by Jay Allan
He extended his hand in greeting as the Director of Special Operations for the Senecan Federation Division of Intelligence approached. A mouthful worthy of the highest conceit of government; but to everyone who worked there, it was simply “Division.”
Volosk grasped his hand in a firm shake and took up a position along the rail beside him. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me here. I have a syncrosse rec league game down the street in twenty minutes, and if I miss another game they’ll kick me off the team.” He wore a slight grimace intended to hint at the many responsibilities a high-level covert intelligence official was required to juggle…then presumably realized the impression it actually conveyed, because he shifted to a shrug. “It’s the only opportunity I have to blow off steam.”
Caleb smiled with studied, casual charm. “It’s not a problem. I just got in anyway. And if the surroundings happen to discourage prying eyes, well, I appreciate the value of discretion.”
Volosk didn’t bother to deny the additional reason for the choice of meeting location. “It wouldn’t hurt if your coworkers didn’t know you were back on the clock yet—and that’s one reason I chose you. Your reputation is impressive.”
He chuckled lightly and ran a hand through disheveled hair made wild by the wind. “Perhaps I’m not discrete enough, then.”
“Rest assured, it’s on a need-to-know basis. I realize we haven’t had many opportunities to work together yet, but Samuel always spoke of you in the highest terms.”
He schooled his expression to mask the emotions the statement provoked. “I’m humbled, sir. He was a good man.”
“He was.” Volosk’s shoulders straightened with his posture—a signal he was moving right on to business, as though it didn’t matter how good a man Samuel had been. “What do you know about the Metis Nebula?”
Caleb’s brow creased in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Okay. Sure.
“Well, mostly that we don’t know much about it. It’s outside Federation space, but we’ve tried to investigate it a few times—purely scientific research of course. We know there’s a pulsar at the center of it, but scans return a fuzzy mess across the spectrum. Probes sent in find nothing but ionized gases and space dust. Scientists have written it off as unworthy of further study. Why?”
“You’re very well informed, Agent Marano. Do a lot of scientific reading in your spare time?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m sure. The information I’m sending you is Level IV Classified. Fewer than a dozen people inside and out of the government are aware of it.”
He scanned the data file. In the background the synth band shifted to a slow, rhythmic number threaded by a deep, throbbing bass line. “That’s…odd.”
“Quite. The Astrophysics Institute sent in a state of the art, prototype deep space probe—the most sensitive one ever built, we believe. Honestly, it was solely for testing purposes. The researchers thought Metis’ flat profile offered a favorable arena to run the probe through its paces. Instead it picked up what you see there.
“Obviously we need to get a handle on what this is. It came to my desk because it may represent a hostile threat. We’ve put a hold on any scientific expeditions until we find out the nature of the anomaly. If it is hostile, the sooner we know the better we can prepare. If on the other hand it’s an opportunity—perhaps a new type of exploitable energy resource—we want to bring it under our purview before the Alliance or any of the independent corporate interests learn of it.”
Caleb frowned at his companion. “I understand. But to be frank, my missions are usually a bit more…physical in nature? More direct at least, and typically involving a tangible target.”
“I’m aware of that. But your experience makes you one of the few people in Division both qualified to investigate this matter and carrying a security clearance high enough to allow you to do so.”
It wasn’t an inaccurate statement. And if he were honest with himself, it would probably be best if he went a little while without getting more blood on his hands.
*
He slid open the hidden compartment in the wall and climbed into the narrow passage, pushed the access closed using his foot and crawled along the sloped tunnel. When he got to the end he activated his personal concealment shield—which did very nearly make him invisible—and with a deft twist released the small hatch.
He rolled as he hit the ground to mask the sound. The lighting in the bay was purposefully dim, and he landed deep in the shadow of the hull.
As expected, there was a ring of men guarding the exterior of the ship. He waited for the closest man to turn his back, then slipped out and moved to the corner of the bay to settle behind the storage crates he had arranged to have delivered earlier in the day.
He was rewarded by the arrival at that moment of an additional six—no, seven—pursuers. A significant majority of the active members were now inside the hangar bay. Good enough.
They moved to join their brethren encircling the ship—and he sent the signal.
The walls roiled and bucked from the force of the explosion. White-hot heat blasted through his shield. The shockwave sent him to his knees even as the floor shuddered beneath him. Pieces of shrapnel speared into the wall above him and to his right. A large section of the hull shot out the open side of the bay and crashed to the street below.
One glance at the utter wreckage of his former ship confirmed they were all dead. He climbed to his feet and crossed to the door, dodging the flaming debris and burnt, dismembered limbs. The emergency responders could be heard approaching seconds after he disappeared down the corridor.
He didn’t de-cloak until he reached the bike. He calmly fired it up, cruised out of the stall, and accelerated toward the exit.
Mission fucking accomplished.
*
Caleb nodded in acceptance. “I’ll need a new ship. My last one was, um, blown up.”
“My understanding is that’s because you blew it up.” The expression on the Director’s face resembled mildly sardonic amusement.
He bit his lower lip in feigned chagrin, revealing what he judged to be the appropriate touch of humility. “Technically speaking.”
Volosk sent another data file his way. “Regardless, it’s been taken care of. Here’s the file number and all the standard information, including the hangar bay of your new ship.”
He ignored the mild barb and examined this data with greater scrutiny, but it appeared everything had in fact been taken care of. “Got it. This all looks fine.”
“Good…there’s one more thing. It’s no secret with Samuel gone there’s a leadership vacuum in the strategic arm of Special Operations. He believed you were quite capable of taking on a larger role. Based on your record—a few isolated excesses aside—and what I know of you, I’m inclined to agree. So while you’re out there in the void, I’d encourage you to give some thought to what you truly want from this job. We can talk further when you return.”
Caleb made sure his expression displayed only genuine appreciation, carefully hiding any ambivalence or disquiet. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir. I’ll do that.”
“Glad to hear it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get my ass kicked by ten other men and a cocky, VI-enhanced metal ball, after which I get to go back to the office and review the Trade Summit file for the seventeenth time this week.”
He grimaced in sympathy. It was impossible to escape the growing media frenzy surrounding the conference, even with it over a week away.
Twenty-two years had passed since the end of the Crux War; it had been over and done with before he was old enough to fight. The cessation of hostilities after three years was officially called an ‘armistice,’ but Seneca and fourteen allied worlds had—by the only measure which mattered—won. They had their independence from the mighty Earth Alliance.
Now some politician somewhere had decided it was finally time for them to start playing nice with one another. He wished
them luck, but…. “If it’s all the same, I’d just as soon not be assigned to that one, sir. It’s going to be a clusterfain of epic proportions.”
Volosk exhaled with a weariness Caleb suspected was more real than contrived. “Don’t worry, you’re off the hook—wouldn’t want to endanger your work by putting your face in front of so many dignitaries. I, however, won’t get a decent night’s sleep until the damn thing’s finished.”
Caleb sighed in commiseration, playing along with the superficial bonding moment. It seemed the higher-ups had decided he was worthy of being nurtured, at least enough to make certain he stayed in the fold. Bureaucrats. They had no clue how to manage people; if they did, they would realize he was the last person who needed managing.
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you there, sir. But I will head out on this mission once I’ve pulled together what I need. It should be a few days at most.”
Volosk nodded, transitioning smoothly to the closing portion of the meeting. “Please report in as soon as you discover anything relevant. We need to understand what we’re dealing with, and quickly.”
He responded with a practiced smile, one designed to convey reassurance and comfort. “Not to worry, I’ll take care of it. It’s what I do.” He decided it was best to leave when I’m not blowing up three million credit ships and two dozen terrorists with them unsaid.
After all, he fully intended to try to return this ship in one piece.
*
After Volosk had departed, Caleb remained by the river for a while. His outward demeanor was relaxed, save for the rapid tap of fingertips on the railing.
He had been on leave ever since the post-op debriefs for the previous assignment had wrapped up. Whether the vacation had been a reward or a punishment he wasn’t entirely sure, despite Volosk’s vague hint at a promotion. Nor did he particularly care. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, justice had been served—albeit with a spicy dash of vengeance—and the bad guys were all dead. But it appeared it was time to get back to work.
The serenity of the cool night breeze and river-cleansed air juxtaposed upon the pulsing thrum of the music and swelling buzz of the crowd made for an appropriate backdrop. Time to retune himself.
He had enjoyed spending time with Isabela and her family, especially getting to play the bad uncle and fill Marlee’s head with rebellious and unruly ideas sure to drive her mother crazy for months. The little girl had spunk; it was his duty to encourage it.
It had been a welcome respite. But it wasn’t his life.
He pushed off the railing and strolled down the promenade to the bar area. The throbbing of the bass vibrated pleasantly on his skin as he neared. He ordered a local ale and found a small standing table which had been abandoned in favor of the dance floor. He rested his elbows on it, sipped his beer and surveyed the crowd.
It was amusing, and occasionally heartbreaking, to see how people doggedly fumbled their way through encounters. All the cybernetics in the world couldn’t replace real, human connection, which was likely why physical sex was still the most popular pastime in the galaxy, despite the easy availability of objectively better-than-real passione illusoire. Humans were social animals, and craved—
“What are you drinking?”
He glanced at the woman who had sidled up next to him. Long, razor-straight white-blond hair framed a face sculpted to perfection beyond what genetic engineering alone could achieve. A white iridescent slip minimally covered deep golden skin. Silver glyphs wound along both arms and up the sides of her neck to disappear beneath the hairline.
He smiled coolly. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She dropped a hand on the table and posed herself against it. “Yes, you are. Would you like to dance?”
He suppressed a laugh at the heavy-handed come-on. “Thank you, but…” a corner of his mouth curled up “…you’re not really my type.”
Her eyes shone with polished confidence. She believed she was in control. How cute.
“I can be any type you want me to be.” The glyphs glowed briefly as her hair morphed to black, her makeup softened and her skin tone paled.
So that’s what the glyphs were for. A waste of credits born of a desperate need to be wanted. He gave the woman a shrug and shook his head. “No thanks.”
She scowled in frustration; it marred the perfect features into ugliness. “Why not? What the hell is your type?”
He took a last sip of his beer and dropped the empty bottle on the table. “Real.”
He walked away without looking back.
CHAPTER 3: Erisen
Earth Alliance Colony
Twelve screens hovered in a grid pattern above Kennedy Rossi’s desk.
She regarded them with a critical eye. Her head tilted to the left, then the right, on the off chance the shift in angle might reveal a new perspective. After further consideration she backed up to lean against the window. The distance allowed her to better analyze the overall effect. At least in theory.
The desk was made of nearly transparent polycrystalline alumina glass. It displayed any information transmitted to it—in her case typically ship architectures and schematics—with micro-scale accuracy and detail. It also happened to act as a rather beautiful complement to the bright, elegant décor of the office.
This project wasn’t so far along as to require the desk’s particular capabilities, however. Not yet. The presentation contained in the hovering screens focused on the big picture. Its purpose was to weave a story the less technically minded (she was being charitable) directors might understand and, more importantly, believe in enough to invest significant funds in the project.
She gazed out the window. Large, feathery snowflakes danced in the air yet again. Maybe she should go skiing this weekend….
Erisen was the closest habitable world to Earth and had been one of the first extra-solar settlements. In a nasty storm she occasionally questioned the ‘habitable’ part, but colonists had put the chilly environs to good use. Due to little orbital tilt there weren’t seasons to speak of and while it did snow often, the low humidity resulted in a dry, champagne powder snow. Those features meant, in addition to creating a skier’s paradise, quantum-scale and other manufacturing that required supercooled conditions could be made cheaply here without the need for orbital facilities.
The colony had wasted no time in crafting the advantages into an economic boon, building a manufacturing sector which was all too happy to supply materials for the rapid galactic expansion of the late 22nd century. More than a hundred fifty years later, Erisen was among the most prosperous Alliance worlds and a hub for electronics, orbitals and starship design and construction.
Which was why she was here, despite the reality that the social and cultural offerings still paled in comparison to those of home. But Earth was a mere three hours away, and it was easy enough to hop a transport when something interesting caught her fancy.
With an almost wistful sigh she turned away from the snowflakes and back to the presentation. A palm came up to rest beneath her chin.
As onboard CUs grew increasingly powerful and attained greater range, long-distance hacking of ship systems constituted a growing crime. The chart hovering to her left indicated the rate of increase in such attacks threatened to become exponential.
A heavily cyberized merc ship was able to hide in the shadow of a moon and remotely take control of a corporate, personal or possibly even military ship halfway across a stellar system. Mercs were then free to disable it for boarding and raiding, turn its weapons on its friends or send it crashing into the nearest planet.
The problem hadn’t yet hit the radar of the general public, but it would do so soon enough. If she had her way, IS Design would be waiting in the wings to offer the finest in EM reverse-shielding to counter the threat—for the right price, obviously.
She had already drawn up rough schematics for how the shielding would integrate into standard ship infrastructure, determined the estimated power and material req
uirements and developed a lattice formulation to best improve its performance. Really, all she needed to do now was add some flowery words and a couple of charts projecting outrageous profit percentages, and she’d be ready to present to the board of directors.
She reached over and flipped the trend statistics and market analysis scr—
—a flashing light in her eVi signaled an incoming holocomm request. She stashed the screens and allowed the holo to take their place.
“Kennedy Rossi speaking. I’m seeing the back of a head and a knot of dark red…Alex?”
“It says so right there on your screen, Ken.”
“Oh, I never check that. I prefer to be surprised.”
Alex chuckled and finally looked up. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the engineering well of the Siyane, an open panel exposing the engineering core beside her. She blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Sorry, final diagnostics check. I have a question.”
“And I have an answer—or if I don’t, I have an entertaining-yet-relevant anecdote.”
“Uh-huh. Is it safe to tune the power outflow to the dampener field down fifteen percent or so, then run it through an mHEMT amp on the way? I don’t want to blow up my ship.”
“Hmm…give me a second and let me check the field test data.” She flicked her index finger against the edge of the desk to display the product files and scrolled down a series of tables and charts, pausing a few times to study one. “Not quite, but you can—do you keep a silica-sapphire matrix filter on board?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, if you run the conduit through it after the amp you should be fine. The dampener doesn’t like power spikes.” She picked up a diagram out of the files. “Here, I’ll send you the schem flow. I’m sure the CEO won’t mind if I toss around a bit of proprietary information.”
“Terrific, thanks.” Alex relaxed back on her hands while the file transmitted and loaded. “How’s life on Erisen? Have the dinner parties lowered your IQ precipitously yet—or would it be the boardrooms? I can never tell which is worse.”