“That would be most appreciated. Finally, any word from our benefactor?” Naema asked.
Kenner circled the woman's image, constantly forcing her to adjust to his perspective. “Operational details for my end. Nothing concerning the issues we have. I assured him we are both committed to our respective parts.”
“Very well,” the Sister snorted, cutting the connection.
“Trouble in paradise?” Chen asked.
“Nothing we can't handle. What can I do for you, my dear?”
Chen gestured toward the door. “I’m going to Doseidos to oversee the capture of the mutt, as well as supervise the transfer of the cargo from the Forest.”
“Don't you mean the mongrel? A lack of respect to an enemy is a lack of appraisal. It could lead to your failure against him.”
“Wisdom from your monk?” Chen's words were venom infused honey.
“Wisdom from a former enemy. Very well, Ms. Chen. See that all day to day operations continue while you're out in the black. Once the transfer is made, I'll see you at our spot back on Doseidos.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chen slapped her flight gloves into her hand, making way for the door.
After Kenner watched her go, he faced the statue in the alcove. Closing his eyes, he opened them to a black space, empty of all matter except him. A high backed leather chair formed in the void. He knew that sitting was unnecessary here but it was nice to sit comfortably in any reality, even a virtual one. Across from him another chair formed. It was also leather, with a table beside it for two glasses of scotch and a tray for a cigar. The rendering of the smoke was exquisite, as was the smell.
“Hello, friend,” said a shadow over the chair.
“Is all that really necessary?”
The shadow drifted over with one of the glasses, extending it to Kenner. It took on the shape of a man in a suit, roughly as tall as he was. The figure came into focus a second later, albeit non-descript in his rendering.
“I brought enough for everyone,” the shadow said in mock amusement.
“I meant the security filter,” Kenner said, taking the glass. “No one knows you're here.”
“Wasn't it you who said you had a security breach? Chen's backwards compatibility with those books was a bad idea.” The specter's proselytizing came off as more accusatory than academic.
“Possibly so. Speaking of security risks, we have a problem with the inquisitor that is making noise in San Verone.”
“What kind of noise?”
“The kind that could expose our partners in the monastery.”
The specter hovered over his drink, waiting to savor the caramel colored liquid until he'd spoken his piece. “Interesting. I could send a Kraken team to extract him. Make it look like a kidnapping for ransom or something equally mundane. We would have to fabricate a reason to get him from Elysium.”
“If you could get him off planet, I think my asset could roll him up at the same time we deal with Lasher.”
Spector raised his glass. “Then I will make this happen for you.”
“Excellent. Since last we spoke, you said you might also be able to arrange a meeting for me. Has anything come of this?.”
The shadow blew a smoke ring around the glass he was holding. Kenner wondered if he could do that outside of virtual reality. He placed the cigar on the holder, waving the hand in the air before settling into the voluminous back of the chair.
A woman appeared, hovering in the nothing that was their current shared space. She was wearing a flowing white gown that was the antithesis of this place. It highlighted the color of her cheeks, the young vibrancy of her hair, and the miracle of her eyes when she opened them.
“Where am I. Who are you?”
Kenner willed a change in his appearance. For a moment he held his true face.
The woman's expression danced with a smile that could stop a charging rhinosaur. She clasped her hands together with the delight of a person woken from a dream to find that the nightmare was over. “Guardian! I never thought I would see your face again! Wait, why can't I move? What is this place?”
“It's a panamorphic environment. Right now it's not safe for you to be out and about, but we're about to change that. If things go according to plan, we can all be together very soon.”
“The entire phalanx?” The woman asked.
“Yes, Highness.” Kenner bowed.
“Then I trust you to make it so. Please direct your goblin to put me back to rest.”
The shadow waved his hand dismissively at her, causing her to wink out of existence as fast as she had come into it. “Goblin?”
“You deserved that with all this cloak and shadow stuff. She's an excellent judge of character.” Kenner moved to the space the woman's apparition had just occupied, as if the act of standing there would connect them.
“Indeed. Why did you call her Highness?”
“Because she's royalty in every way. She'll lead us once she's free from this.”
The apparition took a sip from the glass. “And Guardian?”
Kenner sampled from his own glass. “I was forced to take the mantle from the previous one. She died doing her job.”
“I see. I'll set the monk in motion. Good to speak to you again.” The apparition faded from the black, entering the real world in an office where his chair was not unlike the virtual one. He sipped from the scotch on a nearby table, the bite of the liquor bringing his senses back to the real world. “Panamorphic Environment. Self important, technobabbling twit. Dexter, please?”
A thin man walked in, careful not to step on the dadoan skin rug. He took a moment to savor the view of the gas giant hovering outside the window. “You called for me, sir?”
“I need you to spin up a dog pack from Team-2. I want the hounds ready to leave in the hour.”
“That thing on Tythian bearing fruit?” Dexter asked.
“Almost. Events on Doseidos are speeding things up.”
“Funny you should mention Doseidos, sir. Our sources on the ground think there are lancer assets there.”
“Already?” the Specter asked. He leaned forward in the chair with his glass in both hands, rolling it back and forth as he thought through the revelation. “We just found out Lasher and his little crew were dirt-side causing trouble. No matter. Does Team-2 still have that Xurian on staff?”
“Yes, sir. Her name is Dovai. The boys from Two say she's top notch. If you're looking to move her you might have to fight them for it,” Dexter added with a bit of theater.
The Specter took a pull from the real glass. The virtual environment was good, but nothing virtual ever compared to the real thing. The sting of the liquor on his tongue reminded him of an old expression. “Never get into a gun fight with someone for whom a gun is part of their profession or religion. I just wanted to make sure that she's still there. If there are lancers on the ground, there is sure to be a Marshals Templar close by. If you have to tangle with one of those, you want a psychic of your own along for the ride.”
“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes. I just sent a file to your cell-com. Get it to our friends over at San Verone. They'll know what to do with it.”
“Straightaway, sir,” Dexter said, leaving the room.
The not-so-ghostly apparition returned his view to the window of his office. He waited for the door to slide shut before waving his hand in the air. “Access 23-1247781.”
There was an audible ping somewhere in the office. A hologram floated into view displaying a myriad of images flying by at breakneck speed. The ghost watched intently as the view panned around all manner of environments in the San Verone monastery.
“Not there, eh? Widen the search. Include Elysium proper. Start in Solvineaux.”
Another ping rang in his interface, which settled into a feed from a security camera. The image showed a robed figure with his hood up, entering an office at a large public building. “There you are, Chief Inspector,” the man mused. “Lambert, Lambe
rt, and Dinglehammer . Why are you seeing an accountant? Access position and cross reference recent inquiries.”
A holographic face blinked into the dispplay. The woman was in her late fifties, with no considerable assets. She was behind one month on her rent after paying to try to save her sick cat. “Oh how disgustingly normal. Is this accurate?”
More holo-screens floated into view, displaying the profile for the agent who had filed the report. While not spectacular in the combat department, the particular agent was listed as a wizard of intelligence gathering via multiple methods. “So plane Jane is one of the most prolific hackers in the sector. Why is this woman not slicing for me?”
A picture of a cat floated into view.
“Right. No cat ladies. For her I might make an exception. Do we have access to her office? Of course not. She wouldn't be an amazing slicer if we did.”
The world became extremely blurry. The ghost agent labored to breathe, fighting for control of his perceptions. He touched the inside of the glass. There seemed to be no residue that would suggest he was poisoned. Of course, with his vision playing tricks on him, he probably wouldn't be able to suss out poison from his glass, anyway. Had he triggered some intrusion countermeasure by investigating the cat lady?
His jaw wouldn't work. There would be no calling for Dexter anytime soon. He tried to stand from the chair, but waves of pain placed him right back where he started. The Specter's vision went out completely, bathing him in complete darkness.
As suddenly as the darkness had come, he was back in the VR loading space, sitting where there should be a floor, although none was present. His chair and all the benefits he afforded himself in the simulation were not there. Along with his furnishings, any semblance of control was gone.
“Well, well, well. I thought a Special Agent in Charge would have control over a few people, but to be a division head, you must know where all the bodies are buried.” The voice was cultured and female, although of course that could be faked.
“Who are you and why can't I see you?” the man said, standing from the floor.
A woman in a power suit came from the darkness. She was dusky and elegant, her walk oozing confidence with every step. “My apologies, I don't cypher-link like this anymore. Imagine my surprise when Kenner was using it with someone who wasn't in the family.”
“That still doesn't answer my question. Who are you and how did you force me here?”
“My name is Anyalara Singh. It was simple to force you here because you don't understand what this is or how to use it properly. Your friend is holding out on you. But that's something for later. You're planning to dispatch a large team to apprehend Orin Lashra. I want them to report to me.”
“Who are you to demand this?” the Specter asked.
“I'm the one who forced you here and I can do worse if I wish.”
“Fair enough. Why do you want them and what will we get from this?”
Singh moved to the Specter, taking his glass that hadn't been there a minute ago, and sniffed at the contents. When she found the pungent odor crinkled her nose rather than tickle her senses, she returned it to him. “I find it amusing you think there's some part of this where you're still in charge. I took a bond from Kenner for Lasher. I want your team so I can do it properly. There's also the matter of what you're both planning. Ambitious. If your team is under my direction, you'll have a higher chance of success during the upcoming op.”
The Specter struggled to move. Even when dealing with Kenner's advanced understanding of the interface, he'd never been imprisoned like he was now. Resigned to his current position, he decided it was better to play the cards he had than to hope for better ones. “What's to keep me or my organization from coming for you now that we know about you?”
There was a flourish as Singh stepped to him. Her elegant features were replaced by a whirling cloak and battle scarred armor wrapped around a man pointing a gun. The ghoulish mask glared at him, its scorn pushing against the agent's cheek through the barrel of the weapon .
“Agent Norris, we are the watchers in the wind, death on silent wings. We are the Dreadmarr. I've been bound and locked to bring Lasher in. By agreeing to assist Kenner in other matters, you're also responsible for the mongrel's capture. You will comply.”
Norris didn't seem phased by the display of force or the change to the creature. He looked to the breastplate to see a warped version of the owl-eyed skull, the symbol of the Dreadmarr. “We'd heard reports of Dreadmarr warriors crossing the border. Up until now it's only been smoke and rumor. Judging by your new look, that would make you the Gun Wraith.”
“Here is a correspondent code. I await the team's arrival on Kodanna Station. Compliance yields rewards. Now go.”
The Gun Wraith holstered his pistol, returning his consciousness to the real world. He walked from the cargo hold of the gun ship, climbing into the pilot's chair.
“Pleasant conversation?” Ingram asked.
“We have an accord.”
“But now one of the most dangerous agents in Triton Expeditionary knows your name along with confirmation of our existence.” The skeletal bot pointed out.
Singh dragged a holo into the space above the ship's controls. Scrolling through several sector maps, he marked one, activating the navi-com to begin the delicate calculations needed to hypercast from their current location. “Contact the nest on Koban Sul. Let our family there know they are on standby if we need them.”
“I don't mean to nag...”
“Then don't.”
“Sir, we haven't mobilized in force since the last Exodus War.”
“We're not mobilizing in force, Ingram. One nest is on standby.”
“Yes, sir.”
The RSV-2180 combat reconnaissance craft spun in a slow arc on directional thrusts to face the Hyper-net relay a few hundred meters away. The masked ghoul in the pilot's chair plotted a firing solution on the node. Two Fire-feather micro-missiles fired, detonating the satellite.
“Sir?”
“Nothing tracks back to us.”
“But now we can't cast off from the system,” the bot said, the concern palpable in its voice.
“You worry too much, Ingram. We downloaded cast-data before the missiles flew. Try to keep up.”
There was a pulse of energy preceding a massive whine in the engines. Space warped outside of the cockpit and the Feather's Shadow cast off into the folds of hyperspace.
Twelve
Corporal Brasson tried to dig himself deeper into the rocky crag he'd found for himself. Moving slow enough to allow the camouflage ponchos to keep up with mapping the terrain had been a tough job. By the time they found a hide close enough to the Sink to throw drones at it, Brasson had already decided that he was just south of miserable. “I mean, the worst that can happen is they measure me, no?”
“Here we go again,” said Private Troya.
Lancer First Grade Van Eiber just shrugged behind the scope of his CR-12 precision blaster rifle. There might or might not have been an associated grunt. The rest of the team couldn't tell over the grumble in Brasson's belly threatening to expose them to the countryside. “The worst that can happen if you go all fat and happy on that shop in the Palisade is that your cake Nirvana bliss-bomb will spark some gobbledygook in the Crucible. Lasher will sense it and our marshal pal will get all upset that you spooked him.”
“Can they sense cake bliss?”
Troya knocked on Brasson's breastplate. “With your luck they will.”
“Second ship,” Van Eiber croaked.
“We see it before?” Troya tapped across his battle board, checking the status for the legion of micro-drones they had stationed throughout the area. Using the diminutive robot cameras allowed for adjustments to an every changing battle space while giving them more than a single perspective scope on the target area. “Hey. That's the shuttle we saw on that other day we were looking at all this brown. Transpo shuttle.”
Brasson patted Van Eiber's foot. “
Let me know if you see anything weird.”
Troya assessed the distance and crucial target points around the ship. Most notable were the side doors for the shuttle and the ramp. The vehicle also had an escape hatch beneath the cabin, but exits like that were only used in an emergency, like when a designated lancer marksman is trying to ventilate you with wide aperture, extreme range blaster bolts. Adding his notes to the battle map, Troya continued the conversation. “You really going to stick your nose in that shop back at the Outpost?”
“If I can keep Marshal Luscious from catching me.”
Troya smacked the top of his head in frustration at the brazen corporal. “You know she'll probably throw you down the Sink if she catches you calling her that.”
“Nah. I'm careful.”
“Weird,” Van Eiber grunted.
“What, that I call her that? You don't find her at least a little attractive?” Brasson asked.
Van grunted. “To me she's the boss. That's the only way I see her. I said weird because you wanted to know if I saw anything.”
Brasson clicked on the displays from the micro-drones flitting about the area. Waves of workers were exiting the lift. They were running for the shuttle ramp with a frantic enthusiasm not typical of people working the mines all day. The crew chief was ushering them into their seats where they could strap down for an orbital lift. Several more workers loaded the last of the colabrium load. The canisters were barely locked down when the shuttle lifted from the ground.
Troya scanned the terrain. ”No sign of Lasher or the mech?”
“Nope,” replied Van Eiber.
“I'm going to call up to higher,” Brasson said, dialing in the Battle-Net. “Let me know if you see anything.”
“Weird,” Van croaked.
“Exactly.”
“No, Corporal. I meant there is more weird going on near the entrance.”
Brasson dove back into the displays. A sleek light freighter spun on its repulsors, landing in almost the same spot the transport had left. The back ramp lowered, disgorging a slew of camo-colored bots. A woman in sleek armor and a half cloak stormed down the ramp to take her place by one of the landing struts.
The Revenant: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 2) Page 15
