by Jaine Fenn
Everything was becoming more personal.
By the time the recording ended, she was blinking back foolish tears. A few moments later the door opened. She opened her eyes, ready to face her fate.
‘Tierce?’ she said, amazed.
He smiled warmly at her. ‘The very same! And she still won’t call me Imbarin…’ He was carrying a bunch of flowers, which he thrust forward. Then he frowned. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’re c-‘
‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly.
‘Right. I brought you these. I believe it’s traditional in many cultures.’ He waved the flowers vaguely.
‘Er, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what you expect me to do with them.’
‘I’ll put them here.’ He placed the flowers on the bedside table, then perched on the end of her bed.
She eased herself up onto her pillows. She felt all right, just a little weak. ‘Am I on Tarset?’
‘You are!’
She relaxed a little. ‘And how did I get here?’
He steepled his fingers and looked grave. ‘With considerable difficulty.’
‘I t was your doing?’
‘I organised your extraction, yes. There were numerous complications I won’t bore you with, save to say that while you were safely unconscious, there were a few exciting moments for the pair I hired, including, they tell me, a fire-fight on Xamier’s docks.
Mind you, bounty hunters are prone to exaggeration.’
‘You hired bounty hunters to get me out?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wanted to save you. Feel free to thank me.’
‘I’m grateful, of course I am. I’m just surprised you went to that much trouble.’ Especially given they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Not that she intended to mention that.
He leaned forward. ‘I should have stopped you going to Xantier. I bear some responsibility for what happened to you there. Naturally I was going to do my best to get you out safely.’
She was not sure his logic was sound, but she was hardly going to argue, given the result. ‘What exactly did happen to me on Xantier?’ She had an idea, but she wanted independent confirmation.
‘You were hacked. Your headware’s deep storage was compromised; there was also some coincidental damage to your organic memory, possibly due to drugs, although that’s on the mend now.’
She strove to keep her voice even as she asked, ‘The data in my deep storage, was it taken?’
‘We can’t be sure what was actually stolen; as well as the most efficient mass storage I’ve ever seen, and all sorts of dubious databreaking tech, you’ve got some impressive scramblers installed in that pretty li’l head of yours. But a large volume of the data you were using in your fight appears to have been lost or corrupted.’
She refused to give in to despair at having her fears confirmed.
Instead she asked, ‘Do you know who hacked me?’ Not Jarek Reen: he didn’t even have an implanted com. It could have been someone he hired, assuming he knew anyone that good at databreaking. His pilot? No, the boy was just a kid. The more she thought about it, the less likely his crew’s involvement was.
Tierce pulled a face. ‘I think it may have been my counterpart on Xantier station.’
‘What?’
‘When I said we don’t always work well together, I wasn’t kidding.’
‘But your organisation is meant to be fighting the Sidhe! Why in the void’s name would one of you hack me?’
‘I’m not sure. But things have changed recently.’
‘What things? Changed how?’
‘For a start, our conflict against the Sid he is hotting up.’
‘So you said, back on Gracen. What exactly has happened to make your people stop watching and start acting?’
‘A good question.’
‘But not one you’re going to answer.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘I can’t.’
Bez wished she were better at spotting lies. ‘Was there something else?’ she asked.
‘Hmm?’
‘You said “For a start” when you talked about reasons I might have been hacked. Was there something else?’
‘Possibly. Arguably I shouldn’t have taken you into my confidence the way I did.’
‘By telling me about your group in the first place, you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But if each cell operates independently, how did the Xantier cell even find out you’d spoken to me?’
‘Good question. Spies, perhaps.’
‘You spy on each other?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Void’ s sakes, no wonder you need me to fight the damn Sidhe for you!’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Your point is valid. Given what happened, would you be willing to tell me why you went to Xantier? Was it something relevant to the fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ she said.
‘Well, let me know. Which reminds me: I have something you may need. Now, where did I put it?’ He patted his suit. ‘Ah, here.’
He extracted a dataspike from an inner pocket.
‘What is this?’
‘Don’t you recognise it? You gave it to me.’
‘Oh. The Sidhe ID data.’
‘Precisely. Just in case your copy was corrupted.’
‘Right.’ She thought for a moment, then added, ‘Thank you.’
She would have asked him for a copy if necessary, but she appreciated him offering the ‘spike straight off. ‘Presumably, while I was unconscious, tests and such were run on me?’ She tried not to shudder at the thought.
‘You were examined and, as far as you could be, healed. Or perhaps “fixed” might be a more accurate term.’
‘Am I safe to go virtual?’ She had so much catching up to do, so many agents needing instruction, so many lines of enquiry requiring follow-ups.
‘You are, though I’d appreciate it if you avoided doing anything too, ahem, naughty while you’re on my station.’
‘I just want to reconnect with my network.’
‘Yes, I imagine you do. Those bounty hunters I hired tell me you had an inhibitor cap on when they found you. Whoever hacked you wasn’t taking any chances; they wanted you stuck in your own head. Which kind of begs the question why they didn’t simply kill you.’
Bez had an idea why: Kety’s ‘jujuman’ had taken pains to keep her breathing because he must have believed, correctly, that her head ware incorporated a dead-man’s switch. If all brain activity ceased, a databurst would go out, propagating rapidly throughout her network. Her diary plus a zipped subset of supporting intel would be transmitted, multi-encrypted and auto-spoofed, to her most trusted agents.
‘Bez?’
‘Yes?’
‘I just wondered if you had any theories as to why you’re still alive.’
She smiled tightly. ‘Some,’ she said.
‘I suppose it was too much to hope you would tell me. Well, for the record, I’m glad you are.’
‘Thanks. I need to rest now.’
Imbarin Tierce’s smile told her he knew what she really wanted to do, but he left her alone anyway.
She tensed as she tuned out of the real, but the transition was pain-less. She eased herself into Tarset’s infoscape slowly, then, when she was sure all was well, interrogated her permanent datadrop, which was as full as she had ever seen it. As she suspected, her recent absence had caused some confusion.
While she read through her messages, a meal was provided and a female medic fussed over her.
Alone again, she performed a full diagnostic on her internal memory.
She concluded that the damage was severe but selective. The data she had laid down herself had fared best: her diary was intact, as was most of her’ everyday’ data, such as
contact details and protocols for her agents, and her dossiers on Enemy targets. She had lost the decryption algorithms she had used on the Setting Sun’s memory-core, which meant that even when she got the core back, it would take time to reconstruct the data from it. And she would have to reconstruct it: over ninety-three per cent of her imported-and-zipped info, including the compressed download of the Sidhe memory-core, was gone. To have so much of her precious, hard-won intel torn from her head was a violation of a magnitude she found hard to contemplate. Instead she decided to be grateful for what had survived, and focus on the future.
She answered the most urgent queries then initiated rerouting protocols from nearby transient drops. Physical pickups of dataspikes would have to wait; she had more than enough to deal with already.
By now she was ready to rest, but first she commed Imbarin Tierce. Some time in the darkness of the last few weeks her subconscious had come to accept him as a possible ally - a conclusion borne out by her subsequent rescue.
‘Do you ha ve contacts on Catherli?’ she asked when he answered.
‘Depends what you mean by contacts,’ he said. She got the impression she might have woken him up. A glance at her chrono confirmed that this was likely.
‘Would you be able to find out if a certain shipment sent with a secure courier had arrived there?’ The person that Hawk Consignia expected to collect the parcel had never reached Catherli. However, if Imbarin Tierce’s influence was typical of that wielded by his organisation, and he had allies on that hub, perhaps he could find out for her.
He looked pensive. ‘I reckon I could. Might take a few days.’
‘Then I’d like you to do that for me. If you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. Did you want anything done about this shipment? That could be more complicated.’
‘I … no. I just need to know it’s safe.’
‘Send me details and I’ll see what I can do.’
In the event, it only took two days. Hawk Consignia had received a package conforming to the memory-core’s specification. It was in their secure storage facility on Catherli.
By then she had been discharged from Tarset’s medical facility; the doctors and technicians assured her there was no lasting damage. Her usual procedure when she expected to be in one place for a while was to arrange untraceable accommodation - hacking the security on a unit awaiting renovation was a trick she had used before here - but mindful of Imbarin Tierce’s request that she stay within the law, she once again took up the inconspicuous but clean Kenid Sari persona then booked herself into a cube hostel.
At least this identity now had some funds available, courtesy of the transfers Bez had initiated before she was hacked in Xantier’s infoscape.
When Imbarin Tierce commed her with the news about the memory-core, he asked if she’d changed her mind about getting her ‘mysterious package’ back.
‘No,’ she said. The core mattered less than the Sidhe ID data now. There was also the residual taint from the Setting Sun’s association with Captain Reen, although she had been following up on his recent movements and nothing she had found gave cause for further suspicion. If Captain Reen was working for the Enemy, he was playing a very deep game.
‘That’s a relief,’ responded Imbarin Tierce. ‘I’ve rather used up my favours in that neck of the woods.’
‘At least you had some to use on Catherli,’ she said. ‘Unlike Xantier.’
‘Quite,’ he said slowly.
‘I have a theory about Xantier.’ She had thought long and hard about whether to share her thoughts, but decided his reaction could tell her a lot.
‘You do?’ His image in her visual cortex took on an expression of interest.
‘Yes. I think I was set up. I think your counterparts gave me a reason to go there in order to hack my internal storage.’ It was the most logical explanation: even if the hub rebels on Xantier wanted the intel on the memory-core, why go to the effort of stealing and then decrypting the base files (assuming they even could) when they could just read the decoded data direct from her head?
Making a failed attempt to steal the core had brought her running so they could do just that. Not that they had succeeded; at least a third of the info had auto-erased before it could be read. She was strung out between smugness at having cheated the thieves and sorrow for the data now lost for ever.
‘I think you might be right,’ said Imbarin Tierce. ‘Not everyone holds you in the same high regard I do.’
Bez snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally. We’ve always tolerated you, because we’re all on the same side. But it appears certain of my people have decided you’re a bit of a loose cannon, and they could make better use of your findings than you’re likely to.’
Bez tried not to let that comment chill her. It was bad enough not knowing how comprehensive the hub rebels’ knowledge of her was - pretty far-reaching, on the evidence so far - but the realisation that some of them still believed she couldn’t bring down the Sidhe was deeply disheartening. ‘But you don’t feel that way.’
‘No. Most of us don’t.’
‘And when it comes to it, would the others in your organisation try to stop me?’
‘Depends on your definition of “it” … but, generally, no.
Xantier’s the exception, not the rule.’
‘Good,’ she said and signed off.
Her life’s work was a complex, living hyper web of many intersecting networks of human contacts, flowing data, transferable funds and carefully constructed personae. With the acquisition of the Setting Sun’s memory-core, this hyperweb had become more focused and better informed. Getting the Sidhe ID file had honed her plans, moving her closer still to her goal.
Yet thanks to a minor miscalculation, one piece of missing intel, she had come close to losing everything.
She could not afford another mistake like that.
R-Day was going to be coordinated from Tarset, with Imbarin Tierce’s help. And it was going to happen soon.
DERN
(Olympus Orbital, Ylonis System)
‘Why the sudden interest?’
Dern looked across the table at his mother. ‘I was just curious.’
She snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still trying to impress those out-of-system kooks with your knowledge of Starscape?’ She said the name of her almost-ex-employers with a mixture of venom and wistfulness.
Dern shrugged. ‘Not so much these days, no. But someone told me Fera Yasmie isn’t from Ylonis, which I thought was a bit odd given her position in the company. Hence asking.’
‘I see. To be honest, I’m not sure.’ His mother was humouring him, but he expected nothing less. They still observed the ritual of eating dinner together and talking about their day while they did so, even if the dining area was rather less grand than he was used to; the family had been in their new apartment for a week now, and Ma still seethed at the imposition, although she acknowledged its necessity. She had even sold some of her precious vases.
‘You’ve never met Medame Yasmie, then?’ He tried to keep his voice neutral.
‘I have, as it happens.’
That wasn’t good news. ‘Oh. Often?’
‘No, but we’re both - we were both - in the same division.’
‘Is Medame Yasmie …’ He struggled for a way to put it that wouldn’t set her off. ‘Does she still work full-time?’
‘I believe so.’ His mother frowned, remembering. ‘And you can tell your conspiracy-freak friends that she probably isn’t local.
She’s very pale-skinned.’
‘How did you get on with her?’
‘What do you mean, “get on with her”?’ Ma was on her third glass of wine, and her patience was fraying.
‘What did you think of her, when you met?’
‘Well, it was only a handful of times, at corporate functions.
She struck me as eminently competent. The fact she still has a job, with he
r area of responsibility, supports that.’
Given the slurred bitterness in his mother’s voice, Dern decided to drop the subject. He had the answer he needed.
His father, who had been concentrating on his food, looked across the table and said, ‘I’ve noticed you don’t spend so much time chatting to your out-of-system friends these days.’ His tone made it obvious how pleased he was with this development.
‘He can’t afford to,’ said his mother tightly.
‘That’s true,’ acknowledged Dern. His job as a junior utilities technician paid enough to contribute to the household budget, but left him little spare credit. The days when his hobbies and interests were automatically funded by his parents were gone for ever.
‘Actually,’ said his father, ‘I was referring to Jerine. I think she’s good for you, Dern.’
Dern smiled. ‘So do I.’ Whatever he thought about his menial job, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when it’d led to meeting Jerine. He was trying to be mature and careful about their burgeoning relationship. He’d had plenty of sexual experience, including the sort most young men dream about. Back in his terceball days he’d had his pick of fan girls (and boys - he’d tried all the options before deciding he preferred the opposite sex), but that had just been fun, easy and meaningless. Jerine wasn’t a terceball fan, and they had been going out for several weeks before they’d gone to bed together. She also viewed work for the hab’s utilities office as a step up, not down; her family had never had anyone in Starscape. She wasn’t even good-looking compared to a lot of the girls he’d been with. But he loved her. That was new, and just as amazing as those stupid songs claimed.
‘You’re certainly spending a lot of time with her,’ said his father.
Dern’s smile became wry. This was the closest his parents had come to explicitly mentioning how few nights he’d slept in his own bed over the last month. The only reason he had come home today was because he and Jerine were on different shifts this week, and he needed some actual sleep. Good job he’d returned when he had, given the package that had been waiting for him in his room.