by Jamie Sawyer
The ganger’s face exploded in gore and teeth and spittle.
He managed to fire the needle-pistol. The weapon produced a sound like paper tearing, barely audible above the background music. It spat flechette-like projectiles into the table, into the space where Novak had just been standing.
Novak brought his fist down on the ganger’s gun-arm. The pistol dropped to the floor.
The other two men were armed with similar pistols. They drew them faster than I would’ve expected, but not fast enough.
Even without combat-suits, our senses were sharper than those of any two-bit gang heavy. Feng and Lopez had their Widowmaker pistols on the two survivors. The response was swift. Like a vid-feed on pause, the gangers froze.
But Novak was on a roll. He flicked open the catch of the sheath on his chest, and with a swish pulled a mono-knife. The blade hummed softly, emitting a pale blue light. He snarled, looming over the first ganger he’d taken down.
Before I could interject—because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Novak skin these sorry sons of bitches—a clap sounded from beside the bar.
“There is no need for violence,” said a rasping voice. “This is not the place for it. This is a safe house.”
The kid with the broken face crept away from Novak. He looked a lot younger with his teeth smashed in.
“Who the fuck are you?” Novak asked. He was amped, body tense.
“I am Antonis Vitali,” he said. “And I believe that you wish to speak with me.”
The barkeep—her face still caught in that scowl—hadn’t moved the whole time we’d been fighting.
“Go through,” she said.
Antonis Vitali was a small, wizened figure, made shorter by the hunch of his shoulders. He wore a black silk kimono, pulled tight at the waist by a cord, and pair of slippers. His features were taut, head smattered with fine grey hair, but skin surprisingly unblemished, eyes a deep green that matched the gems on the oversized rings that he wore on his fingers.
“There was no need for that,” Vitali repeated.
“They start it,” Novak muttered under his breath.
“They are young, eager,” Vitali said. “They do not know what they are doing. Come.”
We followed Vitali into a chamber at the rear of the bar. The place wasn’t exactly ostentatious, but it did speak of the same wealth as the rest of the establishment. A glass desk dominated the room, from which were projected various newscasts, Krell invasion predictions, even Navy and Army troop movements. The shelves around the chamber were stacked with an assorted collection of weaponry, of cryo-caskets containing Krell appendages. The stink of illicit narcotics was never stronger than here.
Where Vitali went, a bodyguard of two female gangers followed. These were mostly machines and had dermal implants visible beneath every inch of exposed remaining skin. They watched us with the same silvered eyes as the gangers in the bar, but I got the distinct impression that these two—if it came to it—would be far more dangerous opponents. This was Vitali’s inner sanctum and he would know how to protect it. The man himself might be old and weak, but he was a cat with claws.
“This is safe house, you understand?” Vitali waved his hands in the air, and the rings on his fingers reflected the low light. “Fighting should not occur here.”
He slouched into a leather chair behind the desk. Peered at me through the glaze of a tri-D broadcast, narrowing his eyes in a way that reminded me of Novak.
“Now, who are you, and what do you want?” Vitali scowled. “I cannot help someone who I do not know.”
“My name is Keira Jenkins,” I said. Vitali might well sell us out to the authorities, if the price was right, but there was no time for a cover story anymore. “And we’re looking for someone.”
Vitali’s old face creased in an impression of a smile. “You are American; that much is obvious. What, I ask myself, would an American want with Antonis Vitali, on a world about to be invaded by the Krell?”
One of the tri-D feeds Vitali had been monitoring featured classified Naval intelligence, showed movement around the Gate. Whoever this guy really was, he had influence: this sort of material was not for public consumption. Vitali saw where I was looking, and his smile became more pronounced.
“You are military, Keira Jenkins?”
“Perhaps.”
“I think so. You do not get to my position, as king of the Kurgan, without being able to read people. They say this is my skill.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “That is what Antonis Vitali does best. He listens, he remembers, he reads people.” He indicated an empty seat in front of his desk. “Please. Sit, Keira Jenkins.”
I did as offered. Vitali nodded at one of his guards, who stiffly—woodenly—trotted to a drinks cabinet behind him. The woman poured two shots of clear liquid and placed them carefully on the table.
“These women are my guardians,” Vitali said. “They are automatons. Skin-apparitions.”
“Strzyga,” Novak suggested.
Vitali appeared amused by Novak’s response. I noticed that the bodyguard’s hair was plaited, sweeping over a muscled shoulder, but there was a luminous green stripe on her scalp. Payment: bodies from the cosmodrome. Lopez noticed it too, and I looked at her sharply, willing her not to react.
“That is an old word,” Vitali said, “and I have not heard it in a very long time. Your man over there—the one with eager fists—he is Russian, yes? But he is not marked. Why is this?”
Novak grunted. “I am not who you think I am.”
“Oh, I do not think you are anybody,” Vitali muttered. “I think you are no body.”
One of the feeds on the table began to dance with security footage of the cosmodrome. It showed the Varyag coming into port, and the Jackals, Vostok and Bukov walking through the compound. Feng hissed behind me.
“Not much happens in Svoboda without my knowing,” Vitali said. “You are new arrivals to Kronstadt. I see before me a Russian ganger, without ink. A man of the Chino, accompanying an American.” His gaze settled on Lopez. “And a girl who—despite her best efforts—looks too similar to Senator Lopez for it to be a coincidence.”
“You’ve got this all wrong,” I said. My hand was already on the butt of my pistol.
But Vitali gave an uncaring shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps. Please, drink. You owe me that much. It is a long way to come if you really are nobodies.”
I sank the drink in one go. It was vodka, very strong, nearly caustic-tasting. I wondered whether it was perhaps made from the same fluid as the acid rain that fell outside. I almost choked on the taste, and heard Novak chuckle. That the vodka had any effect at all on the sim was impressive.
Vitali drank too, then looked at me evenly. “And that seals it,” he said. “You are simulants.”
Lopez tried to chortle a laugh in response to underline just how ridiculous the suggestion was, but the noise came out all anxious and nervous. I didn’t even bother to react. I realised that we had been played.
“The drink was spiked, right?” I asked.
“Not at all, but while there are some capable of withstanding the effects of pure Kronstadt-brewed vodka, I do not think that you are one of them. Not in your real skin, anyway.”
I wiped the back of my hand over my lips. “Then let’s get to business. You know that we’re here for a reason, and you know that we won’t leave until our mission is executed.”
Lopez wouldn’t let it rest so easily and pointed at Vitali. “You drank the vodka too, asshole.”
Vitali smiled. “That is different. This is my world. We locals are used to it.”
I slid the glass across the table. The guard refilled mine, and also Vitali’s.
“We’re looking for someone.” I called up a picture on the wrist-comp. “An archaeologist. Her name is Dr. Olivia Locke. She was working with Science Division, and her last known location was Kronstadt.”
As I expected, Vitali’s eyes gave nothing away. “People go missing on Kronstad
t all the time, Keira Jenkins.”
“Do you know this woman, or not?”
Vitali reached for a narco-stick—the tip already ignited, sending out a column of blue smoke. “Who is she to you? What is the price of this information, I wonder?”
Novak’s hand smashed down on the table. The tri-D newscasts jittered with the force of the impact, and the desktop shattered. Vitali’s brow creased in a frown of annoyance.
“Do you know where we can find this woman?” I asked again. “You might like to answer the question,” I suggested, “before my friend here really loses his temper.”
“Enough,” said another voice.
A woman appeared at the back of the office. I couldn’t tell whether she had been waiting there all along or had just appeared. She had obviously heard enough of the exchange to make herself known.
“I am Dr. Olivia Locke.”
“Back, Olivia,” Vitali said. “There is money to be made here. We can barter—”
“Enough,” Dr. Locke repeated, more firmly. “No more hiding.”
She was tall, slender. Flanked by the two female bodyguards, she was somewhere between a prisoner and a dignitary.
“You are not Lazarus,” the woman said to me. “Where is he?”
“The situation’s changed. I’m Lieutenant Jenkins. We’re Alliance Army, Sim Ops. Lazarus sent us.”
“That wasn’t my question. Where is Lazarus?”
Dr. Olivia Locke wasn’t dressed like she had appeared in Harris’ intel holo, and her appearance had changed. Her hair was shaven down one side, had now turned a dirty yellow. Her eyes were darker, too, pale white skin an agitated red. Kronstadt’s atmosphere must’ve played hell with her complexion. But I recognised her well enough; her slender-boned appearance was pretty unique, striking enough that I was sure this was our woman.
“Nice setup you’ve got here,” I said, hand still on my pistol.
“There will be no need for violence. I am who I say I am.”
“She is, she is,” said Vitali. He looked despondent.
“You’ve done a lot to hide yourself,” I said to Dr. Locke.
“I paid Vitali well for the privilege.”
“Of that we’ve no doubt,” I replied. “But we’ll stay armed. We’ve already been told once today that there’s no need for violence, and that hasn’t exactly worked out for us.”
“Where is Lazarus?” Dr. Locke repeated.
“Lazarus is gone,” I said.
The words had an obvious impact on Locke. Her thin shoulders slumped. Jesus, this girl was tall. Easily seven foot, approaching the height of a sim in combat-armour. She was almost alien in her appearance.
“Dead?”
Forgive me, Zero. Saying it would make it real, but there was no point in denying the truth. I nodded. “Yes.”
“Then things are worse than I thought.”
Vitali arranged a private room and activated another privacy field as a safety measure. It seemed that Svoboda had plenty of secrets, and privacy fields were not uncommon. The device carried a subsonic buzz in the air as we settled in plush leather seats around a black-glass table.
“Come,” Vitali gestured. “You will be safe here.”
I watched Dr. Locke as she took a seat opposite me, and couldn’t help but feel a little deflated. All roads had led to this meeting, but Locke herself didn’t seem to amount to much. We’d come so far, lost so much, for a single science officer. I just hoped that she was worth it.
“I know of the Watch,” Vitali insisted, fussing over another seat at the table. “You do not have to hide anything from me.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” I said, uncomfortable with the Russian’s presence, “we’re on official military business …”
“Leave us, Antonis,” Locke said. She was shaking. “Please.”
Vitali groaned, and tossed his head, but didn’t argue. He drifted past, together with his bodyguards, leaving the Jackals and Dr. Locke in relative quiet.
“How did it happen?” Locke asked me, without preamble. Her voice had a strange singsong accent to it, but was cracked with emotion.
“We raided a farm. Harris never made it out.”
“And you saw him die? You actually saw Lazarus die?”
“As good as,” I answered. “He’s gone.”
Dr. Locke sighed. For someone who barely even knew Harris, she was taking this news very badly. There was proper distress in Locke’s face, real despair in her reaction. I wondered what the limits of their relationship really were. That Locke even knew Harris was actually alive meant that she was privy to classified intelligence.
“There was no way that he made it off the farm,” I added.
“We heard some chatter,” Dr. Locke said, staring at the glass now. “That a farm had been hit, but I didn’t believe it.”
“News like that tends to travel fast.”
“Antonis has people everywhere,” she said. “The Russians may not have many colonies out here, but their spy network is second to none. The Kurgan king has been known to exchange intelligence with the Navy and Military Intelligence if the price is right.”
“And yet he didn’t trade you in to either,” I said. “Does he know who you really are?”
“Of course,” Dr. Locke said. “We … we have history together. A long time ago. Not all of Sci-Div’s operations are official, and people like Antonis can sometimes come in handy.”
“Is that why you came to Kronstadt?”
Dr. Locke smiled coldly. “It is the perfect hiding place. If you have money, anything is possible.”
“So we understand,” I replied.
Locke looked up at me sharply. “Lazarus told me about you,” she said. “That you were his second in command. That you were with him when he was Legion.”
“I was. We served together for many years.”
“Who did it? Who killed Lazarus?” Locke asked. “Was Warlord there?”
“You know about Warlord?”
“Everyone knows of Warlord, but I know more than most,” Locke said cryptically.
“I know who he was,” I said. This was one of the joys of being AWOL, I guess: I couldn’t be shot for sharing classified intel. “Sergeant Clade Cooper. First Battalion, Alliance Army Ranger. His squad was called the Iron Knights, and they died on Barain-11. Cooper was the only survivor, captured by the Krell and immersed in the Deep. Family—wife and two children—killed while he was in captivity.”
“He’s a man of Command’s making,” Locke muttered. “They created him. After his capture on Barain, then his liberation by Alliance Special Forces, he became something else. Something …” She paused, sighed. “Something not quite human any longer. Warlord is one with the universe, in the worst possible way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that he exists before, and after,” Locke said. “He died on Barain-11, but Science Division brought him back, made him something new.”
“How did they do that?” More importantly, “Why would they do that?”
“Because he was to be something else. They used experimental nano-technology to repair his physical wounds. That damage could be fixed. But the wounds in his head? Not so much. He is seeking to wake something up. Something that has slumbered for a very long time.”
I shook my head. “He killed my friend. He’s sentenced millions, billions, to death.”
“He knows the Krell like no other human,” Locke replied, as if that was any sort of an answer.
I too had seen the Deep. Just in fleeting, only for a second, but that was long enough. I remembered P’s description—the ebb and flow of the Deep, the difference between being immersed in it and becoming part of it. Somewhere in there, among the muddle of emotions and thoughts, was Clade Cooper. He was part of the Deep. That made him a very dangerous enemy indeed.
“Lazarus told me that you had information,” I said. “Intelligence important to the Watch. You wanted safe passage off Kronstadt in exchan
ge.”
That drew the doctor back to the now, seemed to refocus her thought-process. She looked over at my squad. That same evaluating gaze that I seemed to see a lot lately, weighing us up. The expression on Dr. Locke’s face suggested that—civilian or not—she knew who we really were.
“We’re with the Simulant Operations Programme,” I said. “We have a ship. We can arrange your exfiltration.”
“Sim Ops,” the doctor repeated. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“We have a whole platoon in orbit,” Lopez exaggerated.
Dr. Locke saw right through that. “And yet you send only four green troopers in skins down to the surface?”
“Well, the lieutenant isn’t green …” Feng said.
“Are you going to give us this intelligence or not?” I asked, angered by Locke’s constant riddles. “In a matter of days, maybe less, Kronstadt is going to be reduced to slag by the Krell. The infected are massing on the other side of the Shard Gate. So you can help us, as Lazarus intended, or we can extract and leave you to it.”
“How do I know that I can trust you?”
“I could ask you the same question. That information about the farm is restricted. We only knew about it because we were there. Isn’t that proof enough?”
“My information,” Dr. Locke countered, somewhat self-importantly, “is crucial to the war effort. I can’t just—”
“We’re all that’s left,” I said. “And right now, we’re your only hope.”
Dr. Locke looked as though she was still struggling to come to terms with Lazarus’ death, and whether she should share her intelligence or not. Finally, she made her decision.
“I know what is causing the Harbinger virus,” she said, “and I know how to stop it. I only told the Watch that I wanted safe passage so that I could give the information to Lazarus. There is no cost, save the price that knowing this will put on your head. The Harbinger virus was someone’s dream made nightmare, and the Aeon is someone’s dream made real.”