by Gavin Smith
At the end of the trench was a needle-shaped craft roughly the size of a very large coffin. I’d seen them before. My shoulder-mounted laser pushed its way through the break-open panel of my coat and began to pan around behind me. I was more than a little nervous now. This was one of Their infiltration craft. An unpowered craft that was shot from a mass driver, designed to penetrate planetary defences and glide in. This one showed blast scoring, presumably from the orbital lasers, a result of the speculative fire. It looked like it had come in pretty hard but it was open and empty.
Suddenly I was aware of just how sensitive my boosted senses were and just how much noise there was out on that field. I mentally dialled the contact line that the Major had given me. I swung around behind me, bringing the laser up as I heard a sound, then again to my right at another rustle in the undergrowth. You’re rattled, I told myself. Calm down.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’ Major Rolleston was smiling as his representation appeared in a small corner of my internal visual display. The familiar surge of anger was muted by my current fear.
‘You have a problem,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a Needle here. It’s been damaged and come in hard but it’s empty.’
‘Assessment?’ Annoyingly, the Major was playing army. I swung around again at another sound.
‘You have a Ninja down here. Possibly injured, but their self-repair systems will have it up to full capacity in no time.’
‘A Ninja? Are you sure?’ Rolleston asked.
‘No, I’m not sure; maybe they’ve sent one of their caterers. What else would they send!’
‘Can you handle the situation?’ I was a little taken aback by this question. Could I handle it? What was he talking about?
‘Of course I can’t fucking handle it; it’s a Ninja. One of these things killed two of my squad, did God knows what to MacDonald and nearly took the rest of us out before we managed to get it, and that was with mil-spec gear.’
‘Calm down, Sergeant. Are there any signs of where it is?’
‘Can you actually hear me?’ I asked as I spun around again. ‘It’s a Ninja, would you like me to spell it? They don’t leave tracks. Oh!’ On the ground by the trench there were tracks. I put my paranoia aside for a moment and crouched down to examine them.
‘Sergeant?’
‘Shut up.’ Rolleston seemed to ignore the insubordination. The tracks showed hiking boots going up the hill, possibly from the four-by-four I had seen the tracks from earlier. They left the hill dragging something, something with two legs and two arms. I relayed what I had found to Rolleston.
‘It would seem that your Ninja was more badly damaged than you thought,’ Rolleston said.
‘They heal quickly.’
‘Well then, you had best find it quickly and destroy it, yes?’
‘What are we dealing with here?’ I asked, but the Major had gone.
I tried to figure this. Who had taken the Ninja and why? Had Rolleston already sent XIs up here? Collaborators? Was there a fifth column on Earth? That didn’t make sense.
There were xenophile individuals and cults on Earth and in the colonies. Many of them were just the young rejecting everything about the total war that gripped humanity. Most of these cults were pure fantasy and few of them were about Them; after all, all They wanted to do was kill and destroy every human they found.
Humanity had first come across Them in the Sirius system, though that was not where They came from. Initially called Sirians until the Syrians in the Islamic Protectorate had complained. Then they were called Doggies for a while, after the Dog Star, but that did not seem to do Them justice. It was still squaddie parlance for Them however. Nothing was known about Them. They had just come across humans in the Sirius system and started killing and never stopped. Their goal seemed to be to annihilate humanity and They had done so right across the four colonial systems. Collaboration with Them was species suicide so a fifth column made no sense.
3
Dundee
I followed the tracks to the road, sending out data requests as I walked back to the bike. I straddled the bike, sitting low between the two huge wheels, and pressed the ignition. The bike growled into life. I received an answer to one of my info requests. The checkpoint on the Coupar Angus road had processed a park ranger pickup truck about half an hour before I’d gone through it. The truck had been heading into Dundee.
It may have been nothing, a different four-by-four to the one whose tracks I’d found, but so far it was all I had to go on. Also the pickup, according to the vehicle’s profile, had the correct tyres to make the tracks that I’d found. I received the ranger’s address. It was inside the city limits, some mid-level habitation block. Private but with reasonable security, probably full of police, civil servants and retired officers, as well as park personnel too poor to live in the park.
The gate was opened for me as I approached the habitat. I had sent my clearance ahead of me. The habitation block was a series of four-storey identical flats with a walkway connecting them all, just off the Broughty Ferry Road. You could look down the hill to the skeletal metal city that was the Rigs. A darkened city illuminated only by flickering electric lights and the trash-can fires here and there. I nodded at the security guard with the assault rifle at the gate.
Parking was at a premium and probably something that the inhabitants liked to argue about. I considered parking behind the muddy park service pickup but decided against it. I looked over the vehicle; in the flatbed I found telltale traces of a black fluid. It was definite now: the park ranger had transported it. I was left wondering why some people were storing a dangerous alien killing machine in their apartment. I guess they couldn’t afford a dog. Who could?
Heading up the stairs, I decided that the Mastodon would have the best psychological impact on the ranger and ballistic impact on the Ninja. According to the park service personnel files I’d received, the ranger was one Morton Rayment. He lived in the apartment with his girlfriend Joy Sverdlof. Thermographics told me that there were two human-sized heat sources in there. It seemed unlikely that either of the heat sources was the Ninja. This did not mean that the Ninja wasn’t in the apartment, just that I couldn’t see it. Though both Rayment and Sverdlof still seemed to be alive, which was promising.
Moving quietly along the walkway I made it up to their apartment and palmed my very illegal lock burner. Boosting my hearing, I stopped to listen, amplifying the muffled voices through the paper-thin walls and filtering them until I could understand their conversation.
.. what if the authorities trace it to me?’ This was the male voice, local but well educated, presumably Rayment.
‘Bit late for that now, should’ve thought about that before you loaded it up.’ This was presumably Sverdlof, probably second generation but you could still hear traces of her eastern European accent. ‘Look at all this money, just think what we can do.’
‘How? It’s all black, we can’t declare it.’ Rayment said. His voice was becoming a panicky whine. I was wondering how this guy had had the balls to load a potentially dangerous alien life form into the back of his pickup. I wasn’t sure I’d have the balls. I’d have been more likely to turn it into a puddle. I slipped the lock burner into the apartment’s card slot.
‘There are lots of things you can do with black money - you can get stuff you can’t get with real money,’ The woman said. I slipped into their apartment. It was a tiny box. They were stood over their mock-pine table in the dining/living/kitchen area. On the table were piles of dirty paper cash. Rayment, still wearing his ranger’s uniform, was stood looking nervously at the piles. Next to him, greed lighting her eyes, was Sverdlof. Neither of them had heard me enter though they were standing opposite the door. This was good. This meant I wasn’t completely useless.
Rayment looked up as I said,’Isn’t that the truth?’ and lost control of his bladder as he found himself looking down the barrel of the huge revolver. His hand not going anywhere near the automatic holstered at his side.
‘This,’ I said, nodding at the revolver, ‘is more than capable of shooting through walls, and I can see through them, do you understand?’ The girl nodded, Rayment just shook a bit. I moved into their small bedroom and as soon as I was out of sight the girl began to move towards the PDW. I poked my head back out of the bedroom. The girl froze.
‘Do I have to shoot you? For fuck’s sake, darling, sit down,’ I told her. She just glared at me.
‘Do as he says!’ Rayment pleaded. Sverdlof gave him a look of contempt before sitting down. Clearly she was poorer than him and the money meant more to her. I searched every place that they could hide one of Them. It was not in the apartment. I had assumed as much when I’d seen the cash but I had to check.
I came out of their tiny bathroom, having ensured it wasn’t in there showering. I headed back into the living area just as the apartment’s rapid response unit turned up. In this case the rapid response unit was a fat guy called Larry with a pump-action shotgun.
‘I have already given you my clearance, now go away,’ I said. Larry looked me up and down, sizing up his chances and not really liking them.
‘I’m sorry sir,’ Larry wheezed, trying to recover his breath from the run to the apartment, ‘but we are contractually obligated to protect the inhabitants. I’m going to have to ask you—’ Then I was holding Larry’s shotgun.
‘You did the best you could, Larry, now fuck off,’ I said, beginning to lose patience. Larry turned and left with one final apologetic look at Rayment and Sverdlof. I turned to the pair of them.
‘Where is it?’ I asked, my eyes drifting to the large bundles of cash on the table.
‘Where’s what?’ Sverdlof replied. I sighed.
‘Look, I am going to find out what I want to know anyway. The only real question for you guys is how hurt or dead you get in the process.’
‘Maybe, but what if whoever took it from us is a bigger bastard than you?’ she asked.
‘Is he a more immediate problem?’ I said. ‘Look, you’ve got your money; you can do a bunk. Though chances are whoever has the thing is not going to be a problem for much longer.’
‘For fuck’s sake tell him,’ Rayment whimpered.
‘Why don’t you tell me, Morton?’ I asked.
‘What’s it worth?’ Sverdlof asked.
‘Why don’t I beat it out of your boyfriend?’ I said.
‘Ex-boyfriend.’
‘You’re leaving me!’ Rayment said and burst into tears.
‘Hard to see why,’ I said, looking at the park ranger with mild bemusement. Sverdlof nodded. She seemed to be weighing up her options, and like Larry she did not like the conclusions she was coming to.
‘We sold it to Cassidy MacFarlane,’ she finally said. This confused me.
‘The pimp? Why?’ Sverdlof shrugged. ‘What sort of state was it in?’ I demanded.
‘Pretty messed up, leaking, not moving much, not making any noise. Difficult to tell with those things. It didn’t seem very threatening.’
‘How long ago?’
Sverdlof shrugged again. ‘Maybe an hour.’
‘Know where he was taking it?’
‘No,’ she said. I was pretty sure she’d told me as much as she could. So I nipped back into their bedroom and came back with a small sports holdall and began filling it with their black money, the Mastodon still levelled at Sverdlof.
‘What are you doing?’ Sverdlof shouted.
‘Taking your money,’ I told her, feeling like a total bastard. I was secure in the knowledge that official business or not there was nothing they could really do. Reporting it meant incriminating themselves. Not that I really cared one way or another. Let the Major sort it out.
‘What am I going to use if I have to run from MacFarlane?’ Sverdlof demanded. I ignored the question. Finally with all the money packed I backed out of the tiny apartment, Sverdlof glaring after me.
‘Come after me and I will have to kill you, you know that,’ I told her. Sverdlof just continued to glare at me with undiluted hatred in her eyes.
I left the apartment, closing the door behind me. As the door clicked shut Sverdlof started screaming, berating Rayment for cowardice. Not that there was much he could have done, except maybe not wet himself or burst into tears. I smiled and then spun round bringing the revolver up.
Leaning against the wall a few feet away from me was Josephine. She looked as drab and nondescript as normal. Rumour was that she had had herself surgically altered to look as uninteresting as possible. She was difficult to describe because nothing stuck out about her appearance. Even her clothes were drab.
‘Losing your touch?’ she asked, not looking me in the eyes. She always avoided eye contact. I lowered the gun and then holstered it.
‘Oh, hi, Josey,’ I said sarcastically, trying to mask my fear. The Grey Lady had always unnerved me. She was right though. Josephine was good but she should not have snuck up on me that easily. She shook her head.
The Major wants you to do it,’ she said. I knew exactly what she meant.
‘And if I don’t?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said awkwardly, examining her nails. ‘He’ll just make making you miserable his hobby.’
‘He’s not doing that already?’ I asked.
‘Give me the money, Jakob,’ she said shyly. I sighed.
‘This is fucking petty even by his standards. You turn up to rob me?’ I asked. She shook her head.
‘Give me the money and go and kill them.’ She sounded quiet and meek. I dropped the bag of notes at her feet and tried to walk past her. She held a hand out. It just touched my chest but I stopped.
Til cover for you just once,’ she said and looked me in the eyes. My mouth went very dry and I swallowed involuntarily. She dropped her hand, letting me past. As I went down the steps the muzzle flashes from inside the apartment illuminated the car park briefly.
I rode through the superstructure of the Rigs. Moving just a little faster than was safe for the rickety wooden boards and metal sheets that passed for roads. I wanted to stop, return to the cube, start drinking and maybe listen to some music. Try not to think about the two poor fuckers I’d just got killed for doing what we all have to do to survive. I knew, however, that if I did that Rolleston would keep on hounding me.
Now I’d seen the Grey Lady I had a sense of urgency. I wanted this wrapped up and forgotten. I also needed the promised week in the sense booths, being fed by a drip, getting bedsores, my muscles atrophying and most importantly achieving a total loss of self, to forget about all this.
Although I’d never been a special forces operator who enjoyed his work particularly, I also had to admit that the feeling that came from my enhancements, the feeling of moving like lightning when everyone else was mired down, was something I never grew tired of. So I was going to kill some stupid people and take out one more of Them. Big deal, another tiny step in a conflict that seemed to consume everything.
They were the only other life that we’d ever encountered in space and we were at war with Them. This had to be a tiny drop in the ocean to the universe. Yet sometimes, when space was filled with bright beams burning across the night. When I was waiting in an assault shuttle for a drop, my life in someone else’s hands. When I was watching other shuttles tumbling towards planets to burn on entry. Sometimes it looked and felt like the entire universe was at war.
4
Dundee
The Forbidden Pleasure was neither all that forbidden nor pleasurable. It had once been a container ship. Most of the containers had been scavenged long ago to create what I liked to think of
as the upper-class neighbourhood on the Rigs. The remaining containers of the horribly corroded three-hundred-year-old craft had been sectioned off with cardboard walls and turned into a production-line-style knocking shop. This was the place where the inhabitants of the Rigs came to experience the meat.
The bridge had been stripped out long ago, non-supporting bulkheads cut through and the whole deck converted into some impoverished idea of what a lounge bar was supposed to be. It was a sick joke. A taunt to the people forced to live on the Rigs. I climbed up the metal stairs to the bridge deck. I dampened my enhanced hearing to drown out the grunts, sighs, the faked orgasms and the screams of pain. I was trying not to think about how working here or in one of the other flesh parlours in the Rigs was one of the few chances to make a living the young on the Rigs had. Though they were used up quickly.
I tried to slip into the bar on the bridge deck as inconspicuously as possible, but my long coat and the way you move with reflexes as wired as mine gave me away. I eased into one of the high chairs at the bar, aware of eyes burning into my back. The bridge bar was for the high-rollers, by the standards of the Rigs. The rest just took their turn at the turnstiles in the lottery-like system on the foredeck. The security was violent young men and women with cheap ware and assault rifles.
The boys and girls in the bar were the youngest and freshest, the least damaged. The badly chalked menu above the bar suggested that you could pretty much do to them what you wanted as long as you had the money. I couldn’t see Cassidy but there was a lot of his muscle in the bar. Young crazies with too much cheap ware, bad drugs and weapons they did not know how to use. Most of them would be draft dodgers. Too dangerous to recruit by the time their number came up or, rather, more trouble than they were worth. The rest were clients, mainly the entrepreneurial class of the Rigs. Dealers of whatever they could find to deal - drugs, booze, smokes, medicines, weapons, space and life.