by Jay Allan
She rolled her eyes in irritation, and this time meant it. “Marcus, who is the most dangerous, most effective, most Machiavellian criminal magnate in settled space?”
“That would be you, my dear.”
“Correct. Don’t question my methods, don’t question my judgment—and most of all don’t question my competency—and we will continue to get along just fine.”
His chin dipped in acquiescence. “I have been properly chastised. We’ll talk again after Atlantis.”
*
Atlantis: Independent Colony
Jaron Nythal stepped out onto the rooftop landing pad and felt a smile grow on his lips. A warm breeze, salty air and bright yellow sun welcomed him like the arms of a beautiful woman. He was going to enjoy this trip.
He pulled his jacket off, draped it over a shoulder and strolled across the pad toward the railing at the edge of the roof while the rest of the Senecan delegation disembarked and saw to the luggage and cargo. Until the Director arrived on Sunday evening he was in charge of the delegation, which meant someone else would get his luggage to his room.
He rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. The transport was fast and secure, but it was still a government vessel and nineteen hours was a long time.
His smile only widened as he reached the edge and the splendor of Atlantis spread out beneath him. A tiny planet covered wholly in water, it should have lain unnoticed and undeveloped. But the pleasant temperatures and calm weather of its equatorial region had caught the eye and imagination of a developer tycoon who found himself idle after many successful ventures and with money to burn.
The outcome was a fantasy retreat unlike any other in settled space. Winding pathways suspended a mere two meters over the crystal blue water connected islands of condos, gardens, golf courses and beaches. Only small shuttles and personal vehicles were allowed in the airspace stretching four hundred meters above the waters to allow for a variety of recreational activities, from sky gliding to paracruises and wave skimming.
Casinos, pleasure houses and vacation resorts competed with—or was it complemented?—state-of-the-art conference and convention facilities. Taking advantage of its unaffiliated status and convenient location nearly equidistant between Earth and Seneca, within ten years of opening the first hotel Atlantis had become the most popular destination in the galaxy for both corporate and government conventions.
The breeze began to wash away the grime of travel; he rolled his sleeves above his elbows to hasten the effect. He intended to make every effort to find plenty of time around the preparations and even the Summit itself to enjoy the finer pleasures Atlantis had to offer. He already had a series of high-credit escorts lined up for the room at night—more than one on several nights—but not all of Atlantis’ offerings could be indulged in from a hotel room.
The flash of red at the corner of his peripheral vision banished the train of thought and brought a dark scowl to his face. And then there was that.
He supplied the decryption code, scanned the message and deleted it almost as soon as it had arrived. It contained suitably cryptic phrasing, but the point came through clear enough.
Payment had been received. Final preparations were underway. The assignment would be completed at the time and in the manner the other party deemed most efficient. If all went well, Jaron would never know the man (or woman) had ever been at the Summit. That is, except for the irrefutable evidence thereof they would leave in their wake.
He’d return to Seneca a richer man, though the new funds paled in comparison to the wealth he expected to soon follow. Yessiree…he should be able to set his wife and kids up in one of the swank new townhomes in the Pinciana neighborhood, with enough left over for a private condo retreat for himself downtown. It was a long way from his parents’ tiny apartment tucked behind their ‘herb’ shop shouting distance from the kasō shakai, the underworld slums the rest of Cavare pretended didn’t exist. A long way indeed.
Of course if all didn’t go well, he’d be facing forty-years-to-life in prison at best, permanent disappearance into the black hole of a covert intelligence detention facility at worst. It wasn’t the first high-stakes risk he had taken in his life…but it certainly carried the greatest consequences, whether win or lose.
The scowl lingered as he yanked his sunglasses off and looked around for his secretary. She tromped outside the transport cargo hull, arms flailing about to point at crates of equipment while she issued orders to the staff.
He tossed his jacket into her chest and headed for the lift. “I’ll be in the Prep Room until dinner. Be a dear and bring me a drink, one of those strong tropical concoctions.” He paused mid-step, considered the message again and glanced over his shoulder.
“On second thought, go ahead and make it a double.”
*
Matei Uttara departed the commercial transport amidst a throng of passengers. It wasn’t difficult to blend in with the diverse array of tourists and businessmen and women. Some were here for networking, some for relaxation, others for assorted pleasures of a daring but not truly dangerous variety. He imagined some were here for all three.
His attire was nondescript, his hair cut to the chin and dulled to a dirty brown beneath a summer cap common on the resort world. His movements were casual, his bearing relaxed as he let himself be carried along by the crowd of travelers. His pace and gait varied at random intervals such that even the best pattern-recognition ware would be unable to spot anything anomalous.
He passed among giggling children accompanying their parents to the family resorts and young people already drunk on hormones and synthetic liquor. He surrounded himself with other visitors as he made his way to the levtrams and nonchalantly snuck in the last seat of a full tram headed in the correct direction.
As he exited the tram an attractive but intoxicated woman bumped into him. She stumbled, grabbed onto his arm and smiled lopsidedly up at him. He returned the smile while he reached underneath her hairline and pinched a nerve behind her ear. As her limbs relaxed he nudged her to send her momentum back toward her companions. He faded away into the crowd as one of them complained he wasn’t going to carry her all the way to the condo.
The hotel was busy but not so thick with people as the transport station. He chose a family of five and trailed them through the lobby to the front desk, where he checked in under an invented identity using an untraceable credit account.
His room was a modest affair on a middle level of the hotel adjacent to the conference center hosting the Trade Summit. The conference center had already heightened their security, and the security at the hotel was sure to soon become tighter than pleased him. But by staying here he could avoid transport complications which had foiled less talented men than he; also, it provided him ready access to staff corridors and maintenance shafts, should the need arise.
He settled in with a decent steak dinner from room service, then sat cross-legged on the bed and spread the blueprints of the conference center and hotel in the air around him. They rotated in a slow circle as he studied them.
Periodically he reached up and paused the flow to study one more closely. He intended to know the location of each and every one of the staff corridors and maintenance shafts throughout the complex.
He planned to get a tangible feel for the layout in the morning, when the area would still be dominated by tourists rather than Summit guests. The first two days of the Summit he would attend as a credentialed reporter representing the small but growing trade exazine Celestial Industrials Weekly, one of dozens of vultures hovering on the periphery of the proceedings and stalking the halls. He would schmooze and linger and talk to people, but not to any one person for so long as to make an impression.
At the end of the second day, his identity and tactics shifted. On the third and final day of the Summit, he would complete the job he had been engaged to do, again slip into the crowd, and vanish.
CHAPTER 7: Seneca
Cavare
Caleb idl
y toed the pilot’s chair side to side while he stepped through the preflight checklist a final time, mentally verifying every component which was checked off deserved to be. He had one remaining item to acquire, but it wouldn’t be on any official checklist.
Satisfied the systems were a go, the food stores stocked, the engines prepped and the weapons in working order, he killed the power and headed down the ramp. At the bottom he turned to give her one last glance-over.
He had to give Division credit; they didn’t skimp on ships and hardware. One step removed from a fighter, the scout ship wasn’t luxurious or roomy but she was lean and fast. The weapons tubes tucked into the lower hull so as not to increase drag. The custom EM sensors had been mounted beneath the nose the day before.
Yeah, she would do.
He slung his pack over his shoulder and headed out to the government spaceport’s surface parking. Yet when he reached his bike, he hesitated.
Traffic whizzed along airlanes overhead in the evening sky and beside him on the streets. Rush hour appeared well underway, which meant he was going to have a bitch of a time getting across the city to Mom’s house—which in turn meant he’d be late for his meeting.
The devil on his shoulder whispered in alluring, dulcet tones that he should skip the visit home and head straight for the bar. She was fine. And it wasn’t like he’d be standing her up. Unless he showed up at the front door, she’d never know he’d passed through Cavare.
But she was alone. With Isabela on Krysk for the year doing a visiting professorship, she wasn’t able to check on their mother nearly as often as usual. Mom might have had an accident, or forgotten to shop for groceries, or….
But Isabela went by a few days ago.
And won’t be back again for a month.
He groaned aloud as a guilty conscience shoved the devil aside and reasserted its dominance. “Shit.”
More than a little disgusted with himself, he swung a leg over the bike, revved the engine and floored it out of the parking lot. He swerved into a service alley. The least he could do was take a damn shortcut.
*
“Oh, Caleb darling, it’s so nice of you to visit.”
Yes, that’s exactly what he was. Nice. He hugged her, trying not to stifle within the desperate embrace. “Hi, Mom. I don’t have long, but I wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay.”
“Yes, I’m just….” She ambled into the kitchen, wisps of dull brown hair falling out of a messy bun and to her shoulders. She pushed half-finished sketches off the table to the floor and gestured for him to sit. He complied, then watched her as she searched in the cabinets for tea to brew.
He remembered when she had been a vibrant, smart, funny woman. For the entirety of his childhood that woman had been his mother. Now she was merely…pathetic. He knew this—he’d known this for a long time—but coming face-to-face with the stark reality still sent him for a loop. Old memories never die.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m good. Come sit with me for a few minutes.”
She paused in the middle of the room, her unfocused gaze wandering across the kitchen. It was as if she had completely forgotten where she was. Seconds ticked by. Finally she jerked, a fleeting, erratic jolt of movement before her bearing returned to its former listless, empty state. She gingerly sat down opposite him. “How’s work, dear? Is the plant doing well?”
“Absolutely. We’re rolling out a new line of six-person skycars, geared toward families. In fact, I’m headed off to Elathan tomorrow to oversee the ramp-up of the production line.” After years of practice, the lies rolled off his tongue more easily than truth.
“How nice.” She nodded. It was an uneven, haphazard motion. Her eyes didn’t quite manage to meet his, which was just as well. “I’ve been talking to Federation Athletics about a design for their new regional office, so…we’ll see, maybe….”
“That’s wonderful to hear.” It took all his considerable skill to inject a note of enthusiasm into his voice. Even so, he managed only the mildest cheer. She hadn’t completed an architectural design in at least fifteen years. This one would be no different—and there would be no value in him pointing it out. “So, you’re set then? You have everything you need?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave him a vacant smile. “Glados and Meriva from the neighborhood association stop by once a week, we go out shopping and such.” The smile faltered. “I thought I saw your father the other day while we were at the syn-org market…” three seconds passed until she blinked “…anyway, everything’s fine. You go see to your shuttles and don’t worry about your mother.” She patted his hand to emphasize the point.
Harsh, frustrated words rushed forth; he choked them back in his throat. “Okay, Mom. I have to go, I have a meeting—about the plant. I’ll try to stop by again when I can.”
He prepped his most affectionate facsimile smile—but she had already drifted off, dreamily caressing the incomplete sketch of a low-orbital bio-friendly campus which had clung to the edge of the table.
He nodded to himself and stood, leaving the house without looking at the wall of visuals in the hallway displaying a couple in love and a happy family at play. He definitely didn’t look at the largest visual, the one dominating the entryway. It portrayed a distinguished-looking man with close-cut black hair wearing a perfectly pressed suit, taken two months before his father had packed a bag, walked out the door and not come back.
*
As he cruised into the lot behind the Crux Happy Nights Cantina, Caleb decided he was exceedingly ready for a drink—so much so he didn’t even cringe at the dreadful title. Granted, he didn’t laugh either.
But the beer turned out to be quite cold and surprisingly crisp. He welcomed the assistance it provided in forcing away the darkness which never failed to haunt him after a visit home. Escaping the gloom was an acquired skill, and he had largely regained his form by the time Noah Terrage slid onto the stool next to him.
He flung long bangs out of his face and dropped his forearms on the chrome bar. “Caleb, friend, how’s it hanging?”
The first rule of undercover work, spying and black ops in general—okay, probably the third or fourth or perhaps even fifth rule, but it certainly made the list—was anyone who made a point to call you ‘friend,’ wasn’t.
Still, Noah was a good guy, and he felt inclined to give him a pass. Despite the rebellious attitude which came as an almost inevitable consequence of the man’s upbringing, Caleb suspected an honorable soul resided somewhere beneath the bravado and shady deals and wild stunts. For one, it spoke in his favor that he had managed to overcome the fairly significant disability of being a ‘vanity baby.’
Cloning remained legal on most worlds with the express consent of the cloned—new births only though; all attempts to grow a fully developed adult body from existing DNA had thus far proved horrifically disastrous. Clone clauses in wills were, while not common, growing in popularity for what might be understandable reasons. Vanity babies, however, were frowned upon in most circles and rarely worked out well for either party. Nonetheless, there always seemed to be another billionaire narcissist convinced he or she deserved one.
A clone of his father, a wealthy business magnate on Aquila, like most vanity babies Noah had been brought into existence above all to feed the source’s ego. From early childhood he had been expected to behave precisely as his father saw himself, sit and learn at his father’s knee and grow up to become his father’s devoted protégé in the business.
So naturally, Noah had run away from home at fifteen. Caught a transport to Pandora and never looked back.
He was a criminal, of course. A ‘trader’ in polite company and a smuggler everywhere else. And while the guy came off like the buddy you watched the game and drank too many beers with on the weekend, he possessed a skill bordering on magic: he could find anything. If it existed in settled space, he could make it appear in your pack inside a week—as with all things, for sufficient credits.
In this instance h
e had far less than a week, but the item wasn’t a particularly rare one and the compensation generous.
Caleb leaned over to shake his hand. “You know, just the usual—wine, women and song.”
Noah laughed and took a swig from the mug Caleb had ensured would be waiting on him. “I do know it, man.” His voice dropped as he leaned in and casually passed over the small, unremarkable-looking yet very advanced communications scrambler. Caleb dropped it in his pack and just as casually returned to his beer.
It wasn’t that he planned to engage in anything overtly criminal, much less traitorous to the Federation. In fact, he believed Volosk and likely the Division Director knew about and expected such things. Black ops were ‘black’ for a reason, yet they also fell under government supervision and oversight. A difficult quandary.
Most things he did, most of the time, qualified as legal actions under Division’s mandate, if not always under civilian law. But every so often a mission called for actions which…weren’t. In such circumstances, his superiors winked and nodded and ignored the troublesome details, provided they had been sufficiently obscured. Hence the state-of-the-art communications scrambler—a necessary tool for those moments when even Special Operations didn’t want a recording of what was said or to whom.
Noah’s voice stayed low and conversational, barely audible amid the din of spirited patrons and generic pub background music. “I guess you misplaced the last one, huh?”
Caleb shrugged and sipped his beer. It really was rather good. “Eh, it blew up.”
“What? Dammit, I’ll have a conversation with my—”
“Not the scrambler—the ship it was in.”
Noah’s head cocked to the side. “Oh. Yeah, that does happen.”
He had met Noah nine years ago. An influx of chimerals had begun flooding the streets on several of the smaller Federation worlds; he tracked the source to a drug ring on Pandora. Noah was little more than a freelance street merchant back then, hocking black market surveillance equipment, hacking tools and modified energy blades. Illegal, but nothing hardcore. The modded gear had come in handy, as had the inside information provided as a bonus.