The Aggressive (Book 1 of the Titanwar saga): A science fiction thriller

by Gem Jackson

  “Fawkes, this is Catesby. We are receiving you. We’re all very impressed with your work, Fawkes. A job well done.”

  “I appreciate that. Listen, there has been a slight complication on the orbital chemical facility. I’ve made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. It will need some clearing up, but I think this could benefit you.”

  The radio went quiet again. A long pause.

  “Could you clarify, please?”

  “You’ll see for yourself. There’s an APSA agent loose. She has a hunch about what’s happened and why. She spilled the beans to a bunch of engineers at the chemical facility. However, she arrived on the Aggressive. If you can get the CCTV footage from the orbital control room, you should be able to manipulate it to show her, rather than me, doing some unpleasant things. As an added bonus, she’s almost certainly an ultra. That should be sufficient to discredit her before she goes public. It should play well into the narrative: APSA warship transports spy across solar system to wreck infrastructure.”

  “Understood, Fawkes. We’ll discuss further during debriefing.”

  Anton chuckled.

  “That’s a negative, Catesby. I’m afraid your debriefing will have to press on without me. I’m sure you’ll cope.” He stopped walking. “You’ve got a week to get the rest of the money into the account. I don’t want to sour an otherwise fine working relationship, but please remember, I know where you live and what your kids look like. Fuck me over and I’ll make you count as I cut off each of their tiny fingers.”

  He turned off the radio and slipped it back into his pocket. There were a few more calls to make, but they could wait.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 29 – September

  They almost didn’t make it back to the Aggressive. It was all Tem could do to get to the shuttle. After struggling aboard, things went south fast.

  “You’re going into shock,” Ramachandran told her.

  No shit Sherlock.

  But a gunshot wound to the left hand? She grasped at her knowledge of field trauma management. Shock from a low velocity handgun round was bad. Shock meant she’d lost a lot of blood. Maybe a litre? That was worrying.

  She passed in and out of consciousness on the trip back. Every so often she would come round and hear Ramachandran arguing with someone over the comm.

  “Just give us an hour… We’ve got the evidence… Yes, for all of them.”

  Darkness again.

  She dreamed of Mallorca and her house, nestled among the winding streets of Alcúdia on the north of the island. The sun beat down on her skin, making her face and arms hot to the touch. Or maybe that was just a fever? She stepped out of her front door, onto the baking street where the light reflecting off the whitewashed buildings momentarily blinded her. There was nobody about, which wasn’t unusual as tourists rarely made it this far back into the town. She had forgotten her shoes, but that didn’t matter. Though the cobbles were scorching, her callused feet had long become accustomed to the discomfort of stepping across the hot midday stones.

  Wind whipped her hair as she flew along the road, heading north to the beach. She was driving her car; an old convertible from the early 2100’s, engineered with manual acceleration and steering. It had been a good day when she bought it. An extravagance that served no practical purpose except to indulge her desire to be in control rather than delegate to an AI. It was beautiful; red with a cream leather interior. She steered with one hand and lifted the other into the air-stream passing above, waggling her fingers as it buffeted them this way and that.

  The car door slammed with a satisfying clunk. She was at the beach, but the sun had gone. The sky was striped grey with layer upon layer of dense cloud. This wasn’t the beach at Mantellina. It was barren. The sand was damp and thick rather than soft and bright as she remembered it. This was closer to mud. She recognised the place—Morecambe bay in the north of England. She had been once, a few years ago, following up a lead at the Skyworks ship yards. They were a major manufacturer of commercial vessels. Huge construction platforms had been built above the waterline on which spacecraft were pieced together. It made sense given the area's historical expertise in submarine building. The expanse of the bay stretched out before her, dominated by two half-completed freightliners sitting atop their scaffolds. A dozen sparks lit up the side of the hulks as men and women went about finishing the ships. Eventually, the vessels would be T-jumped away in thunderclap launches that drew crowds from miles around.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  “Your teeth.” The answer came from behind. She turned to see Anton stood patiently. “Give them to me.” He held out a hand. His skin was dry and cracked. It was as if he were covered in a thin film of dust.

  “You want my teeth?”

  “I’m here to collect,” he said.

  She ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth, feeling each row of teeth in turn. They didn’t feel right. She clamped her jaws together a couple of times and felt crumbling. She spat hard fragments out and rooted around sharp, bloody gaps with her tongue.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  Her molars began to come away. First in pieces and then each tooth as a whole, snapping away from the roots and falling from her mouth. One by one they fell from her. She dropped to the ground and scratched in the sand to recover them, but it was no use. The teeth sank faster than she could dig. She scooped heaps of mud aside, but as she went deeper, thick, sticky liquid oozed up and filled the hole, stinking of rusty nails and shit.

  She looked up at Anton.

  “Thank you,” he said. In his outstretched palm he held a small mound of teeth, white and clean in the salty air.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Look.” He pointed at the half-constructed ships in the middle of the bay. With an ear-splitting crack, the scaffolds collapsed, tipping the enormous metal construction into the ground. Her mouth filled with dark blood seeping from her broken gums. She spat the blood onto the ground, but it kept coming, faster and faster, so she had to hold her face downward to stop herself choking and drowning.

  “It’s all falling apart,” said Anton. He away and made off. She cried after him as he walked away, and tried to follow, crawling after him on her knees, but it was no use; the sand had her hands up to her wrist and was sucking her in deeper. She pulled one hand free, but in doing so flipped over and sank up to her hips in the muck. Still, she choked. The sand was up to her chest by the time she saw the roiling cloud of debris thundering toward her from where the ships had crashed into the bay. Before she could scream, it engulfed her, completing her entombment in an avalanche of wet sand.

  Darkness again.

  Tem awoke. She was in a bed. It was soft and comfortable. With one hand she groped around to get a feel for her surroundings. She half expected sand and grit beneath her fingertips. There was none, only thin, starched sheets and a cold bed frame. Gradually she came to her senses. Her left hand was numb, though the arm ached further up as far as her shoulder. The hand and forearm were heavily bandaged. There was a cannula in her right forearm, just below the crook of her elbow. It was bruised around the entry point, where tape fixed it to her skin. It was a scrappy job, not very neat. There was dried blood dotted further up, suggesting it had been done in a rush. She checked the colour—orange—and uttered an expletive.

  “You lost a lot of blood.” It was Ramachandran. She was sat away from the bed, relaxed and smiling.

  “But an orange cannula? Fuck. How much did I lose?”

  “About a litre and a half by the time she got you here,” said a woman at the far end of the room. She didn’t look like a doctor; she looked like a mercenary. It was something about the large rifle strapped across her back that gave it away.

  “That’s a helluva weapon you got there,” said Tem. “Worried that I’m going rush you?”

  The woman shrugged. “We didn’t know who we were getting. I wasn’t taking
any chances.”

  “Where am I?”

  “We’re on the Aggressive,” said Ramachandran. “You’re in the medical bay.”

  That made sense. It was a relief. She didn’t fancy her chances the Titan forces got hold of her.

  “I guess we’re even now, doc.” She looked at her hand again. It was a mess. There was a lot of blood around the bandages. It would need cleaning and re-dressing before long. “Hell, the way things went, I guess I owe you my life.”

  “Don’t thank me for that, all I did was get you here,” said the scientist.

  Tem looked at the mercenary. “You?”

  She shrugged. “Four years of medical school on Ceres.”

  “They give you that on graduation?” She flicked her eyes towards the rifle.

  “Fuck, if it bothers you that much, I’ll take it off.” The mercenary yanked off her latex gloves and pulled the rifle over her head before setting it down next to Ramachandran. “I know you said she could be a bit of a bitch sometimes,” she said to Ramachandran, “but Jove, that’s fast work.”

  “Look I’m sorry. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “No problem,” said the mercenary. “I’m Sleet by the way.”

  “Good to meet you, Sleet. Shame about the circumstances.” She looked at the bandaged hand again. “I presume I was shot? I’m a little shaky on what happened.”

  “Yes,” said Ramachandran. “The diplomat’s gun went off when you kicked his teeth through the back of his head.”

  “He’s not a diplomat.”

  “No. I suppose he isn’t.”

  “I didn’t manage to kill him, did I?”

  Ramachandran laughed. “Doubtful, I’m afraid. We can always hope.”

  Sleet clapped her hands together and looked at the two of them. “Your hand is pretty fucked up, I’m afraid. I did what I could to get rid of the broken tissue and bone. Luckily the bullet passed straight through, so there’s no issue there. It’s packed pretty well at the minute, but if you’re going to recover any functionality, you’ll have to get to a specialist fast.” She walked slowly towards the exit. “I’ve given the doc here your antibiotics. Infection is the biggest risk now. I’ll pop back later. If you’re feeling strong, we’re all in the control room.”

  Sleet left the room before marching back in, picking up her gun, apologising, and leaving again.

  Tem and Ramachandran looked at each other and laughed.

  “Is she okay?” asked Tem.

  “As far as I can tell,” said Ramachandran. “She did a good job with you, that’s for sure. Took a hell of a lot of persuading to get us on-board in the first place though. They do not like strangers, this lot.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that they want to get away from Titan as soon as possible and that makes them all right by me.”

  It was a fair point. For the first time, she took a good look at herself. She still wore her boots and trousers, though her top had been cut off, leaving her in just her bra. It wasn’t even a good bra.

  “I’ve lost him, haven’t I?” said Tem. Ramachandran looked at her with a quizzical expression. “Biarritz, I mean.”

  “I’d say it was more the other way around.” She got up from the chair and stood by the bed. “By the sounds of it he left the Aggressive and came to the orbital just to kill you. He could have just disappeared, never to be seen again, but he didn’t; he needed you dead.” She swept her hand over Tem’s prone form. “He failed. You’re still here. You have the evidence you need to show everyone who he is and what he has done. That sounds like winning to me. Wherever he is right now, I don’t imagine he is happy.”

  Tem reached over and took hold of Ramachandran’s hand and squeezed.

  “Have you had any more thoughts about what you’re going to do now?” asked Tem.

  Ramachandran snorted. “You mean in between tracking down a terrorist, getting into gun fights and dragging your sorry ass back? No, I haven’t really given it much thought.”

  Tem let go of her hand. It would be easy to let Biarritz go. To hand the case over, or let it get lost amidst the confusion of war. It didn’t seem right—it would mean failing Tariq. Mole or not, she owed him. She knew enough about Biarritz to appreciate how he manipulated people. It wasn’t enough to pin the crime on him; he had to face justice, and she should be the one to do it.

  “Well, the pay ain’t great, and the company can be shit half the time, but if you’re up for it, I could use your help to bring that son of a bitch to heel. Are you up for it?”

  “You mean a job? As a detective?” She scrunched her face up.

  “More of a scientific advisor. I’ve always been budgeted for a handful of staff, but except for a partner here and there, I haven’t used it. Without you, I’d have nothing on Biarritz. Shit, he’d have my head as a fucking trophy. I could use your help.”

  The scientist ran both hands back through her tangled hair as she weighed it up.

  “Okay. Count me in.”

  After Ramachandran left to find something to eat, Tem hobbled out bed and found her tablet. Unsurprisingly there were dozens of messages requiring urgent attention, however, one stood out from the rest: Mission critical update—parameter change.

  Navigating clumsily with one hand—and a cannula tugging at her arm—she unencrypted the message and read:

  From: APSA Intelligence Agency

  To: Agent September Long

  Subject: Mission critical update—parameter change

  Disregard all previous communications regarding your operation objective.

  In light of serious allegations that have surfaced regarding your actions around Titan, you are hereby ordered to cease and desist all activities surrounding and in relation to the pursuit and apprehension of Anton Biarritz or any persons in any way connected to him.

  Your new mission objectives are as follows:

  Primary: Return to Earth or any nearby APSA military or civil facility as soon as possible and, having given notice, surrender yourself to law enforcement agencies.

  Secondary: Assist in the return of the illegally captured APSA military vessel ‘Aggressive’ to suitable authorities as soon as possible.

  Please note that failure to comply with the primary objective and/or frustration of the secondary objective shall entail the most serious of consequences for your professional and personal wellbeing.

  APSA Intelligence Agency Command

  She read it again. Then a third time, searching for some hidden meaning. There was nothing. The instruction was clear—stand down. It was an insane order. What had she missed? What had she done? In light of serious allegations that have surfaced regarding your actions around Titan? What did that mean? It was no good panicking. Better to choose a thread and start unravelling.

  They were still well within the Saturn system, so picking up news media wasn’t difficult. Most of it was focused on the upcoming war and the conflict between the Aggressive and the Titan ship. It was practically the same news cycle she had seen on the orbital facility, rolling on and on in an unending loop of dour condemnation and guesswork.

  Then she saw it. A story tucked beneath the main news headlines: ‘Mass murder on Titan orbital—APSA to blame?’

  Accompanying the story was a snippet of grainy CCTV footage taken from inside the chemical facility control room. It showed a figure standing above the sleeping engineers. They knelt down, apparently speaking to one of them—was it Aspen?—and then a flurry of activity. The figure lashed out at two of the prone figures before standing up and drawing a gun, at which point the clip froze and zoomed in to the figure's face. While not perfect, the image was clear; it showed her. A clearer picture appeared in the corner with her name underneath. Agent September Long. It was the image taken when they first arrived at the orbital.

  The article was brutal. It blamed her for half a dozen murders in the chemical facility control room and cast her as an agent provocateur, sent by APSA to wreck
Titan facilities as the Aggressive instigated a war. It went further:

  Sources close to APSA intelligence suggest that agent Long is no ordinary spy, but is in fact an ‘ultra’. The ‘Ultra’ programme, from the 2110s, was supposed to create a group of genetically modified ‘super-humans’ to populate key government agencies. After a series of high-profile killings, the psychological stability of the so-called ‘ultras’ was called into question and the programme was quietly mothballed. Current events suggest that APSA may not have abandoned the programme entirely as they continue to use these unstable super-humans as weapons of war.

  Her secret was out. Everyone would know she was an ultra, now. It was the PR disaster that had hung over her career for the best part of a decade. She was being accused of murdering the five engineers. The footage had been faked, obviously, but proving it would be next to impossible as long as APSA and Titan were in conflict. Plus, even if she could show she wasn’t responsible, it would be the end of her career. She had long accepted that, as an ultra, she would be kept out of the limelight. There would be no high-profile cases or promotions, no matter how good her record was. But the stink of something like this? No wonder APSA wanted her brought in and under control. Her career was over.

  She read the message from APSA again. It was clear now why they were taking the allegations so seriously, why they weren’t giving her a chance to explain. She remembered Anton goading her before they escaped, casting Tariq as a traitor, a double agent. Anton knew they had his name. That was information he could only have known if there was a traitor in her department. When did he learn she was an ultra? Had he kept it in his pocket, ready to destroy her when she became too inconvenient?