Two months into my tour, I received a visit from a Colonel and his aide, a pretty redheaded Captain. “Mr. Oliver,” the Colonel said. I had been ordered to report to the administration building and we were sitting in a plain office with one small window, a flimsy table and plastic chairs. “Please sit down.”
“So.” He smiled, opened a briefcase, took out some papers and spread them out on the table. “These are your aptitude scores. They’re very impressive.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.”
“Your intelligence is well above normal. Your physical capabilities are at the high end of the range and to top it off, you don’t look it. Your size and general build are average. There’s nothing obvious about you that would stand out in a crowd.” He gave me a wolfish smile. “Have you thought of trying out for the Secret Service? You would make an excellent spy.”
I hadn’t, actually. This was an entirely new idea and as I looked at the Colonel’s smiling face, I briefly toyed with it, but only briefly. I already had an offer for Guild sponsorship. As I said, I liked the guard. It was a simple life; be where they tell you and do as you’re told, but in the end, I preferred to work for myself. And besides, despite the Colonel’s attempts to make it sound interesting and even romantic, spying is lonely, tedious work. I knew this, even then. A spy, a real spy, is likely to be an introverted little man with a low-level job for a cover who sits in one place for years, sending information back to his employers. Spies are rarely the men of action depicted in popular fiction. So, I thanked the Colonel and his aide, who had said nothing during our conversation. I told him that I would consider his offer but I knew, and he probably did as well, that I was only being polite.
I wanted to play the game.
The lobby was small but tasteful, with polished granite floors and crown molding along the ceiling. A leather couch, three small chairs and a low wooden table sat in an alcove by the front window. A reception desk hugged the wall against one side and an attractive brunette stood behind it. “May I take your coat, sir?”
I handed it over and received a receipt, then nodded to my guards, who wandered into the anteroom where they could sit down, get something to eat and relax. The room was full. I particularly noticed a very tall blonde woman who seemed to be with an even taller man. They held themselves stiffly, rarely smiled and stared as if cataloguing threats at everyone who walked past. I figured them for first timers.
Guild rules required security to wait outside. Within the Guild Hall itself, unsanctioned violence was met with one of only two punishments: expulsion or death. The Guild Hall was neutral territory, where members of every Guild could meet and socialize and have a friendly drink without fear of assault.
I went through the open door at the end of the atrium into one enormous room. A bar stood along the wall, with tables scattered around it. A tournament cage on a raised platform was placed in the middle. On the other side of the room sat fifteen gaming tables, about half of them occupied.
I wandered over to the bar, ordered a glass of red wine and saw Leon Sebastian sitting at a table with three women and two other men. Leon waved at me. I walked over and took a seat. Leon’s wife, Jolene, smiled. “Douglas, this is Jen Mallett, Rachel Jones, Mitchell Everett and Ted Seymour.” All four nodded at me, most of their attention on the first bout. Jen Mallett, in particular, was watching the fight with focused intensity.
A swift was fighting a strong, a fairly typical match. For almost a minute, they circled each other, the swift bobbing and throwing punches, most of them landing on his opponent’s arms, doing little damage. The strong patiently kept his guard up and his chance finally came. The swift grew a little too confident and stepped in close, trying to put some more muscle into his strikes. The strong got a hand on him, pulled him in, lifted him over his head and slammed him to the ground.
Match over.
“Idiot,” I muttered.
Jen nodded. Leon shook his head, disgusted, and spread his hands. “I had three credits on the swift. He was supposed to be good.”
“Win some, lose some,” I said. “What comes next?”
“Two swifts,” Everett said.
This bout was more interesting. Both fighters were skilled and neither one held back. They pounded on each other, throwing combinations of blindingly fast punches and kicks, ducking and weaving. By the end of the seventh round, one of them had an eye almost swollen shut, and blood dripped from his opponent’s nose. In the eighth round, the fighter with the swollen eye took a good uppercut to the chin and went down, but he managed to get to his feet before the count could be completed. The bell rang a few seconds later. He seemed a little more tentative after that but didn’t get tagged again. They kept it up for two more rounds and the contestant with the bloody nose was awarded the bout by decision.
“Not the best way to win it,” Everett said.
Leon sipped his drink. “I disagree. A knockout would have entertained the crowd but the record book will say he won. That’s all that counts.”
Throughout the bout, Rachel Jones had hung on Ted Seymour’s arm and while not exactly ignoring the rest of us, they had talked mostly to each other. Jen Mallett seemed unattached. She sipped a fizzy cocktail, leaned over the table and said to me, “Do you fight?”
“Hah.” Leon said.
Jen looked quizzical. “Not anymore,” I said.
“Douglas was good,” Leon said. “He could have gone far.”
“Are you a swift or a strong?”
“A little of both,” I said. “I’m a hybrid.”
“That’s rare,” Jen said.
Compared to what? All of us were faster and stronger than our unmodified ancestors, but most seemed to favor one quality over another. I shrugged. “I wasn’t as fast as the swifts and I’m not as strong as the strongs,” I said…not exactly true, but it seemed prudent to say so. “There are better ways to seek fame and glory.”
Jen nodded and gave a tiny shrug, as if not quite convinced. “How about you?” I asked.
“I used to,” she said.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
Her expression was wistful. I thought maybe she did. She looked at me and barely frowned. “Sometimes.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I guess I lost my taste for it.” Her eyes drifted down to her drink, unconsciously swirling the ice, not really seeing it. “Oh, well.” She shrugged then grinned at me. “I hear you’re rich.”
I glanced at Leon. “Moderately,” I said.
“So am I,” she said, smiling. “Money doesn’t impress me.”
I looked at her more carefully. She was attractive: honey blond hair, tall, curvy and toned. “What do you do?” I asked.
“I own Green Mountain Sports.” She said it without ego but with evident satisfaction, as well she should. Green Mountain Sports made athletic gear, expensive but high quality and worth the price.
“I have one of your parkas and a set of running shoes. Excellent stuff. How long have you been a member?” I asked.
“About two years. I’ve only recently relocated to Meridien. The Guild financed my initial expansion.”
The Guilds financed all of us. One third ownership was standard, going down to ten percent plus a seat on the Board after full repayment of the loan. I had almost finished paying mine, a year ahead of schedule.
“Which Guild?” I asked.
“Argent.” She said it with pride, a pride that she deserved. Argent was my Guild as well, the largest, the richest and one of the oldest.
“A good choice,” I said, and she smiled. I liked her smile. It lit up her face.
Jolene got up to get another drink. Jen Mallett went with her and when they returned, I somehow found myself sitting next to her.
“Did Jolene intend to fix us up?” I asked.
She gave Jolene a speculative look. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably.”
I would have to thank Jolene. “Would you like to have dinner with me, perhaps next Friday?”
She frowned minutely, then gave a tentative smile. “Sure,” she said.
“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll pick you up.”
Jennifer Mallett had one older sister and one younger brother. Her parents were both academics. She had grown up in a college town in the nation state of Octavia, a mountainous place in the middle of the continent noted for nothing in particular except the production of mutton and fine wool. Octavia, like most nations, includes self-defense as part of the school curriculum. Jennifer was athletic and her academic record was stellar. She had reached the national finals in freestyle martial arts, winning the bronze in unarmed and a silver in edged weapons but then quit for unspecified reasons. She had attended Parker Academy, a small, exclusive collegium on the East Coast, with a Junior year abroad. She had been engaged but her fiancé had died in the ring, slipping on some spilled blood and breaking his neck. She had no genetic modifications beyond the standard, none that were listed, at least. After receiving an invitation for Guild sponsorship, she had moved to Aphelion less than a year ago. There was no reason to think that she was anything other than she appeared.
The two security guards who had caught my eye at the club were named Daryl and Claudia Hanover, a married couple who had been in Jennifer’s employ since shortly after her arrival in the city. They had worked for Sebastian Securities prior to taking service with Jennifer and had excellent references.
I looked forward to seeing her again.
The week passed uneventfully. I worked out with my instructor on Thursday, called it a draw in a simulated bout, took a long soak afterward and went to bed at my normal time. A persistent, annoying buzz woke me only a couple of hours later. I groaned, ordered, “Lights at twenty percent,” and opened my eyes. The lights came on. The clock on the night table read four in the morning. “Oh, shit,” I muttered and reached for the phone. It was a private, secure phone. My staff were the only ones who had the number.
“This better be good,” I said.
“It’s not good at all,” Curtis said. “Are you awake?”
I took a deep breath. “Just tell me.”
“Our warehouse at the wharf has been bombed.”
I stared at the phone. I had only recently purchased the place. There wasn’t a lot in it yet, mainly a shipment of expensive hardwood from a small island in the Northern Sea. “Anybody hurt?” I asked.
“No. The night staff was marched off under gunpoint, restrained and left in a park across the street.”
“What do the cameras show?”
“We haven’t accessed them yet. I called you as soon as I got the word.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Let me send a car.”
“Fine. Have them buzz me when they arrive.”
Curtis was worried. A few minutes later, I was on my way in an armored limousine, with one gunman sitting across from me in the back and another up front next to the driver. Two more cars flanked us as we drove across the city. It was an hour before dawn and drizzling. The streets were almost empty, which reflected my mood. I wasn’t surprised, of course. I had been warned. Whoever was behind this had to try something or give up the game before it started, and now they had.
As we rounded the corner, I could see that the building, at least, appeared intact. Squat and massive, set in a long row of similar buildings, it loomed over the street, constructed of brick and concrete, with high, thin windows and a domed roof. Inside, a corridor led into a small lobby, then on into one large room, with metal shelving rising along three walls, a main office suspended on metal scaffolding beneath the ceiling and three small offices plus a lounge area next to the door against the front wall. Back doors large enough for trucks to enter opened onto a wharf leading down to the harbor.
Two fire trucks guarded the entrance. Three cop cars blocked each side of the street. I could smell gasoline and wood smoke but the scent was already fading as we drove up to the barricades. We pulled to a stop and a cop walked over. “This street is closed, sir,” he said.
“I’m Douglas Oliver. I own the building.”
He puffed up his cheeks, thinking it over. “Come on through,” he said.
As we rolled to a stop, Curtis walked up to me. “What’s the damage?” I asked.
“The building is intact. The shipment is a total loss.”
Inside, the wood was a charred pile, still smoldering. The blowers were set at high but the smell of kerosene and smoke was still rank.
We headed for the stairs leading to the office. One of the cops started to walk up with us. Curtis shook his head at him. “Guild business,” he said. The cop looked annoyed but kept his thoughts to himself. He gave a little shrug and stood at the bottom.
My men had removed the disks from the security cams but were waiting for me to arrive before looking at them. A tech named Jason sat before the monitor. As we came in, Curtis nodded at him. “Let’s see it.” Jason pushed a button.
On the screens, five hooded figures calmly walked into the corridor leading from the front entrance to the main room, their bodies entirely covered with identical, loose black robes and identical black boots. We couldn’t see their hair or the color of their skin. We couldn’t tell whether they were men or women.
“Let’s see the guns,” I said. The view panned in and stopped.
“Sea Eagles,” Curtis said. “Seven-millimeter rounds.”
I grunted. Standard military grade assault weapons, high quality but commonly available.
I nodded at Jason. The video resumed. Two of them opened small metal cans, poured a greenish liquid onto the pallets of wood, lit torches and threw them onto the pile. The wood went up in flames. The other three stood watch, guns held across their chests. After a minute or so, they all trooped out. None of them said a word.
The outside cameras showed eleven figures fanning out across the street and entering the building. They must have parked their vehicles out of camera range. The disk from the lobby showed three groups of two men each getting the drop on our security guards. They handcuffed them, put tape across their mouths and marched them out. The original five exited a few minutes later. None of them looked at the cameras, though they must have known they were being filmed. None of them seemed in a hurry. A nice, clean, professional hit.
“We could have done this,” I mused. “Our guys are good enough.”
Curtis looked at me. “Sure.”
“And if we could have done it, there are probably a hundred others as good or better.”
Curtis grunted. He looked glum. “Maybe as good.”
“I’m going down there,” I said. “Take the men outside. Look for clues.”
“Of course, clues. They’re everywhere.”
At the bottom of the stairs, I got down on my hands and knees. My men had exited the building and taken along the city cop. The concrete floor had been polished clean only a couple of weeks prior to the arrival of the lumber. There were no discernible footprints, but dust and random particles linger everywhere.
I sniffed and the mingled scents swirled across the specialized neurons in the roof of my mouth and nose. Wood, of course, cold steel and gun oil. I circled the room, working carefully inward. Gasoline, smoke, the scent of five humans, four male, one female. I had never encountered any of them before but I knew that I would recognize them again. Loam and earth and growing things, hibiscus, coconut palms, agave, caladium, pitcher plants, begonia, orchid, numerous others. All five had showered recently. I could identify the soap and the shampoo, all common brands. One of them had eaten fish for dinner, a species not usually available in local markets. Another had eaten steak. A third had dined on game birds, with a sauce flavored with blackberry, fresh herbs and ginger. Two others had eaten lamb followed by a chocolate dessert.
I rose to my feet, my hands in my pockets, and breathed deeply. I walked out of the room, down the short corridor and outside the building. Across the street and into the park, I could pick up the scents of six more, f
our men, two women, rapidly fading but still detectable. This is where they had confined the three guards. The guards’ fear left a sharp, rank odor. My men trailed behind. I was pleased to note that they watched the street and the buildings and the few curious pedestrians, not me. They were evaluating threats, doing their jobs.
Around the corner, four cars had waited, and here the trail ended. I got down on one knee and peered at the pavement. The road had not been cleaned in days. Tire treads were mixed and jumbled together. Impossible to say which ones belonged to which cars.
So…what did I know? “Let’s go back to the office,” I said.
Curtis looked at me. “Anything?”
“Yeah,” I said. I looked around at my men. They were pretending to ignore us but their curiosity was evident. “We’ll talk at the office.”
“It wasn’t a total loss,” Curtis said. “The shipment was insured.”
This consoled me only a little. “The cost of the lumber is insured. Our profit isn’t, and customers are not going to be eager to buy from an organization that can’t guarantee delivery.”
“So, who is doing this? We could fight back if we knew.”
“Who do you think?”
“DeLaney hates you. So does Reid. Cordillo competes with the games division. Samson would like to add to his real estate holdings.” Curtis shrugged. “There are plenty of others.”
“And what do our inside men have to say? I pay them enough. They should have something to contribute.”
“They say your competitors are happy that you’ve been targeted instead of them. Some are worried about blowback. Some think you deserve it. None of our people have seen any evidence of involvement.”
I made a rude noise. “Not much help.”
Curtis narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look as annoyed as you sound. What did you find in the warehouse?”
I grinned back at him. “I have a date for tomorrow evening.”
Chapter 4
The Game Players of Meridien: Chronicles of the Second Empire (Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind Book 1) Page 3