He pulled it on, adjusting the seals out of long habit. Years of hull-breach drills flooded into his mind as the Marine nodded in approval.
He moved down the hallway and stepped out onto the ordinarily quiet production floor. The equipment stood silent, except for a single arc-furnace, used to melt large quantities of metal. A red-orange glow emanated from inside, slashed by brilliant white light every time an arc of electricity crashed through its interior.
Three more Marines, faces obscured by respirators, stood over a kneeling man.
Paul approached, moving to stand in front of the kneeling policeman. The man looked up at him, registering the civilian clothes and probably assuming, correctly, that Paul was the man he’d been brought here for.
“Look,” he pleaded, “whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken. I don’t know anything, I don’t have anything. Why don’t you just let me go? I haven’t seen your fa…”
Paul pulled off the respirator. He’d caught a break, finding this cop before he could be eliminated, but who knew what other breaks were out there being eliminated while he talked to this man?
He had to move this along quickly — give the prisoner hope, take it away — rinse and repeat as needed…
The cop sighed, shoulders sagging as he looked at his captor’s face. He shook his head morosely. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
“Because I think we can be of use to each other,” Paul replied, crouching in front of the man to reinforce the offer of mutual benefit. The polymer tarp beneath their feet made small crinkling sounds in counterpoint to the louder arcs.
“You’re taking money from people that I don’t like and that’s fine, as long as you keep me in the loop.”
“Are you bent?” The cop shook his head. “If they ever found out, they’d…”
“Kill you?” Paul cut him off, grinning. “You’re already dead.”
He watched the man’s eyes widen, saw the rapid flaring of his nostrils as his gaze darted to the arc-furnace. “We sent a team to that ‘domestic dispute’,” he told the cop. “When our marines walked in, the squabble ended very abruptly and they both turned out to be armed, unrelated and registered as living at two completely different addresses.”
They’d done nothing of the sort. For all Paul knew, there was a real domestic dispute at that address, but it was a safe bet the cop had been on his way to his death, so why stand on ceremony?
The cop looked away, staring off into a dark corner. “No,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t dare. Seneca would never tolerate…” His eyes darted to Paul as he shut up.
Jumping to conclusions was one of Paul’s favorite investigative techniques. It was surprising what you could shake out of a suspect through the occasional leap of insight. “Seneca would tolerate them ‘borrowing’ you but he can’t let them get away with killing one of his assets,” Paul agreed, hoping he’d read the partial sentence correctly.
He leaned in, putting his left hand on the cop’s shoulder. “That tells me they’re prepared to escalate the matter beyond the original plan.”
The plan was still a bit of a black box for Paul but he wanted the cop to think he was being questioned by someone who already knew most of the story.
“All I know,” the cop pleaded, “is they gave me a pile of credits in return for having the courtesan’s financial records burned down.” He winced as another arc flared behind Paul.
“The agent may have gone rogue,” Paul mused for the man’s benefit. He focused on the cop’s eyes. “Who contacted you?”
“He didn’t exactly exchange meishi with me, did he?” he retorted, one eyebrow raised. “His info was shielded, but I managed to get his facial rec off a street cam.”
“And?” Paul prompted.
“And he’s Ruffus Hancock, a nobody, but a nobody who works for Romanus Kinsey.”
Paul nodded impatiently, giving the impression he already knew who the agent belonged to. “But what exactly did he say to you?”
A shrug. “Burn the records out of the system, keep my mouth shut, don’t start spending the money for at least a full cycle and I’d be fine.”
Paul sighed. “You ever tell a citizen to cooperate and they’d be ‘fine’?”
Another furtive glance at the arc-furnace.
Paul took a moment to choose his words. “Look, you’re already a dead man. You’d have died an hour ago, if not for us.” He waved a hand at the Marines standing behind the cop. They moved around to stand behind Paul.
“Think of us as ‘life support’,” he urged. “We could just pull the plug, as they say, or we could help you out.” He grinned suddenly. “Funny old saying, isn’t it?”
“What?” A tone of exasperated fear.
“Pull the plug,” Paul replied. “What plug? Did life support patients float in some sort of fluid in the pre-imperial days?”
“Do I look like a damned medico?” Exasperation was clearly winning out.
Paul shrugged. “Frankly, you’ve been of use to us, so I’m inclined to offer help.”
“What sort of help?” the man asked, brows lowering.
“We’ll get you off-world, take you out to the frontier somewhere.” He held the cop’s gaze. “Man can make a name for himself out there — a new name, of course — but it’s worlds better than waiting for death here.”
A sigh. He looked down at the floor for a moment, face twitching as a flash of arc-light washed over him. The arc screamed a tortured warning.
He looked up at Paul. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”
Paul brought his hand out of his pocket, the small pistol fired three shots and the cop fell back onto the polymer sheeting. “You already have,” he said quietly.
He stood, backing off the sheet and tossing the pistol down next to the body.
Kinsey was an aristocrat of moderate means. In all probability, his holdings were less extensive than Paul’s.
The Nathaniel family’s concept of patronage included stock tips. From their perspective, it was a zero-cost proposition to pass along tips to trusted assets like Paul.
Inspectors from the ‘Eye’ were free to take cases as they saw fit, but they were only paid by the case. In making Paul financially independent, the Nathaniels were able to access his services more freely.
Paul, knowing the tips were the result of Hadrian manipulating the market, frequently bet heavily and rarely failed to come out ahead. He was now a major shareholder in several companies.
Kinsey’s relatively average wealth meant he couldn’t be the primary mover behind this particular conspiracy. That would be someone with far more wealth. Not just impressive resources, like Paul had, but startlingly obscene amounts of credits. Kinsey had been known to fall in with the schemes of several leading families and Seneca had made use of him before.
He looked over as the Marine on his left pulled off his respirator. His face was covered in sweat and his eyes were glued to the corpse on the floor.
Paul stepped over to him. “Are you OK, Tony?” He grabbed the man’s shoulder, turning him away from the body. He lowered his voice. “You’ve seen bodies, even killed more than your fair share of people yourself.”
“Yeah, but that was combat…”
“So is this,” Paul hissed. “The Empire is always in a state of civil war. It’s secret, it’s dirty and it never goes away. If your father hasn’t told you that, I’ll eat that arc-furnace, piece by piece.”
The light in the room increased dramatically as one of the Marines deactivated the shielding on the furnace. The unmitigated glow of the melted steel bathed the grisly scene.
“But his hands were tied,” Tony growled.
“Don’t lose track of what kind of war we’re fighting here,” Paul said quietly, watching the Marines roll up the body and weapon in the polymer sheet. “Just because a man’s hands are tied doesn’t mean he’s no longer a combatant. He was in the fight right up to the instant I shot him.
“I even gave him the ch
ance to surrender,” Paul reminded the Marine officer. “We could have relocated him and we’d have even found a use for him, eventually. If we’d let him walk out of here, he’d have told the enemy everything he knew about us in exchange for a few more seconds of life, and then your brother would die in prison.”
“Yeah,” Tony grunted. “Yeah, right. So what’s next?”
Paul was watching the Marines throw the body into the arc-furnace. “Kinsey’s a small fish. Too small to be running a play against your family on his own. He’s out in the Gliesan systems, supposedly ‘stiffening’ the sector defense forces against rebels.”
“We don’t have anyone out there, do we?” Tony finally tore his eyes away from the fading color variations in the crucible.
Paul tilted his head to the side a few degrees as he came to a decision. “Not until I get there.” He looked over at Tony. “I need a couple of operator pairs.”
Tony waved a hand at the two men standing by the furnace. “Ed and Mike, here, Sandy and Al at the door… best operators in the 488.”
Paul noticed the lack of reaction at this praise from one of their officers. They were that good and they knew Tony was aware of it. He nodded at Ed. “Do you boys have civvies close to hand?”
“Yes sir.” Ed pulled his collar back to reveal a blue shirt underneath. “Never can tell what sort of camouflage you might need on a city op.”
“Good.” Paul angled his head toward Tony. “Leave your uniforms with the major. We’re heading straight up to Wayfarer Station. First ship taking wormholes for Gliese 667 will have us on it.”
“Mmmm,” Mike chimed in, grinning. “Ration paste — how I’ve missed it!”
Paul chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint, but the four of you wandering around in steerage practically screams ‘covert military operation’. We’ll have to put you in better accommodations. First class is the last place anyone would think to look for grunts.”
Reconnaissance
Boarding
The clerk at the boarding gate looked up at Paul, assessed his clothing, hairstyle and general demeanor and flashed him her best welcoming smile. “Good afternoon, sir. How can Pulsar Lines help you today?”
Paul returned an easy smile. “I believe this vessel is bound for Gliese 667?” He waved a hand toward the window behind her.
She beamed. “Yes indeed, sir. The Pulsar Intrepid is leaving in three standard hours but I’m afraid we’re down to second class and lower staterooms. First class is booked solid.”
Paul placed his hand on the ident-square on her shield. Unlike the police windows, the systems here were far more discrete. His social rank and profession were only visible from her side and her eyebrows raised a fraction, followed by the corners of her professional smile.
It wasn’t his equestrian status that raised her politeness a notch. Paul was a three-percent owner of the Pulsar line.
The Nathaniels had managed to float a rumor about the passenger line several years ago. One of the family’s assets at Carbon Heavy Industries had ‘confided’ to a reporter that CHI was about to issue a category-one maintenance bulletin on their entire line.
The reporter had promised to keep it quiet and then put it on every feed an hour later. News that Pulsar’s entire fleet was about to be grounded by CHI for weeks caused the stock to plummet.
Having been the one who arranged the ‘chance’ meeting between the CHI employee and the reporter, Paul had already borrowed several hundred thousand shares of Pulsar from his broker and sold them before the news broke.
Two days later, he repurchased those shares at a fraction of their original price, along with a three-percent stake. The original shares went back to the brokers and he found himself sitting on a large pile of stock and credits.
He grinned. “Are we still sold out for first class?”
She tilted her head to the side. “I’m afraid we still are, sir, but there is the owner’s suite.”
“How big is it?”
“Four bedrooms, a living room and a dining area!” she replied.
Paul nodded. “We’ll take it. Please have our bags sent up.”
He turned away from the counter, waving his four Marine companions toward the boarding tunnel. “Two of you will have to share a bunk.” He started moving for the walkway himself when a man bumped him.
“Watch where you’re going!” the man admonished Paul, his voice clearly indicating his high opinion of himself.
Paul simply continued toward the tunnel opening, hearing the man address the boarding clerk — ahead of the rest of the people in the line.
“My employer requires your best accommodations. I think you know what suite we’re expecting…”
Paul grinned. The best accommodations on the Pulsar Intrepid now meant second class. He looked back to see his Marines closing on his position and, behind them, a man followed by a mostly alien entourage , also heading straight for the boarding tunnel.
Paul knew the type. A noble, but just barely. He was fairly certain most prosperous non-voters were happier than this man. In a highly stratified society like the Empire, few things were more galling than to be at the bottom of your particular social ladder.
Even when it was still the top ladder.
A man like Hadrian Nathaniel preferred to travel quietly, eschewing ostentation. He was one of the most powerful men in the Empire but he felt no need to impress that on everyone who saw him.
This low-level aristocrat, however, had a retinue of useless followers and most of them were inexpensive aliens from the various subjugated worlds. The few Humans on his payroll were the face men. It was as if he was constantly proclaiming that he really was an important man. Paul knew the man was trying to convince himself at least as much as he was others.
The boarding tunnel ended and he stepped out into the ship proper. A helpful steward greeted him and offered to lead him to his cabin.
As Paul and his four companions followed the young man, he questioned his own behavior. Here he was, being followed by a small retinue of his own and taking the best accommodations on the ship.
He hadn’t asked Tony for these men so he could look important, though. He knew he might need a friendly military presence and, on a world where Kinsey held sway, he couldn’t turn to local forces for help.
As for the owner’s suite — screw it, he liked his comfort.
Was he deluding himself?
Was anyone ever not deluding themselves?
The steward reached the end of a hallway and pressed a button on the wall, opening a wide portal. He waved the five men through. “Your bags will be along shortly, gentlemen.” He sketched an elaborate bow, his right hand held forward, ostensibly for balance but really for a tip.
“Thanks,” Paul replied, waving his own hand over the steward’s, automatically transferring his usual, generous tip.
Paul closed the door as the last Marine walked in. He looked around the room. Not bad at all. It was more or less equal to his own apartment as far as the interior went, but the view from the lounge was amazing.
It boasted a broad, curving balcony looking out onto the ship’s atrium, providing a magnificent view of the gardens on the central column.
The column ran the entire length of the vessels atrium and its outer surface, roughly a half kilometer in circumference, was home, not only to the ornamental gardens, but also to the bustling shops, pubs and restaurants of the Pulsar Intrepid.
The Marines obviously approved. Ed pulled a bottle of wine from a wall rack. “Holy shit!” He carefully put it back, looking at the other members of his fire-team in wonder. “Real glass bottle! Must be worth a year’s pay at least!”
“Well, don’t put it back, Ed.” Paul waved at the cabinet to the left of the wine rack. “Grab five glasses and we’ll see if it’s worth the money.”
The Marines’ grins were interrupted by a chime from the portal. Paul walked over and activated the monitor.
He chuckled. “This is rich!” He looked back at the fou
r men and grinned. “Try to act serious.”
He opened the portal to reveal the minor noble. His entourage waited behind him, encumbered with baggage. The man who’d bumped Paul was rushing down the corridor, too late to intercept his employer with the bad news about the accommodations.
Paul made a show of looking past the noble to see the baggage. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning his gaze back to the bemused noble. “There’s been a mistake.”
The man obviously couldn’t read Paul, who simply refused to give any definitive social signals as to his actual status.
As a class, Paul generally regarded aristocrats as a waste of Imperial resources, including oxygen. It was difficult to reconcile that attitude with his close association to the Nathaniel family, but he’d managed to rationalize that through his respect for their ideals.
“A mistake?” the noble repeated the statement as a question.
“Yes,” Paul confirmed, leaning to point at the small group behind the man. “Those aren’t our bags.”
For a minor noble, being mistaken for a wealthy equestrian would be bad enough, but being mistaken for a baggage steward was intolerable. His face purpled.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked Paul, his voice a dark warning.
Paul leaned in, squinting slightly. “Can’t say as I do,” he mused. He suddenly brightened. “Didn’t you work at the Continent Club?”
The noble was horrified. He sputtered indignantly and might have worked his way up to actual words if his employee hadn’t caught up with him, whispering in his ear.
Hearing he was now destined for a second-class cabin probably didn’t improve his day by much, but he at least managed to bring his response under control. He grabbed his servant’s arm and turned him back down the hall.
He followed, turning one last baleful glare at Paul before waving his entourage to follow.
Paul held out his hand, and the man’s glare slid immediately to the obsolete but highly fashionable timepiece on the extended wrist.
Rebels and Patriots (Imperium Cicernus Book 3) Page 3