, and Forge, caught a hover-rail line to the spaceport, and launched up to orbit.
* * *
Rath was wearing his own face when he landed, for the first time since leaving the training planet.
Six years.
The smell hit him as soon as he stepped out of the spaceport, that pungent mix of uncollected garbage and fossil fuel smog.
Tarkis. Home.
He checked into a cheap hotel not far from his old apartment, locking his gear in a secure locker at the foot of the bed and then activating the Forge to build a stun pistol, fighting knife, and stun grenades. He built neither EMP grenades nor any spare clothing for disguises. He walked back outside, keeping his Forge on out of habit, despite the added weight and discomfort – he could walk without a cane, but his limp was still noticeable, and running was out of the question. Rath stood on the stoop for a minute, collectin
g himself. Then he set off for his old apartment building.
Rath was surprised to find the building still there, and still boarded up after the fire that had killed his parents so long ago. Though condemned, the building looked to be inhabited by vagrants, so Rath avoided the front entrance, instead climbing the fire escape. At the fifth floor he slipped in through a window, wincing as he maneuvered his stiff legs through the narrow opening. The fire had destroyed nearly everything inside, and looters had taken what was left, but Rath’s mind filled in the missing elements, and for a minute he felt like he was fourteen again. He spent a minute just standing near his old bed, remembering. Then he went to the kitchen.
It was empty, too – footprints of vandals visible in the ash still covering the floor, no sign of the table or chairs. There was police tape across the door to his parents’ bedroom, but Rath had no desire to pay his respects there. Instead he walked to the front door. The broken hinges and door had been replaced at some point, but Rath found a sliver of wood sticking out of the old frame, splintered when Nicholai’s enforcer – Despino, Rath’s mind told him – had kicked in the door. Rath levered it out of the frame and held the sliver in his hand for a minute.
I kept my promise, Vonn. I made it out of the lower levels.
Rath turned the sliver over, feeling the rough wood scrape against his palm.
But I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore, even for you. I’m not going to make it all the way, but I can still make it worthwhile.
* * *
Rath spent two weeks roaming the streets of his old neighborhood, returning to his hotel for a few hours each day to eat and sleep. He saw no sign of Nicholai or his gang members during that time, though he did overhear talk of other gangs active in the area. His training had taught him how to stalk a target and plan a kill, but generally the target’s location was well-known, and provided to him in his intelligence brief – this kind of reconnaissance was outside his normal skillset. Rath began to despair of ever tracking Nicholai down, so when the third teenager attempted to mug him in as many days, he lost his temper.