Elite

by Allen Stroud

  ‘I need those chits returned and reissued to the correct recipients,’ Walden said. ‘Send someone to meet the Imperials as soon as possible, to conclude business and get fresh agreements programmed for the Alioth ministry.’

  ‘Doctor, is that wise? Should we issue more chits before the others are recovered, we will be potentially liable for both trade consignments.’

  ‘The timetable is the timetable. Failure and sabotage cannot be allowed to derail it.’

  Bertrum sighed. ‘Doctor, if I had an idea of the plan, I might be able to—’

  ‘To do what?’ Walden’s eyebrows rose. ‘I assure you Prefect; men of the correct competence are already working on everything. The only matter I need your attention on is the one at hand.’

  Bertrum realised he had pushed too hard. ‘Of course Doctor, forgive me, the morning is never—’

  ‘A good time?’ Walden’s eyebrows rose further. ‘You must be accessible at all times, the prefect’s role requires this.’

  Bertrum stared and counted to five before replying softly. ‘I am aware of my responsibilities, Doctor.’

  ‘Are you?’ Walden said. ‘Then see to your task. Retrieve those chits and recover all evidence. The sooner this incident disappears, the better.’

  With that, the screen went dead.

  * * *

  ‘Are you comfortable Agent Devander?’

  Pietro opened his eyes, to find Delaney crouched over him solicitously, magboots holding him secure to the deck-plate.

  ‘I do hope the food is to your liking?’ Delaney asked and laughed. Pietro, who’d eaten nothing since being captured, didn’t laugh with him. The mirthless scorn quickly died in the empty cargo hold. Pietro had no idea how long he’d been held, a day, maybe two?

  ‘I wanted a conversation, before we arrive at Codorain II,’ Delaney said. ‘We can agree a story and make it easier on the girl.’

  ‘Easier?’ Pietro said. ‘She’s no fool, she know’s you’re going to kill me.’

  Delaney smiled. ‘After a few days of conversation, you’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.’

  Pietro shrugged. ‘Not working right now.’

  ‘I’m not trying.’

  Pietro frowned. ‘You’re going to question me?’

  ‘Individuals who play our game manoeuvre and scheme,’ Delaney said, ‘they wait until the other side is vulnerable and pounce. People like us are captured and milked before being dumped in space. If you’re dead after, no one cares, you’re a husk, broken and nothing but a liability. If you’re alive, your own people make you disappear.’

  ‘We call it a Gam Harnet,’ Pietro said.

  Delaney nodded, recognising the name. ‘Just so, well you can be assured, you won’t end up dying in a Fortress Birmingham bar.’

  ‘Grateful for that.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Delaney said. ‘Thankfully, I have no need to question you; such activities are messy at the best of times. Doubtless you noticed I was able to walk right into a Federal space station, grab you and leave without incident? A smart man like you with time to think would figure out what that means ...’

  Pietro stared. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to, he’d already worked it out. I’ve been sold.

  Delaney nodded in response. ‘I see I don’t need to explain. Yes, they gave you up. I hear you’re a card player? Well, let me put this in terms you’ll understand. You weren’t worth the stakes on the table.’

  ‘Somebody wanted those chits badly,’ Pietro said.

  ‘Yes, they did, badly enough to divert me to the system and shut down your investigation.’ Delaney smiled. ‘The Empire and the Federation have a long tradition of working together in the past.’

  ‘A partnership that brought ruin and murder,’ Pietro said. ‘I remember INRA, so does most of the galaxy.’

  ‘Words from a dead man, Agent Devander, you know your life is over.’

  ‘Then why are you keeping me alive?’

  ‘We return to the first topic,’ Delaney said. ‘You are alive to make the girl’s transition easier; do so and death will be easy for you.’

  Pietro balled his fists. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Don’t take too long.’

  * * *

  The cracked dataslate was difficult to read, but Gebrial had nothing else to do. She regretted getting angry, but the controls still worked, she’d clipped herself to the bed and lay there reading.

  The Proctor had ensured she had no access to the ship’s operations, or any means to communicate with the system network beyond, but she could browse news updates as soon as they cleared the recorder box.

  She pulled up information on Codorain. Little had changed in the two years since she’d left and staring at familiar images hardened her resolve. Not my home anymore.

  The bed shivered and she glanced up. The room shook, lifting her off of the mattress. Strange.

  She keyed up the ship’s local field scan. The minute the scope image appeared, she recoiled in shock.

  The Anaconda was surrounded. At least four ships, circling like vultures from ancient Earth.

  The room rocked again and the door panel slid open. She recognised the man who appeared; one of the soldiers who’d been on the bridge. He was pointing a pistol at her. ‘The Proctor says you’re to come with me.’

  Gebrial nodded, unclipped herself and sat up; manoeuvring herself back over to the magboots she’d left beside the bed. She strapped them on, stood up and walked towards him, as another, larger impact shook the cabin. The soldier overbalanced and lost his grip on his pistol, which went floating through the air. Gebrial reached out and got her fingers around the trigger.

  There was a loud bang, the man grunted and looked at her with a vague expression of surprise, then his eyes lost focus and a large bubble of red blood welled out of his chest.

  I killed him.

  Gebrial’s hands started to shake, it spread to her arms, her vision blurred and she fought to breathe. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the soldier’s dead face.

  Another tremor shook the ship around her and broke the moment. She gathered her wits and elbowed past the man’s motionless standing body. I must find Pietro, she thought. I have to help him.

  She depressed the locks on her boots freeing her feet. Hand over hand she pulled herself down the corridor, heading for the cargo hold.

  * * *

  Bertrum pressed the speaker to the main office. ‘Can you come in please?’

  ‘Of course sir.’

  A moment later and the aide on rota appeared, a Colonial male of strong build. Are you Walden’s spy? It made sense that the ‘Good Doctor’ would have enlisted at least one of Bertrum's aides to report on his comings and goings. ‘I need direct communication with the Federal ambassador,’ Bertrum ordered.

  ‘Yes Prefect,’ the man replied smoothly and left. Minutes later, the viewscreen on Bertrum’s desk flashed and a dishevelled face appeared.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Good morning Ambassador Graham. Bertrum Kowl, prefect of Ashoria.’

  ‘You have any idea what time it is?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Graham. Four twenty-three in the afternoon, where you are.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Graham pushed his hands through unkempt hair. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Only once Ambassador,’ Bertrum said. ‘I was present on the day of your arrival.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Graham blinked and leaned back. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Ambassador, I have an urgent request from Doctor Walden. He requires the return of our trade factor and his possessions from your investigating officers in Darahk.’

  ‘Right,’ the information seemed to take a while for Graham to digest. ‘I suppose I can give them a call ...’

  ‘Please do Ambassador,’ Bertrum said. ‘We require everything. Scene holovids, DNA samples, tests, reports ... everything. Consider this request as urgent.’

  Graham rubbed his face and stifled a yawn. ‘Of course,’
he said.

  Berturm broke the connection and took a deep breath. John Graham, the Federal ambassador was a lazy idiot. The Federation had wanted little to do with Lave since the fall of the Galactic Co-operative. Ambitious diplomats didn’t come here. Politically, Lave meant nothing, so a posting to the system became an opportunity for a permanent holiday. Graham already considered himself beaten or at the pinnacle of achievement, which made him less than eager to help.

  Bertrum’s thoughts turned to the task at hand. What made Finch’s body and DNA profile so important? Bertrum keyed up his personnel files and flicked through the genetic profile, entirely average for a man in his mid forties, then he cross referenced with Finch’s intersystem employment permit.

  Ah now that’s strange ...

  On the employment profile, Finch’s age was given as fifty-four, but the DNA result stated forty-five.Could be a typo? Bertrum thought. I’m probably being too thorough. Several medical treatments were available to the wealthy to limit the effects of aging, but the DNA record would always give a clear indication. Any mistake was likely to be the other way around, where details had been omitted on the employment permit, but why this way?

  Bertrum’s eyes flicked up to the vidscreen on the wall, showing Walden’s image. He knew there was a camera in that slate, watching him. He had no idea how many other cameras were in the room, but they meant he shouldn’t dwell. He closed the files and then keyed up copies of the trade consignment contracts Finch had been carrying. They were meticulously calculated. On activation of the keycodes, embedded in the chits, a relayed signal went to the freighters waiting at Diso and massive consignments of agricultural produce would begin shipping to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, whilst simultaneously, a funded credit transfer would appear in a government treasury account. Again, Bertrum cross referenced the data with the Diso Lave trade contract. The numbers confirmed his suspicions. Grain shipments to Alioth, Sol and Achenar would incur enormous transportation costs. The entire operation would never be profitable.

  But Walden had insisted and, by ordering more chits, they ran the risk of compounding the cost if the original chit activated as well. Lave would be liable for a shipping consignment it could not fulfil.

  Orders were orders.

  He pressed the speaker for the main office again. ‘I need a reputable Interstellar merchant available for immediate commission,’ he said.

  ‘Yes sir, it will take a few moments, do you want to select one from a list?’

  ‘No,’ Bertrum replied, ‘choose one yourself and bring in the details for me to sign.’

  ‘Understood, Prefect.’

  The call ended. With the database still open, on a whim, Bertrum located the aide’s personnel file and read through it. Damell Gramos, born in Ashoria, raised in the communal prep, career bureaucrat, etc. The qualifications and experience were perfect for the role, perhaps too perfect? He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the whirr of the servos at his hips. May as well give the spy his head; let them think they’re in control.

  * * *

  Pietro wasn’t in control.

  Proctor Delaney left him with his thoughts for a long time before the noises from outside began. Pietro knew the signs, likely a pirate attack. The ship rocked under laser fire. Anacondas were large and robust, and would take a considerable pounding before being disabled or destroyed. Delaney and his crew had ample time to assess the threat and choose to fight or flee.

  But that didn’t help a man in zero gravity, tied to the cargo bay floor.

  Every lurch and shift became a torturous assault, slamming him against the deck or yanking him to the extreme reach of the fibre cables.

  He remembered the intelligence brief on Codorain; a strange system, a long way from Solati. Imperial controlled, but with some territorial disputes. Complicated jurisdiction meant people disappeared a lot, which would suit Delaney if things got difficult.

  The ship rocked again, there was a snapping sound and his whole body flipped, slamming his face into the deck-plate. He tasted blood, but found his right arm free.

  ‘Pietro!’

  He glanced up. The cargo access door had opened and Gebrial floated in the corridor. With the agility of youth, she manoeuvred out into the bay and over towards him. Another explosion rocked the ship and she lost her grip, tumbling end over end into the hold.

  He caught her wrist as she passed and yanked her back to him, drawing her close. ‘Space, what were you thinking?’ he demanded.

  ‘To rescue you,’ she replied. ‘We’re under attack.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I got away from the guard,’ she added, then mumbled. ‘I shot him, he’s dead.’

  ‘The Proctor will kill you for that,’ Pietro said.

  ‘He has to catch us first.’

  ‘Which won’t be hard,’ Pietro said, ‘unless you’ve a plan for us getting off this ship alive?’

  The girl stiffened in his arms and her face turned towards him. ‘I thought you’d have a plan?’

  Pietro scowled. ‘Untie me and we’ll see what’s to be done.’

  Gebrial nodded, freed the strap from his waist and started on his ankles. While she worked, he glanced up at the pressurised container. If they were lucky, it contained some kind of rudimentary life support. The pirates outside would feel cheated when they found the nearly empty cargo hold. The one thing they’d want to protect would be that box.

  ‘The Proctor said you killed people.’

  Pietro looked down at Gebrial. She’d balanced herself, using the strap that’d been around his waist as a tether and had freed his right ankle, but now she was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  Gebrial made a face. ‘So you did? I guess it doesn’t mean a lot, after all, I just killed someone.’ She bit her lip. ‘Did you want Arrik dead?’

  ‘I need to find Arrik’s employer,’ Pietro said. ‘The last thing I wanted was for him to die. The locals were too enthusiastic,’ he frowned, ‘maybe on purpose.’

  Gebrial shrugged and busied herself with the strap on his left ankle. In moments it gave, just as something clattered against the hull beneath him, causing the whole ship to shake.

  ‘The shields are gone!’ Pietro yelled. ‘Hold on!’ His right hand worked at the knot around his left wrist and it untied quickly. He floated away from the deck, as the pressurised container toppled forwards, crashing onto its side in the space where he’d been. A green light appeared on the control panel and with a hiss the door of the unit opened. With a blast of icy air, a six-foot long frozen block floated out of its depths, right up to Pietro.

  He found himself staring into the cold, dead face of Nathanial Atticus Finch.

  Chapter 12: The Rescue

  ‘Incoming message.’

  At the sound of Niamh’s voice, Bertrum glanced up from the accounts slate he’d been working on. ‘Live or recorded?’ he asked.

  ‘Recorded transmission from Federal Ambassador, John Graham.’

  That was quick. A rapid response usually meant bad news. ‘Play,’ he instructed.

  Graham’s round face appeared on the screen on his desk, in front of the charts and tables. This time, the ambassador had washed, shaved and dressed. For whose benefit, Bertrum could only speculate.

  ‘Prefect, thanks for the call earlier. I’ve communicated with my people and just got a reply. All materials pertaining to the Finch investigation are packed up and dispatched. They are being couriered to you via another associate.’

  Another associate? Bertrum had an idea what that meant. Idly, he killed the playback; he didn’t need to hear more. He just needed to wait.

  An hour later, the expected call arrived. The intercom light from the main office winked and he pressed the switch. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Imperial ambassador is here, Prefect,’ said a female voice.

  ‘Key her through,’ Bertrum instructed.

  ‘Err no,’ the girl said, sounding flustered.
‘She’s here.’

  Bertrum frowned. This was irregular, but he might have guessed Godwina would try it. ‘Prepare the guest meeting room,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with her in a few moments.’

  The few moments he took were carefully measured. One by one he anticipated the woman’s reactions to his appearance. She might offer assistance – a personal surgeon in Facece or Quince perhaps? Or challenge his reasons for staying on Lave, both options were the obvious ones. Next would come the implied superiority, being able-bodied. The small helps and offers, the fetch and carry, holding open the door. All designed to remove small amounts of personal power and give her an edge.

  He got up and walked out, heading into the main office once more; the second time in a week. Again the staff stood up at their desks as he passed by. Sometimes he went a whole year without leaving his own rooms, these days were proving special.

  His aide on rota appeared; the nervous looking woman, Anna, who was the least likely of his staff to be Walden’s spy. As he approached her, she didn’t raise her eyes, but her body trembled with each mechanical step he took.

  ‘Everything is ready, Prefect,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ he replied. She would accompany him, he knew that. She’d never attended a personal visit before, so she was likely fretting over the proper protocol along with everything else. For a moment he considered offering a reassuring word, but decided not to. Won’t do any good coming from me.

  He walked past and felt her follow, a dutiful two steps behind. It took only a few moments to reach the guest rooms. They had been arranged in case a visiting official required an overnight stay. With Godwina, he doubted this would happen as she lived in the city. The meeting room was effectively a reception area for the suite, but it was often used for other bureaucratic gatherings. It had glass walls and as he got close, Bertrum saw the ambassador sitting, dressed in her formal robes, reading a dataslate.

  Bertrum opened the door and went in, without preamble. He ignored the ambassador’s eyes as he walked, focusing on the chair he intended to sit in. When he got there, he lowered himself, adjusted his posture for comfort and met her gaze.