by Thomas Webb
“How is our HVT?” Lima asked.
Hale slipped the hood from the target’s head. “Looks like he’s good to go.” A shining, blank android face stared back at him.
“I’ve enjoyed myself immensely!” Lash rumbled. “I especially thought this last training evolution went well,” he added.
“They have all gone well,” Kris said.
“That almost sounded like humor,” Zombie quipped.
Kris gave a slight bow of her head. “I am simply stating the obvious.”
“No need to waste time while Shane’s off getting intel,” Hale said. “We need to be ready for what’s coming. These exercises are just what we need to stay sharp.”
Lima nodded his approval. “Agreed. And worth every credit spent. Let us hope the real operation goes as smoothly as these exercises have.”
“Yeah,” Hale said. “Let’s hope.”
Soon enough, they’d be taking down a ULS exec for real. Soon enough this wouldn’t be a training op. There wouldn’t be any android drones. They’d be going up against real Separatists and real security forces. Well-equipped and well-trained ones.
Hale glanced back at the impromptu kill house. He and his team would be ready for whatever enemy stepped in front of them. It made no difference who it was. They would be up for it. He would make certain of it.
-4-
Jordan Ramsey chomped at the bit for revenge.
He leaned back in the jump seat, letting the whine of the hydrogen turbines wash over him.
He’d been here, in this place, before. Not in this exact craft of course, but many like it. A thousand jump seats in a thousand transports, but he couldn’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this hungry—to end something.
For his entire adult life, all he’d ever known was war. The Separatists Wars were made up of many different conflicts, but at the same time somehow seemed to exist as a single entity. Sometimes they felt like a living, breathing being to him. Like a beast he’d carried with him for so very long.
Ramsey came from tough beginnings. His childhood had been cut short by tragedy. That was followed by a string of foster homes, then capped off with ending his adolescence in an orphanage. Although the men who ran the orphanage were kind and did their best, growing up there was no walk in the park. At best, it had been a brief respite from the pain of his life to that point. Then the Separatist Wars started.
The OC military had seemed a logical choice for someone so young and so angry. It was a natural fit for one who’d lost so much, and who could place the source of all that loss squarely at the feet of the United Nations. To his surprise, Ramsey found the military culture fit him. The fighting and killing quieted the rage. Gave him focus. His superiors had seen something special in the young man. Selection for the Outer Colonies special forces quickly followed.
During selection he’d exceled at every test, endured every torture, resisted every attempt to weed out those less fit to join the ranks of the elite. Of course he’d made it through—the thought of not doing so had never even crossed his mind. Then, when the OC council later lost its teeth, he’d left the military. That was when the guerilla war—his real war—began.
Once Ramsey found the militant wing of the Separatist movement everything seemed to fall into place. It was nonstop operations against the UN, more often than not ending in some measure of victory. Of course, as with any oppressor, the United Nations had quickly labeled the more aggressive factions of the movement as extremists. Terrorists.
Ramsey laughed at that. One man’s terrorist was another man’s freedom fighter. It was all semantics, really. Bullshit the lot of it. What truly mattered was that the UN was trampling his people, and that the puppet OC council’s ‘leadership’ was letting it happen. It was his mission and his duty to fight back. He owed it to the memory of his parents, and to all the others like them. So he had honored them through the work he’d done. There was only one issue. Somewhere in the process, in his zeal to do the right thing, he’d gotten in bed with some ruthless people.
Not ruthless in the way he considered himself ruthless, meaning he was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish the goals of the cause. No, these people were not bad in the traditional sense. They were corporate bad. Bad as it pertained to greed, and power, and credits. He’d had a hard time seeing it before. Or maybe not wanting to see it was more accurate? But ULS was antithesis to everything he believed.
He’d come to see that ULS needed his movement to perpetuate the Separatists Wars, and thus perpetuate their profit. As much as he detested being used, and detested even more the patriot blood being shed in the process, he understood that belief alone wouldn’t pay for pulse rifles, or ships, or troops. The movement needed the credits and weapons and support ULS provided. Without those resources, they would have been ground down by the UN years ago.
Lately he’d found himself wondering if they did win, could they truly consider themselves the victors if the people on their side were no better than the UN itself?
Polls of the UN-controlled worlds showed that support for the Wars had waned in recent years, and he had to think he and his people had something to do with that. Things had been going well, right up until a couple of years ago. Until Lima and his damned PMC company went and stuck its nose in.
They’d screwed Ramsey and the more loyal Separatist’s plans at every turn. They’d taken back Anesu Chewasa, the Kingdom’s operative whose secret data led to the discovery of ULS’s involvement in the Wars. They’d stopped the bombing on Cetov 9 that would have put an end to the United Nations and Outer Colonies Council peace talks. Worst of all, they were responsible for taking the lives of some very good comrades.
Shake it off, Ramsey, he scolded himself.
He’d wrestle with the moral issues of who he’d partnered with later, when he had the dual luxuries of time and remorse. He needed ULS a little bit longer. His conscience would have to wait.
Just then someone walked over, their arrival breaking into Ramsey’s thoughts. “We’re about set here, Ramsey,” Tarloc the Kedreod said.
Ramsey nodded. “Good. What’s the latest on the surveillance?”
“They’re tracking the targets,” the four-armed native of planet Necrogor replied. Tarloc crossed both sets of muscular green arms across his chest. “The plan is not to engage until they’re all together. We’re just outside the Urias system now. So if they follow their normal patterns, we should be right on schedule.”
Ramsey nodded. “Good.”
Tarloc’s hooded neck flexed, an odd kedreod physical reaction signaling an upcoming question. “Any last orders before we go?” he asked.
“Nope,” Ramsey said. “Have everyone get focused. We’re on deck in a few hours. I’ll be back there in a few to inspect.”
Tarloc bowed his head slightly. “Roger that.”
The sounds of Tarloc’s booted three-clawed feet faded as he walked toward the rear of the transport. Tarloc was a good ally. He’d survived alongside Ramsey in some hairy situations in the Wars. When he’d heard the soldier from Necrogor had left the formal employ of the Outer Colonies, Ramsey had jumped at the chance to bring him into the fold. His history with Tarloc made him someone Ramsey could trust. These days, trust was a commodity more valuable than a million credits.
Being en route to the target gave Ramsey plenty of opportunity to think. To reflect. This was the final stage, the penultimate act in an operation he’d been planning for months. Not that he’d agreed with that amount of planning. They should have moved weeks ago. He’d been ready, and he alone had seemed to understand that time was of the essence. As they prepared for ASI, ASI had to have been preparing for them, too. What he had so sorely underestimated at the onset was the amount of red tape that came with corporate funding.
He’d been held up for months waiting for requisitions and logistics. Someone had even asked him to fill out expense reports. How the hell did a covert assassination op rate an expense report? Dealing with all the corpo
rate bullshit amounted to way too much time before Marty Steen blessed the operation with a ‘go.’
Marty Steen. A grade-A POS, no matter how you sliced it. And worse, he just didn’t seem to get it. Ramsey looked down at the far end of the cargo bay, taking in the new faces sitting in the jump seats. It had been Steen’s idea to supplement Ramsey’s hand-picked troops with these Ares corporation assholes.
“They have mercs,” Steen had said about his choice to acquire Ares. He was referring to ASI being in the employ of the United Nations. “We need our own.”
Yeah. That was it. Just add more shit to an already over-full shit sandwich. That always worked.
Ramsey shot an eye toward some of the gear secured in the back.
At least Ares corp came to the party with some decent toys.
As if going into battel with untested allies wasn’t bad enough, the clock was now their enemy as well. No matter how hard he’d tried to tell Steen that time was of the essence, he was ignored. He checked his chrono out of habit. Hopefully their window of opportunity hadn’t closed.
His people reported that Romero was completely healed. Another issue there—ASI would be at full strength instead of down a team member. Worse yet, they would be pissed. ASI would be hunting Ramsey and his people down like dogs after they almost killed one of their own. It’s what he would do.
No, Ramsey corrected himself. It was what he was doing.
He hoped again that they weren’t moving too slow on this. They’d kicked a hornet’s nest, and the now only way to beat those hornets would be through speed, surprise, and violence of action.
Ramsey unstrapped and stood, walking along the bay of the craft toward the rear. Including himself and Tarloc, they numbered over twenty shooters today. Almost platoon strength, not even including the special support items Ares was providing. Over twenty elite Separatist troops, Ares corporation contractors, and their support.
Ramsey went to the weapons rack and began checking the rifles. You could never be too sure. He felt more than saw Tarloc approach. Ramsey checked the pulse charge on a rifle before mag-locking it back to the rack.
”We all good?” Ramsey asked.
“Five by five,” his Kedreod friend replied.
Ramsey inclined his head toward the Ares troops. “How are our new pals?”
Tarloc shot them a look of contempt and shrugged as much as his physiology would allow. “You know how it is.”
“What’s your take, though? I want an honest assessment from someone I can trust.”
“You trained with them same as I did,” Tarloc said. His twin tails swished behind him. “And it’s a little late to be asking for opinions now, isn’t it?”
He was right. But he wanted one anyway. An honest one. “Humor me,” Ramsey said.
Tarloc frowned. “They seem adequate. I don’t think they’ll get us all killed, if that’s what you mean. But they don’t have the same passion for the cause that we do. They aren’t fighting for the liberation of the Outer Colonies. I think if someone were to outbid us or outgun us, they’d run.”
Ramsey half-grinned. “My thoughts exactly. Lucky for us, ULS has some of the deepest pockets in the known worlds.” He grabbed another pulse rifle, opened the charging port, checked it for cleanliness and function, racked it shut and placed it back in its holder. “So I guess we’ll be going with what we have, then.”
“I read the ASI files,” Tarloc said. “They’re the real deal. If I was them? I’d be gunning for us just as hard as we are for them.”
He’d read Ramsey’s mind. Again. Kedreods weren’t telepathic, last he’d checked?
“Yeah,” Ramsey agreed. “We moved as fast as we could on this.”
Tarloc looked dubious. “Did we?”
“We did,” Ramsey said, emphasizing the first ‘we.’ “Not our fault ULS corporate garbage held us up. Or that they wanted to have their hired goons tag along. Another reason you should never mix business with pleasure.”
“Yeah,” Tarloc laughed. “No kidding. I just hope we moved fast enough on this.”
“Me too,” Ramsey said.
From early intelligence reports, it looked like they had. For the time being, it appeared as though they’d beat Lima, Hale, and the rest to the proverbial punch. Ramsey glanced at his chrono again. “Plan’s set. Nothing we can do now but wait to work the problem.”
Tarloc placed a hand on Ramsey’s shoulder. “You should rack out. Get some rest before we touch down.” He gave Ramsey a once over. “You look like grabnach.”
Ramsey chuckled. “Speak for yourself.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. He glanced toward a set of hammocks hanging from the bulkhead. “But if you aren’t going to rack out then I sure the hell am.”
Ramsey watched Tarloc head toward the rear of the cargo bay before turning his attention back to the weapons rack. He checked the rifles one last time before returning to his jump seat.
Ramsey fell back into the seat, looking up and resting the back of his skull against the bulkhead. He closed his eyes.
Only a few hours now.
There was nothing to do now but sit on the transport and wait.
-5-
The trees were turning. Shades of red, yellow, and orange, riotous and brilliant, surrounded her. Of all the things Shane missed about Kentucky, not seeing this anymore was right at the top of the list. She leaned back against the small luxury transport, surveying the clearing where they’d chosen to meet. Monty said he had something for her, and she had something she needed from him.
The whine of turbine engines above her head drew her eyes skyward. A T279 training craft, no missiles loaded on its ejector racks, pivoted above her and positioned itself to land. She’d expected Monty to arrive by land vehicle, then hike the kilometer or so in. But he was an Air & Space Command intelligence analyst. He wasn’t checked out on the sleek, suborbital fighter. Hell—Monty wasn’t even a pilot. The fighter’s cockpit shielding was set to blackout mode, so she couldn’t see who was driving.
“Dammit Monty,” Shane grumbled to herself. She frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “I told you this was supposed to be a private meet.”
The training fighter descended toward forest floor, finally coming to rest a meter off the deck where it floated on anti-grav. Shane felt heat rise to her face. When the hatch popped and Monty jumped out with a shit-eating grin, her temperature shot from hot to supernova. What the hell was he thinking, bringing someone else to this meet?
He carried a portable field expedient intelligence device under one arm. At least he was prepared. That took a little of the bite from her anger. But then when the mystery pilot exited, Shane’s anger fell away like the leaves on the trees surrounding them. She smiled.
Lieutenant Rachel Weiss, Shane’s last copilot and WSO, or Weapons Safety Officer, emerged from the cockpit. Her callsign was Pyro, the name earned after an unfortunate incident in the barracks during her initial flight training. Pyro’s eyes twinkled as she hopped out. Monty preceded her and hit the ground first, heading right over and wrapping Shane in a lanky hug.
“Figured you’d be pissed at me when you saw I didn’t come alone,” he laughed.
“You figured right,” Shane said. “I’ll give you a pass on this one, though.” She punched his arm. “But you already knew that.” She turned to Pyro, who’d leapt to the ground and joined them in the clearing. Shane brought her in for a hug as well.
“Good to see you, Pyro.”
“How are you ma’am?” Pyro asked.
Shane shrugged. “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’ anymore. I’m a civilian now. You can just call me Shane.”
“Not sure I feel comfortable with that.” Pyro looked her up and down. “How about Valkyrie? I think that’s more who you really are.”
She was right. Shane smiled, her emerald eyes twinkling. “Yeh. Valkyrie works, too.” Shane studied the collar of Pyro’s flight suit. Where there had once been a single silver bar, a twin now rested a
t its side. “Congrats, Captain,” Shane said.
Pyro beamed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Ma’am again. Shane understood. She didn’t see any reason to correct her.
“When Monty told me he needed a lift somewhere I got curious,” Pyro said. “When he admitted he was going to meet you, I couldn’t resist. Sorry we sprung it on you like that. And sorry I missed you last time you were in town.”
Shane shook her head. “No need to be sorry.” She thought back to the last year and all that had happened. “I don’t think you missed much last time I was out. How is that squadron CO of yours, by the way?”
Pyro’s face scrunched up as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “Still an asshole, unfortunately.”
Shane laughed. “Sounds about right.”
“Could be worse,” Monty said. “The devil you know, and all.”
“The devil you know,” Shane agreed.
As much as she was enjoying the reunion with Monty and her old copilot, there was still the business at hand. Again, Shane found herself in the unenviable position of putting her friend’s careers, if not their lives, at risk. What she needed could really get Monty into serious trouble. Shane thought it was worth the risk. But would Monty feel the same way?
“The view of the leaves is lovely,” Monty said, “but I know that isn’t why you called me out here. So what can I do for ASI this time?” He softened the jab with a smirk.
Shane pulled out a holo drive “I’ve got something for you,” she said, tossing it to him. “You might not like it.”
Monty frowned before inserting the drive into his field unit. Pyro leaned over to look at his screen. Shane’s brow went up. Was it just her, or did Pyro seem really comfortable in Monty’s personal space?
Shane shrugged it off. Probably my imagination.
Monty scrutinized the images—files, photos, bank statements. He whistled when he got to the schematics of the space station. “Christ in the stars, Shane. You don’t half-ass anything, do you? If you’re into some shit, you’re all the way in.”