Pursuit of the Guardian (Children of the Republic Book 2)

by Jason Hutt

  “Oh, I can put on a grand show for you, but why the hell should I? We’ve already got a deal. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”

  “I want that ship, Max. I want that drive. I need a new way of doing business if this is how the Republic is going to patrol the shipping lanes,” Ironheart said. The drone had peeled off an entire section of skin at the shoulder and was now disconnecting wires and joints in order to remove the arm. “What’s it going to take, Max?”

  “I want a raiding party,” Max said, “I want the best you have. I want her.” He nodded toward Gauntlet. “And her team.”

  Ironheart looked at Gauntlet. After a bit of a staring contest between the two of them, she rolled her eyes and sighed.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, “I’m not much for suicide though.”

  “Max, I’ll make it happen. Hell, I’ll give you every mercenary at the Cove.”

  “The Cove?”

  “That’s where we’re headed next,” Ironheart said, “I need some reinforcements.”

  ***

  Maria felt like someone had jammed a searing hot knife into her skull just above her right eye and was slowly but surely moving the knife downward, cutting through skin and bone, and every nerve ending in her face. She held her head in her hands and rubbed at her temples. Her office wasn’t too far away, she could sneak off, take some painkillers, turn out the lights, and sleep the afternoon away.

  Instead, she squinted as she stared at Senator Nantan Takit, the frail-looking representative from the Alo colony and tried not to show that her head was surely about to split in two from this migraine. Takit had been shamed in the media a year ago, when news of his dalliances had broken during an otherwise quiet news cycle.

  “Why are you withdrawing your support?” Maria asked, the pain in her head bringing forward an edge in her voice.

  “Look, Maria, I’m sorry,” he said, “But I can’t be associated with you right now. You’re too toxic. My electorate has no tolerance for the type of shenanigans you’re involved in, real or not. I’m vulnerable next year; I can’t risk it.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” she said, “I haven’t done anything that isn’t done in these halls every day. We don’t get anything done without twisting someone’s arm. Hell, the only way something ever passes is if you give someone else something for their vote.”

  “I know that, you know that, but my voters don’t,” Takit said, “They want me here fighting the good fight, not off playing politics as usual.”

  “Nantan, there’s got to be something I can do to bring you back.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “If you can send the FPA back to committee, I may support six months down the line, but not now. I’ve got my own problems to deal with.”

  Maria sighed and rubbed at her head again. She felt compelled to argue some more, considered begging and pleading, but instead, she just decided to walk away. “Call me if you change your mind.”

  He gave her a sympathetic head nod and frown and she walked out of the office. She had been through three of these meetings in the past two days. Her diligently-composed alliance was shattering at the faintest whiff of scandal. She needed to think, to regroup, but all she could feel was the pulsing of the veins behind her eyes.

  The hallway was filled with normal mid-day traffic, yet the quiet conversation seemed like shouts and the echoing of footfalls off the floor felt like the pounding of a million jackhammers. She picked up the pace and started weaving through a small crowd that was filtering out of another hearing.

  The headache had started in the morning just after she received a concerned missive from Cillian. She had recorded a reply – There’s nothing to worry about, trumped up nonsense. Relief supplies should be on the way. – just as the first inkling of pain started flitting behind her eyelids.

  What really sent a jolt through her mind was the next message - another report from Cillian’s mystery investigator, A. Friend. Snippets of the report continued to flash through her mind.

  Finally found a picture of our mystery man in some off the grid cameras…no record of him in the database…like his existence has been wiped away…there’s a digital footprint, but no leads…not sure where to go next.

  There had been no more official reports from Sector Security. They were done with the investigation as far as Maria could tell. If this report was correct, it suggested something far worse than some crazed colonist with a score to settle. Maria furrowed her brow and sent a fresh spike of pain through her right eye.

  “Senator Cahill,” someone called. Maria stopped and looked up through bleary eyes. Admiral Dorn stepped around an oblivious intern.

  “Admiral,” Maria said as she smiled genuinely for the first time all day.

  “You look like hell,” Dorn said.

  “Sorry, head is killing me. Trying to get back to my office to take something for it and lie down a bit. What brings you here?”

  “Armed Services Committee hearing,” she said, “Time for the semiannual fluffing of our Conglomerate cronies.”

  “You sound thrilled.”

  “Prostitution was never my desired profession.”

  “Are you staying for the night?” Maria asked. “I could use some advice.”

  “I’ve seen the news,” she said, “You pissed off the wrong asshole and now they’re shitting all over you. I’d love to help…but unfortunately, I’m on a flight out tonight. Maybe next time.”

  “If there is a next time,” Maria said.

  “No time for pity, Senator. Show them that they’re getting to you and they’ll just turn up the heat. My advice – hit back and hit hard. If they’re going to try and drag you down, take them down with you. Maximize collateral damage and you just might strike a killing blow in the process.”

  Maria nodded, not saying anything as they walked side-by-side down the hall.

  “Don’t give up, Maria. We need people to stand up to these cretins. If you don’t, if others like us don’t, well, then I shudder to think what will become of this Republic. Rot and decay are creeping in, but not around the edges. They’ve infected the heart.

  “You’ve upset them. You’re threatening them. Now they’re trying to kill you before you kill them. Don’t let them take you out with a whimper. Create the biggest bang you can.”

  “You’re right,” Maria said, feeling just a bit of tension drain away, “Thank you. I’ve needed to hear that.”

  “I’m happy to help then.”

  “When will you be coming back again?” Maria asked.

  “Presidential Gala,” she said. “Will you be there?”

  “Definitely,” Maria said.

  “Good, I’m looking forward to it.”

  Maria shook the Admiral’s hand and gave her a warm smile. As Maria walked away, Dorn called out to her. “Oh, I almost forgot. Eleanor Shaw’s memories have been fully catalogued. I’ll send you a link to all the files.”

  “I had completely forgotten. Thank you,” Maria said. She continued to her office and the weight of the pain in her head lightened.

  Three hours, two cups of coffee, a short nap, and a painkiller patch later, and she held court just outside her office in front of a small throng of reporters and camerabots. She faced the array of lights and microphones with wide-eyes and a defiant lift of her chin.

  “These accusations are garbage,” Maria said, “I’m confident that the panel will find that I have done nothing that isn’t business as usual. This Republic faces some real problems right now, but unfortunately, some of my colleagues feel they must kowtow to their corporate masters rather than try to work to solve those problems. It’s a disgrace.”

  “So you don’t deny using your office to fulfill a personal vendetta against Max Cabot?”

  “I want Max Cabot brought to justice,” Maria said, “He is the lone terrorist operative still at-large from the attack on Nexus Station. Do you want to tell the families of his victims that he’s not worth bringing to justice? Do you want to tell them th
at the Republic needs to turn a blind eye towards the pain and suffering he inflicted on the thousands of people affected by that tragedy? Or should we not use our resources to track down those who mean to do us the most harm?”

  “Do you deny your personal motivations for pursuing Cabot?”

  Maria shot the young man a slightly-exaggerated annoyed glance. “My only son was killed in that fiasco. The only son that I am permitted by the laws of this Republic. How would you feel if that was ripped away from you? My child was lost to this monster. I won’t rest until he’s brought to justice.”

  “Do you deny the allegations of campaign finance violations?” a young woman asked.

  “I have done nothing improper. The only thing going on here is that the Conglomerate is annoyed that the cash cow they’ve baked into the revisions of the Family Planning Act are in jeopardy. I threatened their bottom line, so they’re taking their frustrations out on me like spoiled little children and they’re pulling the strings of the puppets who pretend to be my colleagues.

  “Let them hear this: I won’t support the FPA changes and the burdens it would add to the people of this Republic. I won’t stand idly by while they ram forward more burdens onto average citizens under the guise of progress. I will fight for the rights of the people and I’ll give ‘em hell in doing it.”

  Maria collapsed into the lounge chair in her living room and it embraced her warmly, allowing her to melt into its comfortable confines for a few decadent seconds. She still felt somewhat giddy from that afternoon press conference and notes of support continued to trickle into her inbox. A short note from Admiral Dorn appeared.

  Well done.

  Maria smiled and then remembered the other bit of news Dorn had had for her. She scrolled through about a hundred notes until she found the link Dorn had sent earlier in the day. With a swipe of her finger, she scanned the menu of memory files that was projected into the air before her. By default, the memories were listed in chronological order. Certain entries were coded red, restricted for national security reasons.

  “Search for Nick, timeframe ten years ago,” Maria commanded.

  Within seconds, a dozen entries appeared. The very first one was bolded and highlighted. An annotation was available.

  “Show note.”

  The lead memory engineer left a comment for the investigation team.

  This appears to be the start of Eleanor’s interaction with Max Cabot. It also shows some of the events of the terrorist attack on Nexus Station for which Mr. Cabot is presumed responsible.

  “Play,” Maria commanded as she sat up in her chair. The air of her living room shimmered slightly as the off-white walls disappeared and she was suddenly immersed in the corridors of Nexus Station. Maria recognized that this was the same memory she had observed in part while on Ceres. More colors had been filled in, computer-generated faces had been placed on people in the crowd, and other details had been added to make the memory less unsettling for the viewer. The effect was imperfect as there appeared to be a dozen identical people walking around the young girl.

  Maria heard the tell-tale screech of the creatures that would wreak unspeakable havoc upon the unsuspecting denizens of the station. Rather than watch it again, Maria commanded the recording to jump forward.

  The room around Maria darkened, save for a soft beam of light that appeared to be coming from some unknown overhead source. She could hear footsteps on metal and two men whispering to each other. Suddenly, a flashlight beam shone in her direction and Maria had to cover her eyes.

  A robotic face appeared, from an older model that Maria didn’t quite recognize, and a mechanical hand was extended toward the little girl. A flashing icon appeared at the edge of Maria’s vision, some other note from the engineers, but Maria ignored it. The little girl stood and Maria had to close her eyes to fend off the moment of disorientation. Eleanor took a step forward into a large cargo hold and again the icon flashed at the corner of Maria’s vision.

  Then, Nick stepped forward and knelt before Eleanor, his face almost filling her entire field-of-view. Maria’s heart jumped and the back of her neck started to tingle. Nick, the young man who had walked out of her house ten years ago, never to be seen again, was now kneeling before her, his face larger-than-life.

  “Are you okay?” Nick asked Eleanor and the sound of his voice brought tears to Maria’s eyes. She paused the recording and stared at her son’s face. A slight bit of stubble graced his chin and was growing in uneven patches on his young face. Small droplets of blood had dried on his forehead. Maria stood and walked further into the image, wishing more than anything than she could make the image solid, that she could run her hand down his young face.

  She had never said goodbye. The thought pushed the air from her lungs and she grabbed onto the arm of her chair to avoid falling over. Her knees shook as she stared at this image of her son shown through the eyes of a traumatized little girl.

  On occasion, Maria still looked through old images and recordings of the family she no longer had. The look back was always painful, but over the years, the pain had dulled. This memory, this recreated image, was a peek into her son’s life that was new to her, a memory of her son that was not her own. This was a gift.

  She wanted to savor it, to relish it, to stare into his eyes until she had memorized every hair, every freckle, every variation of color in his eyes, every everything. She had heard the outlandish tales of grieving relatives who died, out of grief and neglect, as they stopped living their own lives due to immersion into the memories of the dead. A decade ago, she swore to herself that she would not do that.

  She commanded the recording to continue and she watched as her son protected the scared little girl. She watched as her son made sure that the vile Cabot didn’t force the girl to leave this ship. The confrontation escalated and she watched Cabot punch Nick. Her cheeks flushed as her blood boiled. The file soon stopped and Maria rushed to her apartment’s small kitchen and poured herself a drink. Her hands trembled as she poured the scotch into the glass, spilling a bit onto the countertop.

  Eventually as the burn of the scotch subsided and her hands steadied, Maria worked up the courage to return to the recording. She played the file back again, pausing again as her son’s face first greeted the little girl. She heard the concern in his voice, concern for this young person who needed his help, and a warmth spread throughout her chest. Her son was a good man.

  Was.

  She went back to the kitchen and brought the bottle of scotch back to her chair in the living room. She wanted to watch more of the files, but she just couldn’t tear herself away from that moment. She watched again and again, into the wee hours of the night, until numbness from alcohol finally deadened her pangs of regret and she fell asleep in the chair.

  Chapter 14

  Two full days of drifting through space, pushing auxiliary life support systems to their limits, and non-stop repair efforts were needed to restore basic functionality to the Churchill. The fabrication shop had printed replacement components without a break over that time and the team had to start taking each printer off-line for short periods to keep them from overheating. Raw materials for the printers had dipped below normal reserve thresholds and every piece of non-critical equipment was being thrown into the recycler to be broken down into more raw materials.

  Three teams were executing successive spacewalks to install many of those printed replacements, temporary panels and patches, and inspect the integrity of the multitude of small hull punctures that had healed over the course of the repair efforts. The entire crew, minus the eleven that were killed in the skirmish, were working beyond the point of exhaustion, trying to save the ship and themselves.

  Akimbe pulled a young man off the line as he swayed a bit and sent him to get some rest. With a set jaw, he started polishing a connector that had just come out of the printer. All the effort was because he had made a stupid mistake. Akimbe watched the tactical recording again on his contacts, watching as Max
Cabot danced about in his tiny shuttlecraft, dancing just beyond the touch of the Churchill’s batteries. Then came the moment that had kept Akimbe up the past two nights, a moment he had watched over and over again if only to remind himself of his hubris and of the perils of zealotry.

  He watched the aft section of the Churchill get shredded to pieces by the slugs fired from the pirate vessel. The sensor data at the time of the strike had registered no power surge on the part of the pirate ship. Seconds earlier, it had been drifting through space with no thermal signature, no electromagnetic signature, no visible light; it was a hole in the cosmos.

  Stealth technology had evolved over the years. Covert ops teams used this tech on missions every day, but all of it was classified and not available for public purchase. Of course, Akimbe knew black market channels had been making the tech available for the right price for years, but that price was steep and the amount required to cloak a ship that size would be staggering. This particular band of pirates had either gotten lucky and intercepted the right shipment somewhere down the line or someone was funneling them hardware.

  Akimbe stepped off the line when another young woman arrived for her shift and ventured to the analytics room. The corridors of the Churchill were now lined with crewmembers, both human and robotic, that continued repair work. Bins of damaged parts were at even intervals throughout the corridor. Twice, Akimbe had to step aside as a robot pushed a full bin toward recycling. He arrived to see the trio of haggard-looking young crewmembers sifting through reports and fine-tuning search algorithms. None of them looked up when Akimbe entered.

  “Well,” he said, “Any luck?”

  “Nothing so far, sir.”

  “Explain to me how that could be? We know the precise time they left the system, the precise time the beacon opened the wormhole that they departed through. There must be a log of their entry and a corresponding log on another beacon somewhere in the Republic of their exit. There has to be.”