by Dan Moren
At a touch from the old man, a holographic screen shimmered to life over the desk. He cleared his throat and read. “Brody, Elijah Hamish. Age 27. Born in Glenfin, Caledonia, to Connor and Molly Brody. One brother, Eamon Brody, and one sister, Meghann Brody. Graduate of the Imperial Naval Academy. Assigned to the Fifth Fleet as a Flight Lieutenant in the 42nd Fighter Wing, Green Squadron, aboard the ISC Venture. Missing in action, presumed dead.” He looked up, meeting Eli’s eyes. “Does that about sum it up?”
The collected works of Eli Brody—a paragraph. “More or less,” he said. “You left out the part about my dashing good looks.”
“I’ll make an addendum,” said the old man dryly, dismissing the screen.
“So,” said Eli, looking back and forth from the old man’s inscrutable face to Fielding’s impassive one. “For sale: one washed-up fighter pilot. Who’s buying?”
Neither man cracked so much as a smile.
After a moment, the old man leaned back and steepled his fingers. “I think you can be of great help to us, Mr. Brody. In fact, there’s a task at hand for which you are, I might say, uniquely suited.”
Eli’s eyebrows arched upward. He couldn’t imagine anything he was “uniquely suited” for these days. Unless you want some toilets polished to a shine.
The old man nodded to Fielding, who was leaning against the wall. He pushed himself upright at the gesture and cleared his throat. “The Illyrican Empire is in the process of creating a new weapon, one that we believe has the potential to drastically change the balance of power in the galaxy. And they’re building it on your homeworld of Caledonia.”
Eli blinked. “You’re kidding, right?” He glanced over to the old man, but there was not a batted eyelash between them. “He’s kidding, right? Am I on some sort of hidden camera?”
“We’re not in the habit of pulling people’s legs, Mr. Brody.”
“I should hope not,” Eli said, “because if you were, you’d have come up with a story that doesn’t sound like you lifted it from a third-rate action vid.”
“You’ve been out of it for a while,” Fielding said, “so you may not be aware of the changes to the galacti-political scene. With the destruction of the Fifth Fleet, the Illyricans lost their invasion capability, so they regrouped and fortified around the planets they already occupy: Earth and its colonies, including Centauri and Caledonia.”
Eli’s stomach burbled again, and this time it wasn’t just from the memory of the shuttle trip.
“The war’s gone cold,” said Fielding. “The Commonwealth and the Imperium are staring each other down from across the galaxy, and that’s fine—for now. But this weapon, whatever it is, could give the Illyricans a leg up. Sure, the Sabaean invasion didn’t go well, but there’s no guarantee they won’t try again, somewhere else. It’s just a matter of time.”
“If the Illyricans get this project working then any chance of détente will evaporate,” the old man added, his expression hardening. “I can say that with some assurance.”
“Spare me the propaganda,” said Eli, throwing up his hands. “I get it. You don’t want the Illyricans to have a new toy that you can’t fight.” He leaned forward. “Just cut the crap and tell me why I’m here.”
Fielding hesitated, glancing at the old man, who nodded. “We had an asset on Caledonia feeding us information about the Illyricans’ project, but we’ve lost contact.” Fielding grimaced. “We think that he may have been compromised.”
“Okay,” said Eli, “so all this guy told you is that the Illyricans are building some big scary gun on my homeworld. Sounds bad. But I’m still not sure what this has to do with me.”
The old man blinked owlishly. “I should think it’d be obvious, Mr. Brody. As a Caledonian native and a former Illyrican officer, you have the advantage of being intimately familiar with several facets of this situation. We’d like to put you on the ground to help us gather further intelligence about the project.”
Eli had once heard that on Earth there were snakes that could unhinge their jaws and swallow an entire egg whole, and for the first time he thought he understood how they felt. He snapped his teeth together with an almost painful click, just avoiding biting his tongue.
“Me? I’m not a spy. I don’t know the first thing about sneaking around and stabbing people in the back—whatever it is you guys do. I’m a janitor; I just clean up other people’s messes.”
The old man smiled. “You might say we’re in the same business.”
“Jesus, do you guys buy crazy in bulk around here?”
Fielding snorted. “No, but we do get a hell of a discount.”
“Counterintuitive as it may sound,” the old man said, shooting a mildly disapproving glance at his subordinate, “your lack of expertise actually makes you ideal for this assignment. And Mr. Fielding and his team will be with you every step of the way. Besides, you’ll be going home.”
“Some people would kill for that chance,” Fielding said quietly.
Home, thought Eli glumly. They say there’s no place like it. “Yeah, well, check your records. I left Caledonia first chance I got, and if you ask me, five years cut off from the rest of the galaxy wasn’t nearly long enough.”
Cocking his head to one side, the old man eyed him like he might a bug under a magnifying glass. “Oh, your reticence is well … documented.” A gnarled finger tapped a button on the desk and once again the holographic screen flickered into view, this time facing Eli.
A face appeared on it, all too familiar with its red curls and green eyes and, as the message began to play, a cold hand clutched at Eli’s heart. Not only did he know the face, but he knew the words by heart—he’d played it over and over … but that had been in a different life.
“Hey, big brother. It’s me.” Even now, reaching out over the gulf of five years, the tone of her voice still wrenched at Eli. Meghann sounded weary, defeated; the dark circles under her eyes, apparent even in the grainy compression of the video message, did nothing to diminish his concern. “Eamon doesn’t know I’m using the transmitter, but I needed to talk to you. I need to talk to you. I know you’re busy with everything, but I really …” she drew a deep breath.
“I think you should come home. Please, come home.” She froze in place as the recording ended.
“That was dated a week before you shipped out for Sabaea, but there’s no record of a reply.” The old man’s eyes were ice. “It takes a lot of something—anger, hate, fear—to not respond to a plea like that.”
Eli stared into the empty space where the screen had been. Meghann. Just her name was enough to send his brain into a tailspin. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I do know that you’re a goddamned bastard. What gives you the right to go through my personal correspondence? My life?”
“Needs must, Mr. Brody. This is bigger than her or you.”
“So, what?” said Eli, bitterness creeping into his voice. “I’m supposed to fold into a crying heap and do whatever you tell me to? Because of a five-year-old message?”
A smirk that Eli would have dearly loved to wipe off the old man’s face twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Apparently not,” he said. “But I thought you might appreciate the chance to … make amends, let us say, for the sins of your past.” He leaned forward, fixing that cold-fish stare on Eli. “Your sister is still on Caledonia. You didn’t go home five years ago when she asked, but help us now and you can make good on that. The Commonwealth will ensure that you’re able to provide for her—if you help us.”
Eli didn’t say anything for a moment, considering the entire situation, viewing it from every possible angle. But each new turn yielded another dead end.
“You should have just left me there,” he muttered finally. “I was fine until you guys came along and started digging up ancient history.” He’d buried all those memories and feelings deep—deeper than Davidson Base underneath that frozen tundra. “Just send me back down.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he
knew he didn’t believe them.
The two men exchanged a glance. “That’s not possible,” said Fielding, shaking his head. “Now that Sabaea’s gate is open again, the Illyricans are bound to start nosing around sooner or later. And if they found out that you were still alive? Well, for one thing that deal you made with the Sabaean government isn’t going to look very good, is it?”
The aching feeling had only expanded, and he worried that if it got any larger it would turn inside out and consume him whole. The deal with the Sabaeans was going to look even worse when the entire truth came out.
“Not to mention,” the old man added, “the information that we’ve disclosed so far is all highly classified, which I’m afraid makes you a security risk. If you’re not going to work with us, then I will have no choice but to put you in protective custody.”
Eli snorted. “We’ve had the carrot, now have the stick?”
The old man gave a beatific smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a saint’s portrait. “Not at all, Mr. Brody. I’m very confident that the situation won’t come to that.”
I bet you are. “Okay, let’s say for argument’s sake that I take your lunatic offer. What makes you so sure I won’t run the first time I hit the ground?”
The old man exchanged a glance with Fielding. “Where, precisely, would you go?”
Eli stared bleakly at the desk in front of him. If he ran, he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Which, caught between two superpowers who were both gunning for him, probably wouldn’t be very long.
And there was the matter of Meghann. Whatever else the old man was selling, he was right about her: Eli had screwed up big time. Not responding the first time had made him a bad brother, but turning down a chance to make things right might make him irredeemable as a person.
“Fine,” he said, letting out a breath. “You win.”
“Perhaps not the most ringing endorsement I’ve ever heard,” said the old man. “But it’ll have to do.” He glanced at Fielding. “Inform the bridge that we’ll be departing immediately.” The soldier nodded and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“So I guess we’re in a hurry.”
“Our information is somewhat limited,” the old man said, and if his tone wasn’t exactly apologetic, there was something of regret in it. “All we’ve been able to dredge up is that something is happening three days from now. We assume that’s when the project will be operational, but I’m afraid we don’t even know that for sure.”
“Jesus,” said Eli, rolling his eyes. “And I’m the best plan you could come up with? What kind of fly-by-night operation are you guys running here?”
“Bureaucracy.” The man raised his hands helplessly. “What can you do?”
“Seriously, though, you’ve got Mr. Scarypants out there, and probably a dozen more like him. Why not just air drop in a platoon?”
The old man laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve quite overestimated the resources at my disposal, Mr. Brody. That being said, I was prepared to deploy Captain Fielding and his team had Sabaea not taken this rather opportune moment to emerge from its isolation.” He shook his head. “But they don’t know the ground on Caledonia—not like you do. You’re still our best chance.” It was delivered smoothly enough, but Eli had enough experience to tell when something was being kept from him. Then again, in this guy’s line of work, he probably had enough secrets to fill a fighter hangar.
“This thing the Illyricans are working on has you spooked, huh?” Eli said finally. “What the hell does it do?”
The old man leaned forward. “Honestly?” An almost wistful smile played on his lips as he shook his head. “We have no idea. But if you’d seen the things the Imperium has in development in its weapons division …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Any one of them would be bad for the innocent people of this galaxy—many of them would be devastating.” His eyes hardened. “You saw the Sabaean invasion firsthand, Mr. Brody. We can’t let that happen again. I know the Illyricans: they’ll steamroll right over the Commonwealth and the last of the independent systems. Emperor Alaric’s current advisors are not known for moderation. If they believe they have an advantage, whatever equilibrium we’ve established in the last five years will simply vanish, and the galaxy will once again be thrust into open war.
“But not if I have anything to say about it.”
The waves of intensity emanated so strongly from the old man that Eli found himself unconsciously leaning backwards, away from him, ready to curl up like a pill bug. He swallowed, his throat dry, and was only saved from formulating a response when Fielding slipped back through the door.
“We’re underway, sir. Time to the wormhole gate is about an hour.” Beneath them, Eli could feel the telltale rumble of the ship’s engines spinning up, as though catching a snippet of conversation in a language he thought he’d long since forgotten.
“Thank you, captain.”
“You give him his marching orders yet?” Fielding jutted his chin at Eli.
“I was about to,” said the old man, turning his attention on Eli. “Your assignment is this: We’d like you to try and make contact with our missing asset and obtain any further information he might have. That’s it.” The old man spread his hands. “See? Simple.”
Simple as a spacewalk: just close your eyes and put one foot in front of the other. He’d never quite gotten that expression until now. Sure, it was simple—but it got you exactly nowhere.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start. I may be from Caledonia, but don’t think they’re going to welcome me back with open arms after I ran off to join the ‘Illyrican oppressors.’ If your asset’s a local, he probably won’t even give me the time of day.” Or throw a glass of water on me if I’m on fire.
“Oh, I think he’ll talk to you,” said the old man. He touched a control on his desk and once more, a holographic screen appeared between them. And, once again, the face it showed was as familiar to Eli as his own; it even looked similar, except with a pair of striking green eyes and bright red hair.
“Close your mouth,” advised Fielding, “or flies’ll get in.”
Eli’s head whipped up, eyes locking with the old man’s blue gaze. “Is this a goddamn joke?”
“It’s not a joke, Mr. Brody. Our missing asset is your brother, Eamon.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The sizzle of meat frying on a grill mingled with the hubbub of the crowd as Kovalic stepped into Parliament Square Market. Clustered around the low-slung concrete building at the center of the plaza, itself at the heart of Caledonia’s capital of Raleigh City, were a patchwork quilt of stalls: farmers boasting of the freshness of their produce, artisans hawking their handcrafted goods, and every manner of food that could be baked, aged, or even served raw was on order. Kovalic’s stomach would have rumbled if it weren’t still unsettled from the time adjustment.
There’d been places like this on Earth when he was growing up. His dad, a baker, would set up a stall every weekend at the farmer’s market, on occasion enlisting his son’s help. During breaks the two would wander around the market, where his father would show him how to pick the ripest tomatoes and freshest cheese. But this was like looking in a pitted, slightly warped mirror: the cadence of speech, the smells, the colors were all just slightly off. A pang of nostalgia nicked him, a knife finding a chink in his armor.
He shook it off. Now wasn’t the time. He was on the job, and professionals didn’t have heartstrings to pluck.
Capitalizing on the milling crowds, brightly dressed street performers roved the square, juggling or doing magic tricks in exchange for a few marks, and the strains of at least four totally different—and largely incompatible—music styles assailed Kovalic’s ears from each corner of the square.
In short, the market was the perfect place for a covert meeting: Little chance of eavesdropping, plenty of people in which to lose yourself and, of course, great shopping opportunities.
Kov
alic was fingering a bolt of homespun cloth when the other man strolled over. Though he stood four inches shorter than Kovalic’s own modest height, Tapper was built like a traffic bollard—you wouldn’t want to drive into either of them. They made folks tough as riveted armor plating where he came from.
Despite the two decades he had on Kovalic, nobody would mistake the clean-cut gray-haired Tapper for an officer. Something about the way he carried himself: quick, efficient, with an air of potential brutality. Long after he’d someday retired—the very idea of which Kovalic had trouble wrapping his head around—people would still be addressing him as “sergeant.”
“How was your trip?” asked Kovalic, letting the cloth slip through his fingers. The fabric was rough, but there was still something luxurious about the idea of handmade cloth in a day when everything that he wore was a machine-produced synthetic. Offering a smile to the vendor, he fell into step with the sergeant.
“Not bad,” said Tapper, yawning, “although the in-flight entertainment was on the fritz. And you know what I noticed? Nobody likes to talk to strangers anymore. Disappointing, I say.”
“I know how much you enjoy the art of conversation. No problem with immigration, then?” He let the din of the crowd wash over them.
“None at all.”
“And our friend?” As much as Kovalic would have preferred to keep close tabs on Eli Brody, it had seemed safer to send his team on a separate shuttle flight. Brody’s entry needed to be as bulletproof and aboveboard as possible—any red flags and the customs and immigration officers might just decide to run his biometrics against the Imperium’s databases. Good as Brody’s forged papers were, there was no easy way to change one’s fingerprints or retina pattern. If the supposedly dead Elijah Brody turned up alive on Caledonia, you could bet the Imperium would have a lot of questions for him.
“He arrives in about half an hour, on the 15:40 from Jericho Station,” said Tapper. Caledonia’s day was close enough to the same length as Earth’s that they’d stuck to the standard 24-hour clock, which was one less adjustment for Kovalic and his team to make. “Three has the eyeball.”