by EJ Fisch
The silence around the bonfire was suddenly broken by the rumble of approaching cars. Several people began to rush away, snapped out of the trance the fire had put them into. Most stood fast, murmuring nervously among themselves as three groundcars came barreling up the hill in a cloud of dust. They pulled up just meters from the burning pyre, their spotlights waving wildly about. Six armed men jumped out, hollering and brandishing their weapons at the fleeing mourners.
Mag slid his hands out of his pockets and found that they had curled themselves into fists. He turned from the light of the fire and looked into the glaring light from the cars, squinting but refusing to blink. As emotionally spent as he was after the crazy hyperspace trip they had all been on over the past month, the grief had transformed itself into a thick shell of anger he’d learned to use as a defense mechanism. He was jaded, one hundred percent jaded.
A familiar laugh that made Mag’s stomach flop pierced the air. The beam of one of the spotlights swung his direction and settled over his face. Past the bright white glare, he could see a pair of boots approaching.
“This is quite the party,” the man said. “It looks like we’re missing out.”
“Nobody invited you,” Mag muttered, deadpan. He knew the man only as Loric, though the other mercenaries could sometimes be heard calling him “Sarge.” Sergeant Loric. Somehow Mag couldn’t picture the man actually being affiliated with any organization in which he would hold such a rank.
“Mag Reilly,” Loric chuckled, advancing toward him and blocking out some of the light. “Having fun out here?”
Mag didn’t answer. He had exhausted his supply of sarcastic remarks during the past few weeks and couldn’t muster up the energy to come up with anything new. It was probably for the best, since Loric took great delight in tearing up anything he had to say as it was. Mag was as weary of dealing with Loric as he imagined the mercenary was of dealing with him. He had come and gone from Argall in the past three years but had played a key role in all the turmoil, being personally responsible for most of the killings that had directly affected Mag.
“What do you want, Loric?” With no one and nothing to live for but himself, Mag considered killing the man then and there, though the idea of doing it at his mother’s funeral somehow seemed inappropriate.
“That seems like a silly question coming from such an intelligent man,” the mercenary said. “I want the same thing I’ve wanted since I first came to this sheyss hole.” He gestured toward the pyre. “You ever think it would be easier to just give it to me?”
Mag shifted his eyes away from the man and gazed out across the Argall valley. The memorial grounds where they currently stood were a few kilometers out of town, nestled into the foothills surrounding the basin. Past the glare of the spotlights and through the glow cast by the town’s lights, he could see the location of the mining operations almost directly across from them. Bright generator-powered lights illuminated the cave entrances, enabling workers to conduct business even at this hour.
According to geologists, the depression in which Argall sat was actually what remained of an ancient volcano that had blown its top centuries before. The surrounding area was predominantly volcanic, accounting for the elaborate system of caves and old lava tubes that ate through the mountains. The caves were home to the naturally-occurring niobi crystals, which ranged from white to pink to the rarest and most expensive form, a deep crimson red. They had been dubbed “blood crystals” due to their color, but the harmless nickname had taken on a whole new meaning in the past three years.
The crystals were the reason the mercenaries were there, the reason for all the killing. Mag knew it all had to do with power and greed. The growing and harvesting of the crystals was Argall’s primary industry, so with control of the mining operations came control over the city itself. None of it would have been so bad, Mag reasoned, if the mercs hadn’t started forcing the workers into what many considered blatant slave labor. The mining procedure had traditionally followed a strict schedule. One rotation – one trip around the valley harvesting all available crystals – had typically taken a little over four months, giving the mining specialists known as “farmers” ample time to grow fresh crystals to be harvested the next time around. The mercenaries had forcefully accelerated the process by demanding that more work be put in, effectively shortening one rotation to about ten weeks. As a result, farmers weren’t able to raise enough mature crystals to meet their quota in the allotted amount of time, and thus many had been executed, Mag’s father being one of them. The shortage of crystals had sent the whole city plunging into a financial depression, and any attempts by workers to stand up and defend themselves had only led to more killing.
The fact that this was all about some stupid shiny rocks made Mag sick. It wasn’t the crystals themselves that were causing all the hype; it was the ludicrous amount of money being gained by selling them on the black market. Through the years, Argall had sold a good portion of the harvest to the Haphezian military for use in weapons development. Occasionally some had been sent off to private companies for research – only after receiving special permissions from the government – but all the remnants were kept by the city to provide the fuel and power required for everyday life. Not wanting to draw attention to what they were doing, the mercenaries had allowed the contracted number of crystals to continue to be shipped to the military. The rest they had put out to the Fringe’s underground markets, retaining only enough to successfully keep the mining operations thriving. Consequently, many businesses that had previously relied on niobi power had been forced to shut down, resulting in lost jobs and torn families. Anyone who wasn’t in debt was barely able to afford essential supplies. Loric and his gang had the city by the throat and their grip was only getting tighter.
It didn’t take a genius to realize the mercs weren’t acting on their own. They were mere puppets, controlled by powerful hands from an armchair in a big office somewhere. Mag had no doubt that this unseen puppet master had some form of government standing – any attempts to call for help or reveal the situation in Argall had been summarily ignored, making him believe they had been intercepted and manipulated by someone powerful enough to do so. At the same time, any additional incoming or outgoing transmissions had been filtered by the mercenaries and jammed accordingly, and nobody had been allowed to leave the city in months. With Argall as secluded and independent as it was, the lack of communication was hardly noticeable in the rest of the Haphezian population’s eyes. No one had a clue what was really going on.
When Mag made no move to respond, Loric thoughtfully examined his weapon before pulling it up and aiming it teasingly at the bystanders. Most yelped and shied away; Mag stood fast, frozen in place by a combination of fear, sorrow, and again anger. He stared at the gun, wondering first if he would be able to grab it fast enough, and second what a plasma bolt coming head on looked like. He decided he was in no mood to find out.
“Here’s the thing, Reilly,” the man chuckled. “With the old lady gone, that leaves you the sole beneficiary of all her property. That includes the map to the vein of crystals your old man discovered. After three years of seeing what I’m willing to do to get a look at it, I hope you’ll be more cooperative than your mother was.”
Mag wanted to laugh out loud, but the knot in his throat prevented him from doing so. A thirty-year veteran farmer, his father had known the cave systems like the back of his hand. He’d stumbled upon a hidden room deep within the mountains about two years before the arrival of the mercenaries. Mag had never seen the room for himself, but the story was that it was rich with niobi growth and contained primarily crimson blood crystals. His father had insisted on keeping its location a secret, foreseeing that great conflict and tension would ensue should anyone find out where it was. He had, however, created a map that would allow him to find it again and preserve the crystals, which he’d managed to hide before his death. Not even Mag knew where it was. He imagined that was for the best, enabling him to m
aintain deniability whether Loric believed him or not.
“Tell you what,” Loric said, motioning toward the pyre and the people around it with a faux grin on his face. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and your mother’s funeral is hardly the place to kill you. You have one week to get me that map. Otherwise—”
The rifle was lifted, extended, and fired so fast that Mag hadn’t even realized it was happening. The white-hot bolt sliced through the darkness and struck a nearby woman squarely in the chest. She screamed, as did those around her, and crumpled into a heap on the ground.
In that instant, Mag was shouting, cursing, allowing sheer anger to take control of his mind. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying – only that it was pure hatred in the form of words and it was directed at Loric. Others behind him were shouting too, holding him back to keep him from rushing the mercenary and getting himself killed. They were all silenced when the butt of the plasma rifle swung around and struck Mag in the face, sending him stumbling back into the arms of his friends and neighbors.
“Listen!” Loric growled. “Do you want more people to die? Give me that map!”
Mag could feel his tongue bleeding as he struggled to sit up. “Those crystals are the last hope this town has,” he said. “I can’t let you win.”
“And you think you can win? Pay attention, Reilly! You surrender the map, people die. You don’t, people die. The only thing you have control over anymore is when and where.” Loric stared him down for another several seconds before turning to his own men and jerking his head toward the cars. “Let’s go,” he muttered.
For the first time in recent memory, Mag felt utterly defeated. Loric was right; there had to be another way out, but at the moment he was drawing a blank. Mind numb, he squinted into the darkness and watched as the mercenaries piled into their vehicles until he was once again blinded by one of the spotlights.
“One week, Reilly!” Loric’s voice carried through the night as the cars roared away.
-39-
HSP Headquarters
Noro, Haphez
It seemed that time had stopped entirely when Ziva’s communicator began going off. Aroska stood there listening to it chirp in his pocket, unwilling to make eye contact with Dasaro. He had spent the afternoon familiarizing himself with the case just as the captain had instructed, and now it appeared that Ziva had chosen to contact him at the exact moment he’d decided to check in with his new superior. It was more than ironic.
Aroska continued relaying his thoughts regarding the information stored on the data pad, his mouth running on autopilot as his mind worked feverishly to come up with an excuse for carrying a second comm. Idiot, he thought. He was working himself up over nothing. For all Dasaro knew, this was his one and only communicator, the one that was supposedly being bugged, and he would look foolish for not responding to the transmission. Still, he recalled Ziva’s words instructing him to ignore the message were he in a bad situation. He decided this predicament met such criteria.
By the time he stopped talking, the early stages of a smirk were visible on Dasaro’s face. “Are you going to answer that, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Trapped, Aroska shrugged sheepishly and slipped the device out of his pocket. “Yes, sorry,” he said. “Excuse me.” He glanced at the screen then held it to the ear on the far side of his head. “I thought I told you not to call me at work.”
Ziva hesitated a moment before responding. “Is this a bad time?”
“It could be worse.” Then, playing on his initial greeting, he added, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going back today.”
“I have an errand for you if you’re free.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need some things from my house,” she said. “Go there and tell Marshay and Ryon that ‘the bird has flown.’ They’ll know what to do.”
Aroska made a show of studying his watch for a moment before glancing apologetically at Dasaro. “Got it – I’ll see if I can swing it.”
“One more thing. There’s a row of decorative tiles on my bedroom wall – the third one from the right is a pressure switch. It opens another panel in the wall that houses a hidden compartment. I need you and only you to bring me the contents of that compartment. Don’t let anyone catch you with it; you’ll know what it is.”
“I’ll be there. Don’t wait up for me.” He ended the call abruptly and slid the communicator into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Sister-in-law is making dinner plans. Anyway, I was thinking I would head out to Payvan’s house and do some digging. I know there’s already been a patrol out there, but considering my past experience with her, Rubin and Kittner might take more kindly to my presence. Besides, they won’t have any idea I’m there on your behalf.”
“Very good,” Dasaro said. “Thank you again for you help, Lieutenant. My hope is that with your assistance we can end this in a matter of hours, not days.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll do my best.”
Aroska turned and rushed out, the feeling of finally accomplishing something fueling him with newfound energy. He located his car in the parking bay and twenty minutes later found himself pulling into the front drive of Ziva’s house on the Tranyi River. He had almost forgotten what an elegant structure it was, but he hardly had time to admire it as he leaped out of the vehicle and bolted toward the front door.
The door opened just as he reached it and he let his momentum carry him through without a second thought. Marshay Rubin, Ziva’s kind-hearted, motherly housekeeper, stepped back quickly with her hand still on the door controls. Ryon Kittner, an old friend of the Payvan family and an uncle figure to Ziva, stood up from where he’d been sitting on the sofa, startled.
“Marshay, Ryon,” Aroska greeted them, making a beeline across the living room toward Ziva’s bedroom door.
“Lieutenant Tarbic!” Marshay cried. He couldn’t tell if she was unhappy with his presence or merely shocked.
Ryon managed to cut him off just as he reached the hallway, extending a solid hand to stop his advance. “Slow down, son. What brings you out here?”
Aroska stopped, realizing he was moving too quickly even for his own good. He took a deep breath and stepped back, calming himself under the wary gaze of both the housekeeper and the former military officer. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m here for some of Ziva’s things.”
Marshay lifted an eyebrow. “And just what do you mean by that? HSP has already been through here tearing this place apart, confiscating anything they think could possibly be related to this damn investigation. What more do you want?”
“This is different,” Aroska said. He lowered his voice and took a step closer to the two of them. “Is the area secure?”
“The agency has the comms bugged, but I swept the house and it’s clean,” Ryon replied. He tilted his head, studying Aroska with a thoughtful expression. “Isn’t that something you should know already?”
“No. I’m on Ziva’s side here.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Marshay snapped. “The entire agency is supposed to be on Ziva’s side and yet they didn’t even try to defend her!” She glanced away, blinking back angry tears, muttering curses under her breath.
“Marshay, the bird has flown.”
For the second time in an hour, time itself seemed to stop. For a moment Aroska wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken or if he’d simply imagined it, because neither Marshay nor Ryon moved or had any other visible reaction to his words. Finally the housekeeper reestablished eye contact, her face possessing the same unspoken gratitude that it had as she’d read Ziva’s pardon document two months earlier.
“I’m here under the pretense that I’m interrogating the two of you,” he explained. “It’s a bit of a long story, but HSP currently believes I’m working against Ziva along with the rest of them.”
Without a word Marshay and Ryon were both on the move, silently rushing in and out of rooms until Aroska lost track of where exactly they wer
e. Again feeling rather out of the loop, he resumed his journey to the bedroom. What he found through the open door saddened him – what he remembered as the most fanatically organized room he’d ever seen had been turned upside down by a typical HSP raid. Cords and equipment were scattered on the floor where Ziva’s personal computer and comm console had been plucked away like plants. Tools and broken objects littered the floor, destroyed beyond repair.
The tiles Ziva had described were glossy and translucent, alternating between a rich black color and beautiful dark green. They had been set at about shoulder-height, creating a barrier between the white upper wall and the lower half that was colored a pale gray. He saw that they had only been placed along the far wall, suppressing his fear that they went all the way around the room and he wouldn’t be able to figure out which one Ziva had specified. He had scoured his memory on the way over, trying to recall the layout of the room, but the one and only time he had been there his mind had been otherwise occupied.
Aroska followed the line with his eyes and found the third one from the right positioned over what remained of Ziva’s bed. He made his way over to it, climbing gingerly over the tossed bedcovers and the mattress that had been ripped from its frame. The pressure switch had been expertly installed. If not for the fact that Ziva herself had told him it was there, he would never have known. It was no doubt the reason HSP had passed it over…assuming they had.
He placed his palm flat against the tile and held his breath as he slowly began pressing against it. It gave after a few moments, collapsing into the wall about two centimeters with a soft click. He could hear mechanisms whirring within the wall and one of the adjacent tiles suddenly popped from its place, startling him. Glancing toward the door and listening for signs of Marshay and Ryon, he took hold of the tile and lifted it, finding that it folded on unseen hinges. This compartment had also been cleverly hidden, invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. He took another look at the long line of tiles and wondered how many others housed secret compartments.