Silent Order_Image Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Maybe,” said March. That was a disturbing thought. “But the Center is Slovell’s own lair. I don’t think he would try anything there. Not unless he was preparing to flee the Falcon Republic.”

  “Don’t shit where you eat, eh?” said Eighty.

  “Right,” said March. “Then again, he already did, didn’t he? If he was the one who used the radiation weapon on that accounting firm.” He shook his head. “Which is why we should steal that quantum device sooner rather than later.”

  The discussion lasted another hour, but the rest was just the details. The plan had been decided. March and Eighty would infiltrate the utility tunnels beneath the University and plant small, shaped charges beneath the vault door’s frame. Winter would RSVP to the invitations, with March as her guest for the evening. Eighty and Cassandra would disguise themselves as chauffeurs, and Cassandra would monitor the position of the relic with the Eclipse. That would, March hoped, keep her out of immediate danger, and would also give them advanced warning if Slovell moved the device or if he planned to use the weapon again.

  The next day March and Eighty entered the utility tunnels, a process which involved more bribe money than March would have expected. Access to the tunnels was controlled by Arcology Twelve’s division of Northgate City’s department of public works, which seemed to be staffed entirely by former clone soldiers. All the identical-looking workers were burly, thick-featured, and balding, and every single one of them looked capable in hand-to-hand combat. Eighty informed March that most of the employees of Northgate City’s public works department were former infantry soldiers cloned from one of the most decorated infantrymen in the Falcon Republic’s history, a soldier named William Dominic.

  “So we call them Dominics,” said Eighty as they walked through the pumping station. After Eighty had shelled over an appropriate amount of bribe money, the Dominic in charge of the University level’s HVAC systems had grudgingly surrendered a keycard that granted them access.

  “Just like you’re a Stryker,” said March.

  “Exactly,” said Eighty. They climbed a stairwell and headed down a metal catwalk, thick pipes rising around them. “The Dominics are surly bastards, the lot of them. Good soldiers, though. And they like working with their hands. Most of them wind up going into public utilities after they get their citizenship, or they become construction contractors.”

  March reached into his jacket and drew out his pistol, the plastic grip rough against his hand. He didn’t think that Slovell would be smart enough to make any security arrangements in the utility tunnels below the University, but the Iron Hands or someone like Marco Skinner might have been clever enough to do it.

  “Is it strange?” said March, looking down the catwalk. It ended in a sealed utility door, and March lifted the access card that Eighty’s bribes had obtained.

  “Is what strange?” said Eighty.

  “Having your destiny coded into your genes like that,” said March.

  “Not really,” said Eighty. “We are what we’re born to be. Look at you, Mr. Norther. Not to be harsh, but the Machinists made you into an Iron Hand, and you’re doing the same kind of work for the Silent Order.”

  “Disturbing thought,” said March. “Well, if that’s what I was trained to do, then I had better go first.”

  “I’m not going to argue.”

  March swiped the keycard through the lock. The door beeped and slid open, and beyond was nothing but a narrow utility corridor lined with humming pipes. There was no one else down here, no sign of drones or maintenance robots, and no security mechanisms or cameras. March led the way down the corridor, making turns when Eighty pointed them out. At last Eighty called for a halt, squinting up at the ceiling.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Obvious where Slovell installed that vault door.”

  It was. The ceiling was thick, reinforced concrete, but a spiderweb of cracks spread through it. Some chips had already fallen loose and lay on the grillwork of the floor.

  “Hell,” said March. “A good enough shock and it’s going to fall right through the ceiling. We can even cut the electrical power to the alarms with the same explosive.”

  “That’s why all building permits need to be approved through the arcology’s central office,” said Eighty. “Guess Slovell didn’t bother. We won’t even need a big explosive to make the vault door drop.”

  “We’d better place the explosives the morning before the festival,” said March. “Less chance a worker or a maintenance drone will stumble across it.”

  “Agreed,” said Eighty.

  The remaining days to the festival passed quickly. March, Eighty, Cassandra, and Winter worked out the final details of the plan. Cassandra monitored the Slovell Center, but nothing changed in the quantum entanglement reading. March and Eighty returned several times to the utility tunnels under the Slovell Center, placing small charges and rigging them to a transmitter. Once March sent the signal, the charges would detonate. They would not do any damage to the arcology or even the conduits going through the utility corridor, but they would destroy the damaged ceiling and cause the vault door to fall through the floor, and they would do so efficiently that they would generate hardly any noise. Once that was done, March prepared several smoke bombs, broke into the lobby of the Slovell Center at night, and placed them strategically in the enormous lobby and in several of the ventilation ducts. The bombs would release a harmless white smoke, but March had added a compound to the bombs that would fill the smoke with an unpleasant bleach-like smell. When those bombs went off, the guests would assume that a dangerous chemical had been released into the Slovell Center, and they would flee.

  In the resultant chaos, March hoped he could enter Slovell’s hidden vault unobserved.

  The next evening, it was time to get ready for the film festival.

  March needed a suit.

  Fortunately, Eighty had an abundance of formalwear in his pawnshop. March dressed in a suit cut to current Raetian fashions. To his annoyance, the coat was snug enough that he wouldn’t have room for a shoulder holster. Not that it mattered – the Slovell Center had weapon scanners at the doors, and he wouldn’t even be able to sneak in a printed plastic pistol. March disliked going anywhere unarmed, and in his experience, large gatherings of unarmed people made excellent targets for criminals and terrorists.

  Still, if he had learned anything as an Iron Hand and an Alpha Operative, it was how to carry out operations within the boundaries of unyielding restrictions. And thanks to his cybernetic limb, he could never be completely disarmed.

  At least while he was still alive, anyway.

  Once he was dressed, he went to the meeting room. Cassandra was already there. She had changed to a black uniform with a knee-length black coat, its front adorned with a double row of shiny brass buttons. She also wore a black cap with a visor, her hair piled beneath it. The backpack with the portable Eclipse device rested on the table, and she looked up from it as he approached.

  “Damn, Jack,” she said. “I never knew that about you.”

  “What’s that?” said March.

  “You really clean up well.”

  March wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She looked nervous, and he decided to distract her.

  “Thanks,” said March. “You look like a chauffeur.”

  Cassandra laughed. “That’s because I am a chauffeur. At least for tonight. You and Winter are going to the film festival in a hired car, and Eighty is driving it. I suppose I’m like his…co-pilot, I guess. Or co-chauffeur, come to think of it.”

  That made March think of Adelaide, of the trips they had taken on the Tiger together with him in the pilot’s acceleration chair and her at the co-pilot’s station.

  “So you finally learned to drive?” said March.

  “That’s the funny part,” said Cassandra. “I never did. I suppose I’m not really qualified to be a chauffeur. I just take the train and cabs everywhere on Calaskar, and live close enough to the University to walk.” Sh
e paused. “I hope I don’t need to actually drive. That, er…might not go all that well.”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” said March. “Eighty will do all the driving.”

  As if on cue, the door opened, and Eighty stepped inside. He wore a uniform identical to Cassandra’s, with the same long coat and cap.

  “Do many Strykers become chauffeurs, Mr. Eighty?” said Cassandra.

  “Not really,” said Eighty. “Most of us go into aerospace or civilian shipping after we retire from the military. The Falcon Republic needs civilian pilots. Though even with cloning, sometimes the genetic determinism doesn’t quite work out.” He grinned and tapped his cybernetic left eye. “And not too many Strykers become pawnbrokers. Which means, by definition, I am the best Stryker in the pawnbroking business.”

  March started to answer, and then Winter stepped into the room. She was wearing a knee-length black skirt and a formal black jacket, and March had to admit that she looked quite good.

  “Well,” said Winter. “Ready for an evening of tedium watching graduate students babble about their artistic visions?”

  “I’m glad I get to wait in the car,” said Cassandra.

  “I don’t know,” said Eighty. “I’m sure Mr. Norther and I can think up a few things to liven up the evening.”

  “Yeah,” said March. “Let’s get to it.”

  They walked to the elevator and took it to the parking garage below Eighty’s building. When the door slid open, March found himself looking at a sleek black four-door sports car. He wasn’t all that familiar with the different models and makes of Raetian cars, but the vehicle looked powerful and expensive.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” said Winter. She looked impressed. “That’s a Raetian Motors Panther sports car. Half the managing partners of the law firms in Northgate City drive Panthers.” There was, in fact, a small badge of a snarling panther on the hood of the car.

  Eighty winked with his organic eye. “Oh, I did some deals.” He unlocked the door, and Cassandra walked around to the passenger side. “The previous owner wrapped it around a lamp post after five or six too many drinks. He wound up selling a lot of his assets to the government to cover his fine, and I bought it and refurbished it cheap. Figured it would come in handy sooner or later.”

  March climbed into the left side of the back seat, and Winter took the right. The downside of a high-end sports car was the lack of room in the back, which was especially acute for someone as tall as March. His knees dug into the back of Eighty’s seat, and he settled himself for an uncomfortable ride. Winter adjusted her skirt, opened her purse, drew out a small mirror, and started checking her makeup. March had seen Adelaide do the same thing many times, and he suddenly wanted to be back on Calaskar with her.

  He pushed all such thoughts from his mind.

  They were a distraction from the matter at hand, and distractions might get them all killed in the next few minutes.

  Eighty drove through the slums and onto the rampway spiraling into Arcology Twelve. The countless advertisements covered the walls and ceiling, sleek men and women in various states of undress hawking products and services ranging from the explicit to the banal. (Once again, March wondered what a naked woman had to do with buying land title insurance.) He distracted himself from the discomfort of the back seat by watching for tails, but no one followed them through the rampway traffic. Not that it mattered – it was still early in the evening, and there was a good number of cars and trucks on the road.

  No unmarked vans, though.

  They reached the University’s level, and Eighty joined the line of cars waiting to drop off their passengers in front of the Slovell Center. March passed the time by testing the concealed microphone and bone conduction speaker in the collar of his shirt, and the others did communications checks as well. As chauffeurs, it did not look out of place for Eighty and Cassandra to have headsets on beneath their uniform caps. Winter wore an elaborate set of silver earrings that curled around the lower lobes of her ears, and those concealed both a microphone and a bone conduction speaker.

  “All right, we are ready,” said Eighty. One of the uniformed University police waved their car forward. “Good luck. Norther, take good care of my girl for me.”

  “I will,” said March.

  “Don’t let her fill up on shrimp puffs. She always fills up on shrimp puffs, and then she gets a stomachache.”

  Winter rolled her eyes. “He’s so concerned about my digestion.”

  “Stay close to the University,” said March. “We might need to call you in a hurry.”

  Eighty eased the car to the curb. “Will do.”

  March nodded, got out of the car, and opened Winter’s door. She unfolded herself from the back seat with smooth elegance while managing to make it impossible for any passers-by to look up her skirt. March suspected she had practiced the maneuver at some point.

  He took her arm, and they walked up the broad, shallow steps towards the gleaming glass doors of the Slovell Center. The massive posters with Slovell’s face, March noted sourly, had been illuminated with spotlights. A small crowd of men in suits and women in dresses moved towards the glass doors, and more uniformed University police stood before the doors, letting people through and checking any positives from the weapon scanners built into the doors. March and Winter approached, and one of the officers looked them over and checked a list on his phone. All the officers, March noted, looked identical. Likely they were more clones from the Falcon military. Maybe former military policemen transferred to the civilian police once their term of service was up and they earned their citizenship.

  “Ms. Winter, Mr. Norther,” said the policeman. “Welcome. Please proceed inside.”

  March held one of the doors open for Winter. She glided through, he followed her, and they stepped into the reception for the first evening of Roger Slovell’s film festival.

  It was exactly what March would have expected.

  Crowds of men and women in formalwear milled through the lobby, and soothing music played from hidden speakers. A big stage with a long table and a wooden podium had been set up on the far end of the floor. Waitresses in sleek black dresses carried trays of appetizers and drinks, moving with sinuous grace in their high heels.

  Right away March noted that there were two different groups of people. The first were guests like Winter and himself, prominent or wealthy people from Northgate City or off-world dignitaries. The second group was the media professionals, the producers and the directors and the actors. The producers wore sober business suits. The directors wore flashier clothes, bright jackets or long scarves or bits and pieces of military uniforms over civilian clothes, no doubt meant to convey how creative they were. The actors themselves wore little clothing – the women wore strips of bright silk and totteringly high heels, and the men tight vests and trousers, all no doubt meant to show off their surgically enhanced bodies.

  All told, the reception reminded March of a seedy spaceport bar with pretensions.

  He let Winter take the lead and do most of the talking. Winter knew most of the business people at the reception and chatted with them about the festival and local news. She introduced March as a security consultant who had helped her out on several recent cases, which March understood was a polite euphemism for “bodyguard.” He played along, answering any questions with as few words as possible and keeping a glowering scowl on his face.

  That was easy since it was what he wanted to do anyway.

  While Winter chatted, March scanned the room. There were a dozen uniformed University police, which was probably a good thing. When the smoke bombs went off, they would help prevent a panic that might trample people. He tried to spot any Iron Hands, but he could not. There were over a thousand people in the lobby, with more coming in, and many of them wore wearing gloves. March himself wore a glove over his left hand. The Iron Hands, when they wanted, could blend seamlessly into a civilian population. Yet if they got close enough, March would know.
An Iron Hand would not relax in a crowd and would remain constantly vigilant.

  Just as March did.

  The microphone unit hidden in his collar thrummed, and Eighty’s voice rasped inside his ear.

  “All right,” said Eighty. “We've parked a few blocks away. Are you in?”

  “We are,” said Winter, smiling at March to hide the conversation. “Both Norther and I are inside, and we’re heading towards the stairwell door.”

  March nodded to her. “Are you ready with the show?”

  “Yep,” said Eighty. “We can start it any time you want.”

  “I suggest right after Slovell makes his speech,” said March. “There will be applause, and that should help muffle any noise. Any change in the readings?”

  “None,” said Cassandra. “It’s still right where it was.”

  March nodded and looked at the stage. A small troop of AV technicians swarmed over the stage, plugging in cables and arranging projectors. “Looks like they’re getting ready to start. Let’s head for the stairwell door.”

  “Agreed,” said Winter. She started to take a shrimp puff from the tray of a passing server, stopped herself, and together they walked to stand near the wall only a few meters from the stairwell door.

  About thirty seconds later a voice boomed over the lobby, and the lights flashed once.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a pleasant female voice, “it is time to begin this evening’s program.” The din of conversation stilled. “For years, the Roger Slovell Center For Media Arts has nurtured and nourished young creatives, helping them achieve their highest levels of potential. The RSCFMA film festival is a showcase for cinematic and visual excellence, highlighting the creative minds who will shape the culture and thoughts of the next generation. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the founder of the festival and the RSCFMA, a persecuted filmmaker, a courageous truth-teller, and a hero of free speech, Roger Slovell.”

  Years of self-control kept March from scoffing.

  He clapped politely with the rest of the crowds, looking towards the stage as he did. March expected to see Slovell stride across the stage to greet his public. Instead, the holographic projectors on the stage lit up, and a giant image of Slovell appeared.