“Arrangements will be made to bring in the supplies you need.” Hurker glanced at the man in uniform at his shoulder. “You’ll have to submit your requirements to my clerk. If there’s room in the container, it’ll be included.”
“What do you mean if there’s room? How big is this container? And what about our shipments to our customers?” He stressed the word our and noticed Hurker’s pained expression. “You know this will ruin our trade.”
“There won’t be any.” Hurker’s tone invited an argument, and his body language suggested he was eager to settle one with force.
Marcus held the man’s eye. “You haven’t answered my question. How big is this container? Big enough for the supplies a hundred families need?”
Hurker spread his hands and lifted his shoulders in a barely perceptible shrug that showed he didn’t care what Marcus Grover thought. “There’ll be some shortages, of course. That can’t be helped. Our requirements will be secondary to those of the Johnstone facility, of course, but all reasonable efforts will be made to keep the shortages to a minimum.”
“I see.” Marcus glared at the bloviating bureaucrat. “Well, Mister Chairman of the so-called Community Management Board, we paid our taxes, but you and your pals commandeered our properties. If that weren’t enough, you finagled yourselves into partnerships in our businesses and helped yourselves to our produce. Now you’re saying we can’t trade with Pangaea City or anyone else, and you’ll decide what supplies we may or may not get when you, or whoever is pulling your strings, allows us to have a few scraps. So I’ll tell you this to your face. If we’re short of anything, you and your Board had damned well better be short of the same things. If we’re unable to ship anything off the island, we’d better not discover that you are able to.”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” huffed Hurker.
Hurker’s protection agent lunged forward, but Marcus didn’t flinch.
“I’ll talk to you any way I want to. We’re business partners, aren’t we? Sure, you could try roughing me up, but you might want to stop and think about that, because you won’t always be in that uniform, and you won’t always have your buddies around, and this island—well, it’s an island. If you don’t know it as well as we do, and you don’t know the places to avoid, such as the beaches the pleurodons like, let’s just say a man with enemies could find life a little tricky here.” He stared the man down.
“Are you threatening me, Grover?”
“Not a threat. Just a warning. This planet is a wild, untamed place. It can be harsh and cruel when you least expect it.”
“Look here, Grover, your attitude will get you into trouble soon. I have a job to do, and even if it hurts our business, I intend to do it. This is a difficult time. Johnstone’s are engaged in research with potentially enormous benefits for humankind—but there are rivals who will stop at nothing to get their hands on it. Yes, these restrictions are inconvenient for us, but necessary. I’m warning you for the last time, watch your step. You have a family. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“Don’t threaten me, Hurker, and don’t threaten my family.” Marcus fought down his anger. “I hear your decree, and for now we don’t have a choice but to accept it. Now take your goon and get on with whatever it is you do as Community Manager. And while you’re at it, tell the goon squads to keep their thieving hands out of our orchards.”
Marcus watched the men leave, then stepped back and shut the door. For several seconds he remained absolutely still, his fists clenched and his eyes closed as he let the anger drain away. Then he turned and entered the living quarters.
“You got that all on the recorder Peter sent?”
“Yes, dear.” Petra Grover slipped her arms round his waist. “Be careful, Marcus. If you push them too far, it will come back to bite you.”
“I know, love, but it just makes me so mad!”
“Don’t jeopardise our future and everything you’ve worked for, my love. Our day will come. They can’t get away with this forever. I’m sure the Fleet and the Confederation are aware of what is going on here. They must know! Not much slips past them. They’re probably just biding their time to pounce on the Johnstone Research Group when they least expect it.”
James Heron checked the time again. Fifteen minutes past nineteen hundred, and Felicity was nowhere to be seen. This was very unlike her. He summoned the maitre d’.
“I’m expecting a lady to meet me here, a Ms Rowanberg. Has she perhaps sent a message?”
“Ms Rowanberg? Yes, sir, I know the lady, but she has not sent a message, Captain.”
“I see, thank you.” He paused then added, “I’d best check on her. You can let someone else use my dinner reservation, Claude. If I need it later, I’ll let you know.”
“As you wish, sir.” The man smiled. “I hope everything is okay with the lady, sir. If you need a table later, I’ll find you one.”
“Thanks, Claude. Hopefully she’s simply been delayed somewhere. Is there somewhere private I can go while I contact my ship?”
“Certainly, Captain. Please use my private office. Just through that door.”
“Thank you.” Striding into the office, James Heron activated his personal link as soon as he closed the door behind him. “Vanguard, connect me to the Officer of the Watch, please.”
James waited as he was connected.
“Gangway, Lieutenant Hawkins, sir.”
“Any personal messages for me?”
“Negative, Captain.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Contact me on my link if there’s any call from Ms Rowanberg.” Breaking the link, he hesitated, then activated it again. “Commander Brandeis, please.”
The Chairman looked up as his secretary entered. “Yes, Ashworth?”
“A message from Yelendi Dysson, sir. She’s very upset. Someone has kidnapped Felicity Rowanberg, the Fleet Administration Officer for the Vanguard Project, and Fleet Security are investigating everyone and everything. Yelendi thinks there is a danger our operations may be jeopardised and our operatives exposed.”
For a moment the Chairman said nothing, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Has it jeopardised our obtaining the weapon specs?”
“No, Chairman, the delivery is delayed, but we are assured the delay is temporary.”
The Chairman fumed, his anger showing. “We have no time to waste. Have our people been exposed by this kidnapping? Who was responsible for it?”
“Ms Dysson thinks our people are not at risk for the moment, sir, provided they do nothing to draw attention.” The secretary paused. “It may be the Pantheon team behind it. This may be a distraction to divert attention from their next step, or to carry out a hit on their target.” The silence as he finished speaking extended. He resisted the urge to say something to fill it.
“I see. I shall be extremely displeased if it endangers our other operations. Warn Dysson to ensure it does not.”
“Yes, sir.”
Returning to his own office, Ashworth sent the encrypted message. The Chairman was beginning to worry him. The Consortium had its own people, some of them, like Yelendi Dysson, extremely professional, and more than capable of dealing with the task. So why had his boss engaged the Pantheon? That lot were professional assassins, and many of them were psychopaths. They killed without remorse and often with delight. He shuddered to think that he was embroiled in this dangerous game merely by serving as the Chairman’s secretary. Well, he’d have to watch his back and keep an eye on developments. He had his own escape plan in place, and if all hell broke loose, hopefully it would be enough.
Felicity Rowanberg recovered consciousness slowly. When she was fully alert, her attempts to sit up were complicated by the lack of coordination and control over her limbs—a side effect, she realised, of the neural disruption caused by a stun bolt. The room spun as she finally managed to sit, and it was several minutes before she could focus her eyes and register her surroundings.
She moved her legs off the bed and
swivelled into a sitting position, but it felt like she was on a carousel ride as the room seemed to spin around her. Whoa. I better take it easy. They must’ve had the stunner on max power. There’s probably no neuro-recoup anywhere in here either.
Her Fleet survival training kicked in. Okay, so she’d obviously been abducted. By whom? No. Wrong starting point. First, where was she?
She studied the room. Small, bare minimum of furnishing, a bed, table and chair, an easy chair and low table in the main part, with a second door off to the side. A washroom? She hoped so, otherwise this could get tricky. Food supplies? She glanced around. Oh good, a food replication unit. At least I won’t starve.
The door. Control unit open, and the panel destroyed. So whoever put her here wanted to make sure she didn’t leave on her own. The absence of any sort of external view screen—just the space where one should be—suggested they didn’t want her to see where she was being held. Okay, but the absence of any of the usual small vibrations one felt on a ship or one of the dock platforms suggested this facility was probably on solid ground. But where? On Mars? Or somewhere else?
“I think I can rule out this being at the Olympus Mons base,” she muttered, her expression grim. She judged the short distance from the hospital bed and the food replicator. Could she make it without tumbling to the floor in a heap of swirling confusion?
Only one way to find out. She was desperate for something to drink.
She slid her feet to the floor, steadied herself against the sturdy metal bedframe, and swayed her way over to the replicator. Entering the instructions for a cup of tea, she took fresh stock of her situation. If she was on the planet, how had she got here, and who was behind this? She could vaguely recall the droid who attacked her. That had been odd right from the start. Droids didn’t use weapons; their programming forbade it. So how the hell? Another memory clicked into place. The droid had moved more like a human, as if someone had put on a costume that looked like a droid.
She eased herself into the chair next to the bed, and let the tea work itself into her system. It would take a while for the caffeine to chase away the neurotoxin. In the meantime, she needed to figure out why she had been abducted, who did it, and what they wanted. The who was probably easiest, most likely someone in the group behind all the attempts to disrupt the completion of the Vanguard, the same group that had hit Theresa Hollister perhaps. They were professionals, she knew that much, and they had access to resources that ordinary criminals would struggle to obtain. That meant she was dealing with a specialist group.
And then it hit her.
The Pantheon.
This operation had their fingerprints all over it.
She looked around the room again, this time searching for indicators of surveillance, tiny dots of light in the corners where the walls met the ceiling, or perhaps emitting from behind the few boringly bland art prints that someone had tacked up to ‘decorate’ the room and make it feel more comfortable. Felicity smirked at the irony. Yeah, I feel right at home, you bastards, and I can feel your eyes watching me. I know you’ve got a camera hidden in here somewhere.
The Pantheon would want to see what she was doing and how she was reacting to the neurotixon. Dead hostages seldom achieved anyone’s objectives.
Her tea finished and her head clear, she decided she’d best make at least the appearance of being frightened and worried—not difficult on either score since she was both. She stood shakily from the chair and sway-walked to the door. “Hello? Hello! Anyone there?” She pounded on it for emphasis. As she expected, her efforts at drama elicited no response, but her performance was good enough.
Felicity was under observation, but her kidnappers were unaware that they were also being monitored.
“She’s awake now, and is trying to figure out how to get out,” said one of the surveillance techs, a nerdy young woman who geeked out on her job but was morally uncomfortable with it.
“Time to send Bast a message then,” said her supervisor. “Any response from Fleet Security to her demands?”
“You expect one? They’re going over the dock rivet by rivet. Bast’s gone to ground.” The young tech lowered her voice. “Bloody creepy the way Bast can switch her personality and identity so easily. It’s like we have a real shapeshifter in our midst.”
“What was that?” said her boss, not comprehending.
“Nothing. Just musing about Bast’s unique abilities. How long do we have to play this game?”
“Long enough. As soon as we get the word that Bast’s prime target has been taken out, we’ll continue in our usual roles in the company. Fleet will scrutinise all departures on the assumption that whoever they’re after will make a run for it. Our job is to stay put and remain in the background. Simple.”
“And the hostage?”
“What about the hostage? If they find her, so what? She’s not seen any of us, and never will. If they don’t find her, tough for her, but so what? We already have what we want. She’s just a diversion to get them looking in the wrong direction.” The man laughed. “Idiots! Doing everything by the book like the good military men they are. It probably hasn’t even occurred to them that while their attention is wasted on looking for Felicity Rowanberg, Bast can execute her plan with precision.” He shrugged. “She wants a little fun with her real target. This one is just the bait.”
The surveillance tech shifted in her seat. “Dangerous game. She poked the bear, and now she wants to hunt it. Good luck with that.”
The man shrugged. “She can handle it. She’s like a feral cat—renders her prey helpless and then plays with them, and when she’s had enough fun, she kills them.”
“If Rowanberg is her bait, who’s her target?”
“The CO of the new ship, the great and honourable James Heron of the Vanguard.” He said this last bit with a touch of dramatic sarcasm. “Bast was impressed by his martial arts skills when he took down the goons who went after Rowanberg. Rumour has it that she’s his girlfriend, and he swooped in to save her just in time.”
Sounds like the kind of man I’ve waited my whole life for, mused the tech. She let out of wistful sigh that told of hopes long ago discarded that such a man existed, and turned her attention to watching Felicity on the surveillance monitors.
Chapter 17
Ms Dysson Learns the Truth
Yelendi Dysson let her anger show. She’d been given a job to do, and someone in the Consortium had given another group the same task or one that conflicted with hers. Worse, she hadn’t been warned, and now Felicity Rowanberg had been kidnapped. Judging by the reaction from Fleet Security, this was going to endanger everything she’d built since taking control of the undercover teams on the Dock.
“Yelendi, the Chairman ordered this operation, and he brought in a team of his own—people we don’t get involved with.”
Yelendi fumed at the hologram of the Director of Security Operations, but he merely shrugged. “I only just learned of it because they took out one of our agents—albeit a low-level one.”
“They’ve put everything in jeopardy. The damned Fleet mob are all over the place now. You can’t move without one of them watching you. My team could have got all the information we need on the Fleet’s top-secret weapon. We would have had it within a couple of months if this bunch of outsiders hadn’t horned in!”
“If you’re that close, keep on it. Things could go wrong for the Chairman’s people. They got a specification, but not the one they thought it was.” He allowed himself a short laugh. “They got what Fleet said it was, a high-penetration scanner. The Chairman is furious, and now he wants the specs for the particle beam weapon more than anything. He’s a man obsessed, and that could be his weakness.”
“But how are we supposed to keep on it? At present we’ve no chance! Even if this outside bunch wasn’t interfering, that damned thing is so closely guarded we can’t even get a look at the power source! Even my agent in the ship’s Weapons Department isn’t cleared to access it.” She
paused for breath. “And whoever kidnapped Rowanberg has really screwed us over. One of my teams is under investigation, and two members of other teams are under scrutiny. My people want out—completely!”
“You’ll have to calm them down. Identify the people you think are most at risk of exposure, and I’ll arrange for them to be moved and reassigned until this blows over.” The Director paused to consider his words carefully. “Listen, Yelendi. The people the Chairman brought in are the Pantheon. I don’t know which of their teams they’ve sent on this, but don’t even consider getting in their way. I can’t afford to lose you.”
“Is the Chairman insane? The Pantheon?!” She shrieked so loudly that the audio sputtered for a millisecond. “No wonder the Fleet is tearing the place apart! Those bastards are bad news.” She let this sink in. “Do you know which one of their agents is heading up this team?”
“No, and I don’t want to, and neither do you. That could get you killed. You know their reputation.”
Her expression was droll. “They’re likely to get me killed anyway.” She had an idea for how she could work out who the agent might be. That knowledge could be useful if this whole thing went bad. “I’ll tell my people to keep out of it and do nothing to arouse suspicion.”
“Do that.” The Director wiped a hand across his forehead. His weariness showed. “Just keep a low profile. Once the heat dies down, we can reassess our options. Let me have a list of the people who might need to be moved to a different role. And if the opportunity arises, we could use some kudos with the Chairman.”
Captain Heron paced the length of the briefing room. The abduction of Felicity Rowanberg aroused feelings in him he’d not had since his wife died. It appalled him that he might lose yet another person he felt close to, despite the ambiguity of their respective ranks and posts in the Fleet. The worst aspect was knowing there was very little he could do. He wasn’t used to being at the mercy of someone else’s decision making.
Captain James Heron: First into the Fray: Prequel to Harry Heron: Into the Unknown of the Harry Heron Series Page 19
