“Got what you were looking for, Marcus?”
“I’m not sure, Heiko. Whatever they’ve done, it looks almost the same as when we had the culture plant up there. Only the domes are bigger—and they’re a lot higher now than ours were. In fact, they’ve completely rebuilt the mountain, and the whole damned thing is taller than it was.”
“Wonder what the hell they’re hiding then? Research facility? If that’s all it is, why hide it?”
“Exactly. Come on, we better get back with our new fungal samples.” Marcus lifted the container, inserted the case with the recorder and the optics under the cargo of edible fungi it held, and closed it. “If we’re lucky, we can build a new source for our cultures from this fungi.”
Heiko grinned as he hoisted a similar container. “True. One in the eye for that bastard Ferris. Doubling the price of the spores from Pangaea City just because he has the monopoly—thanks to Governor Kodiak.” He walked in silence for a few metres. “Speaking of Ferris, you remember that disturbance we saw off the headland a while back?”
“Yes, I do. What’s Ferris know about it?”
“Maybe more than he lets on. He didn’t mention it specifically, but he said something to Hurker the other day about submersibles bringing special loads in for that Johnstone facility. Only, they don’t use our harbour, so I wondered—have they got some kind of underwater dock, do you think?”
“He talked about this in front of you?”
Heiko laughed. “Nah, he didn’t know I was there, and I stayed out of sight until they’d left. Funny, though, Hurker told him to shut up about it.”
“Interesting. Hurker should know. After all, he’s the only shipping agent on the island now.” Marcus stopped when he saw a security guard just ahead watching them with an unwavering gaze. “What’s one of their goon squads doing up here?” he murmured. “We better keep out of his way.”
“There’s a shortcut through here to my orchard,” said Heiko. “This gives us a good excuse to check on my Yarra fruit trees.”
“Captain Heron, a moment please, sir.”
Recognising the man, James Heron returned the salute. “Yes, Commander?”
“There’s a problem on Mars, sir. Commander Brandeis is down there dealing with it, but he left instructions for you to be briefed as soon as you returned. If you’ll follow me, sir.”
The Commander led James to a small office off the main arrivals dock, where he activated the keypad and announced their arrival. “Captain Heron here to see you, sir.”
The door clicked open and they entered the office.
“James, come in. Thank you, Commander, I’ll take it from here.” When his visitor was seated and the door was closed, the Security Captain said, “We’ve a problem, Captain Heron. Terri Hollister was attacked in her quarters. The other side have hired the Pantheon, and they stole the manuals for the particle beam weapon we’re fitting to your ship.”
“This damned Pantheon again. They were involved in my wife’s death. Who the hell are they? They got away with the manuals?”
“They call themselves the Pantheon because they name themselves after a number of mythological gods, which gives you an idea of their extreme hubris. They’re a group of specialist assassins and terrorists who do a bit of espionage on the side.” He paused, his expression betraying his distaste for this subversive group. “We have our suspicions as to where some of them operate from, but we can’t get close enough to any of their operatives to confirm it. They are absolutely ruthless and extremely good at disguise. They operate with teams of lesser gods or daemons as they call themselves—the latter are basically specialists who support higher-ranking gods and goddesses with particular skills. Ms Hollister was lucky to survive.”
“Anyone else injured?” James Heron asked the question casually, but was thinking of a particular person. “Are there likely to be any attacks on my people?”
“Their main activity is to remove people who are inconvenient to their client. It’s possible they’ll go after someone else, but at this stage we can only guess. We’ve tracked members of their team down to the surface of Mars, and hope we can recover the chips. I’ve a team down there already, and plan to go down myself shortly.” He paused. “Just one thing: the shuttle they went down on had several of the Dock Staff aboard, including Felicity Rowanberg.”
By their agreed practice, Bast’s team made no attempt to acknowledge one another on the shuttle, a rule made easier by the fact they did not know exactly who was disguised as what. None of the daemons who made up the rest of the team recognised her in this guise, and wouldn’t know her real identity even if they were taken and subjected to interrogation.
It was one reason the Pantheon were so successful. Even those at the pinnacle knew only the code names and the holographic avatars of their fellow gods and goddesses. They rarely met other than in their social roles and in very public circumstances. In those settings no one would have had any indication of their alter egos, a precaution that paid dividends on the rare occasions one of them was exposed, or taken out by their opponents, or captured by police and security services.
One reason they were so successful was that they were all from extremely wealthy and socially connected backgrounds. They were not in this for money—although that helped, of course. For the majority, it was the thrill of the hunt for the target, and then the buzz as they watched police and security forces scramble to catch them.
Bast watched as the last of the passengers disembarked.
“We’re next, Vladimir. Do you want to go first, or shall I? Something’s really got them stirred up today.” The co-pilot and the engineer laughed and gave each other a nervous glance as if to say, Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Something about Pilot Polanski was different, but neither of them could quite identify it.
“Go on, show us the way then, Beata. You’re the Captain,” Vladimir joked. “Follow us, we’re right behind you.”
“If you insist. Last one in the Mess room gets the drinks in!” She grabbed her holdall and headed for the door. She would need a fresh identity now, and there’d be plenty of possibles to choose from at the hotel.
Behind her the others exchanged glances. There was definitely something off about their pilot today. She’d never been overly friendly, and always held everyone at arm’s length. She rarely mixed with them off duty. Her normal rather cool, disdainful demeanour didn’t match this jokey comment about drinks in the Mess hall.
The engineer murmured to Vladimir, “What’s got into her?”
Vladimir glanced at the engineer and shook his head as he gathered his holdall. The pilot was already out of earshot. “Who knows? Maybe she’s got a wild hookup planned, and she’s feeling full of herself.”
“Seriously? Polanski? I’m not so sure about that,” said the engineer with a knowing chuckle.
Vladimir smirked and gave a dramatic shrug. “She’s always been a bit odd. Nothing would surprise me with that one. Come on, I’m hungry, and there’s a good show in the New Vegas club tonight.”
As Bast descended to the waiting guards, she intuitively assessed their dispositions, their readiness to respond to a threat, and the position of the last passengers filing into the reception.
“You seem to be in a bit of a flap,” she remarked to the guard who stopped her. “What’s the problem?”
“Empty your bag on the table please, Pilot.” The armoured warrant officer’s face was hard and his eyes wary. “Been a problem on the Dock, a murder to be exact.” He checked her ID with his scanner, hesitated a fraction of a second, then nodded and handed it back. “You can proceed to Reception now, Pilot.”
Her mind worked furiously. Had they spotted something? Was an unpleasant surprise waiting for her in Reception?
“Thanks,” she said, keeping her expression and tone neutral as she repacked her bag. She shifted to the usual droll snarky tone that Polanski was known for. “So there’s been a murder. Wow, so much excitement, but that’s a police matter, n
ot an occasion for a Marine turnout, right?” She swept her eyes around and suppressed the urge to roll them in disdain as Polanski might do. That might be a bit too over the top, she reminded herself.
His hard eyes met hers. “We are Police, Captain. The Arrivals Registry for crew is the desk to the right through the door.”
“They’ve swopped it then? They’re always changing things. It’s so annoying. It’s normally in the office to the left where we file our flight register and log.”
The smile flickered. “Correct, Captain. My mistake. Enjoy your stay.”
Making for the door, she kept her pace and her attitude bored-casual, though her adrenalin was pumping now. That little play by the warrant officer could mean he’d spotted something and was suspicious, or he could be just trying it on, a game to mess with an officer. Her senses alert, she entered the hall noting the strategically placed and clearly alert guards, then turned and entered the Crew Registry, relieved to see only the clerks she expected.
Time for Flight Officer Beata Polanski to die a second time. Now to find a suitable substitute. It was too early to adopt her favoured disguise.
Chapter 14
More Lives than a Cat
Commander Brandeis looked up as the door opened. “What have you found?”
“We’ve two bodies so far, confirmed as Pantheon operatives.” The Lieutenant dropped the evidence pouches on the desk. “Our people shot the one when they surprised him, and the second one blew herself to bits when they cornered her, an unpleasant encounter, as you can imagine. She tried to take our people with her, but they got clear of her just in time.”
“So the leader has slipped away. Terri says it was definitely a woman who shot her.” The Commander tapped the desk, a frown creasing his forehead. “What about the shuttle that left before the lockdown?”
“Landed and screened. One anomaly came up. The pilot’s DNA had traces of someone else’s.” The Lieutenant checked his tablet. “Pilot Polanski, an odd one because she tends to be aloof and keep herself distant from others, which means it’s unusual for her to have traces of someone else’s DNA on her, but it’s within the parameters of error if she had close contact just before the check, such as with the co-pilot, touching the same controls, that sort of thing.”
The Commander’s frown deepened. “Yes, I know the one. She’s an extreme germophobic, and that in itself makes this DNA mixture an anomaly. Have that followed up—no, alert the Boss. There’s no room for mistakes here. Whoever attacked Theresa Hollister got the specs for the particle beam weapon, and we want them back. Worse, they knew too damn much about how to beat the security locks and protections, and they got past our security monitors twice.”
“On it, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “I’ll run some checks at this end on the shuttle pilot, Captain Polanski. She’s a loner according to the handling crews, but not in a loner-turned-criminal way, at least from what I can determine based on the junior officers’ annual performance reviews, and their feedback concerning her leadership. She’s an introvert, highly intelligent, and on the lower end of the autism spectrum. She doesn’t socialise, and is a bit of a perfectionist. Always first to arrive for a flight, first to board, and last off at the end of a run—that kind of thing. And, as you noted, she’s extremely germophobic, so none of this adds up.” He frowned. “Strange though, today she was late. Her crew were waiting when she showed up.”
“Run a full set of checks then. Where she came from, who she associates with, everything. She must have some friends. Find them. And have her watched. Get a tail on her now.”
Marcus Grover looked up as the door opened. “What now?”
“What sort of greeting is that for your shipping agent and partner?” Terrien Hurker didn’t wait to be invited to sit. He was aware that Marcus loathed him, and it amused him to yank the man’s chain. He had no illusions about their partnership, either, fully expecting Grover to use their association to advantage. It was, after all, exactly what he would do in the same situation. “There’s some changes coming to our schedules. Sailings are being cut to once a month.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.” Marcus shifted in his desk chair. “You know my—our—products can’t be kept that long. We need to make at least two shipments per month.”
Hurker smiled. “Nothing I can do about it. With the security zone, the reduced demand for our products, and people relocating to the mainland, it simply isn’t commercially viable to run shipments twice a month.”
Seething, Marcus glared. It was also true that the population of New Caledonia was shrinking. A number of the more remote settlements had been abandoned or taken over by Johnstone’s people, who never came into Urquhart-Johnstone.
“Well, there won’t be anything to keep you here then,” he said, and looked at Terrien with a challenge in his eyes.
“Oh, but you’re wrong, Grover. I’ve been appointed by Governor Kodiak as Civic Manager of the territory with complete authority to make the island productive.” The expression hardened. “I have control over sale of produce, shipping, security, communication and travel. You’ll get a copy of the new regulations later.”
Marcus wanted to snarl, “You dirty little bastard” but checked himself. It would do no good to push Hurker into some kind of vindictive action aimed directly at him. It took some effort to maintain a professional tone. “So how do you propose to make us more productive when we can’t ship our products?”
Hurker’s smile was laconic and self-assured. “I have the authority to requisition everything you produce. You’ll be paid, of course, but at cost plus five percent. Take it or leave it.”
It took every ounce of Marcus’ control not to grab the arrogant visitor by the throat and hurl him out of the dome. “Cost plus five percent?” He exhaled to release the tension. “That’ll mean a cut in your gratuity, of course. As you know from the accounts you get, our normal mark-up is cost plus ten for local, plus fifteen for mainland—and you get five percent of that.”
Hurker lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug that told Marcus Grover nothing he said mattered. “Be grateful, Grover. I’m being generous. I don’t have to pay you anything. If you can’t ship the produce, you can’t sell it, but I’ll see what I can do to get it up to cost plus ten percent.” He paused, enjoying Marcus’ helpless anger. “I’ll send you the delivery instructions later.” He stood and strode to the door, then turned and levelled his gaze at Marcus. “A word of warning. Your son is drawing attention, mixing with the wrong company, engaging in anti-social activities, the usual college-boy antics, but he could end up on the wrong side of the law if he persists.”
And then Hurker was gone, making sure to shut the door with more force than was needed to drive his point home.
For several minutes Marcus didn’t move, then he shot back his chair, lunged out of it, and went in search of Heiko. He had a package to send to Pangaea City and his wife’s uncle. He hoped it would make a difference. Time to start making life for the Management Council and their bosses difficult.
Bast scanned the bar lounge, a hangout for workers, lower paid clerks and those who preyed on them. She’d already marked out three potential candidates for a date with eternity; now she needed the opportunity. The discovery of the remains of the late Beata Polanski would not be delayed for too much longer. She needed a replacement identity, and she needed it now, but first she had to pass on the stolen chips. When she spotted her contact and they made eye contact, she rubbed her wrist.
The man looked round then back at her, and she rubbed her wrist again, this time pressing one spot briefly with her index finger. He scratched his ear, walked to the bar, bought two drinks, and walked over to where she sat.
“May I join you?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you in a long while, but I remember the drink.”
A smile flickered briefly. “So you have. What brings you to this dump? My excuse is shuttle flying.”
He nodded. “So I hear, mine’s keeping things moving.” Offering a small
container, he said, “Menthe twist? I recall you used to like them.”
She nodded. “Still do.” She produced her own container and proffered it. “These came in fresh from New Babylon a few days ago. Three months in transit didn’t damage them.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Taking one of the clear green twisted sticks, he stuck it in the corner of his mouth as he casually studied the crowd. In an apparently absentminded movement, he toyed with the container he’d put down, then deftly switched the two identical containers. Bast selected a stick and leaned back, apparently relaxed as they drank and chatted.
Slipping the small container into her pocket, she and her contact chatted a few minutes longer before she stood and gathered her holdall. “Time I was going. Got a shuttle to fly tomorrow—you know how it is.”
Felicity’s senses prickled, her instinct telling her to keep walking and call for help. There was definitely someone following her, but she was unable to identify who it might be. She played safe, activated her alert implant, and headed into the crowded lounge restaurant hoping she’d see someone she recognised. The feeling of imminent danger was starting to overwhelm her when she spotted Yelendi Dysson. The woman wasn’t who she’d hoped to see, but would do for now until the cavalry arrived.
“Yelendi, what brings you to the surface? Not a problem, I hope.”
Ms Dysson turned. “Felicity! How nice, now I won’t have to eat alone. Have you had dinner?” The smile appeared genuine. “I could ask the same of you. What brings you to this resort of last resort?”
Laughing at the joke, Felicity’s gaze quickly swept the room then returned to Yelendi’s smling face. “Work, I’m afraid. More lost requisitions. Honestly, I think some of them are doing it just to annoy me.” She glimpsed a woman with short cropped hair across the room, and recognised her as the pilot of the shuttle she’d come down on. “All sorted out now. I can head back up as soon as a shuttle is available.”
Captain James Heron: First into the Fray: Prequel to Harry Heron: Into the Unknown of the Harry Heron Series Page 16
