Lord Banshee- Fugitive

by Russell O Redman

  They were old enough to remember when the Spooks had real ethics and Legal Intelligence had reported to the Earth instead of to the Governor. They had grumbled under Ngomo’s early policies, complained as the counterproductive violence escalated, and finally refused to obey an order to bomb an elementary school.

  The rebels had built a munitions factory in a building excavated immediately beside the school, separated by a wall of sandstone just thick enough to muffle the noise. The rebels surely hoped the school would provide cover for the factory. It did not. Ngomo and his senior commanders did not care if children died, reasoning that the children of vipers were just juvenile vipers. It was easier to gain access to the school and plant a massive bomb on the wall next to the factory than to gain access to the factory itself. There was no need to evacuate the school, which would only warn the traitors that the factory had been discovered.

  The two had come to me for help, having heard that I ran a pipeline out of the service. No one resigned during the Incursion; death was the only excuse accepted for failure. I arranged for them to die. They made an unusually large bomb, loading with shrapnel. The visible trigger was a timer mechanism I supplied that was known to be faulty and was manufactured by a company owned by one of Ngomo’s lieutenants. The real trigger was a comm unit buried deep in the shrapnel sheath of the bomb where it would be destroyed in the explosion.

  They packed their pressure suits beside the bomb in a septic tunnel that ran past both the school and factory, as though they had been on the way to plant the bomb in the school. They waited nearby to detonate it when they knew no one was in the tunnel. The explosion breached the wall into an adjacent steam tunnel, releasing a flood of sewage that carried the shattered suits two hundred metres until it burst out of the steam tunnel into a public street.

  The munitions factory was subsequently abandoned because of the intense police scrutiny. Ngomo was satisfied and considered the loss of two crack agents with long service records to be a small price for achieving the objective. The use of the defective timer discouraged Ngomo’s lieutenants from inquiring too closely about the failure to hit the factory itself or about the absence of body parts in the suits.

  After the blast, the two disappeared and hid for three weeks until I could fulfill my part of the arrangement by arranging transport off Mars. I had not cared where the two of them went, so long as it could not be tied back to me. I gave them false ID’s and enough money for a pair of all-expenses-paid tickets on a liner of their choice heading anywhere. It was all at the Governor’s expense, concealed behind layer after layer of secret accounts I created that implicated everyone but me. I had felt like a Kid again when I set the system up, but of course everyone in the Governor’s administration had their own versions to siphon off public money for their private purposes.

  There were very few liners going anywhere by that time. The money I supplied probably bought a working berth on a freighter heading into the Belt. From there, they had ultimately escaped to the Moon, hiding in the deep levels where no one would report a pair of quiet, eccentric friends living out their senior years in peace. The Censor had been right to block me from discussing them in front of the team, and I would have to be careful in reporting that incident to retain the illusion that they had died because of the defective timer.

  They paid for the transport by giving me access codes to the secret archives of the Spooks, which I needed to ensure my own advancement in the Governor’s service. Those archives showed me how badly I had been misled, how deeply implicated I had become in criminal activities that Ngomo had no intention of pardoning. I was to be sacrificed to the Martian Justice system whenever I became politically inconvenient. The number of hellgates I could recognize in my plans grew explosively after that.

  MacFinn arrived back, thrust a slab of the flavourless imitation food and a bulb of spit-flavoured, med-seasoned beverage into my hands, squirted more of the green death through my mask, and grunted, “Keep y’mask on. I’ll ha words wi ye when ye wake up.”

  He left again, not nearly as chatty as he had been before. I swallowed the food, drank the beverage and slipped into a peaceful, med-induced sleep.

  2357-03-14 13:00

  Irresistible Attraction

  MacFinn woke me with a shove that was rougher than an invalid should have to endure.

  MacFinn/converse, “Wake up! Ye’re broadcastin some dream, and it’s a fierce un. The lass warned me o’this and asked me t’record any that happened, but the rest o’the ship can tell ye’re broadcastin and its runnin through y’meds.”

  I had indeed been dreaming, and as the Ghost I recognized the Cripple’s terror and the Assassin’s callous disregard of other people’s suffering. I choked out a “Thank you,” then forced myself to forget the emotion and quickly reviewed the dream before it faded.

  I returned to the Moon on a Martian warship. I had successfully lied to the Intelligence officer on the ship, but on arrival on the Moon had been put in a holding cell while they tried to sort out the confusion of the viceroy’s arrival. The TDF objected but could do nothing against the viceregal authorities and the masses of Martian troops. Three months later, they took the time to examine all the “liaison officers” and their guests in much closer detail. They quickly realized that I was a dead man who was inexplicably still alive and somehow tied to a major conference of Ministers including many from the senior echelons of Extraterrestrial Affairs.

  The ministers had all mysteriously died at the same time, leaving no bodies that could be identified. Instantly suspicious, they placed the entire Moon under quarantine until my true identity was resolved, stopping all food shipments. As famine set in and people started to die, it became impossible to hide the ministers and their delegations. The Martians at last understood the deceit we had practiced and any goodwill we had earned evaporated in a rage of suspicion and recrimination. The existence of the Banshees was tortured out of the ministers. They tracked the team through every corridor, room and closet, and found Sergei and Toyami. After each discovery, the people who had offered shelter were dragged into a public square and executed by public disembowelment. Leilani and the rest committed suicide. Begum was still Cap of the Columbia, but the Imperium seized the ship and arrested the entire crew at their next fuel stop. Vishnuram was located in northern Tibet and dragged in chains to the Moon. No trials were necessary. They began the public torture and executions of the Ghost Followers, starting with Begum and the entire crew of the Mao and Columbia, including the Arch Follower Wang.

  MacFinn had woken me at that point, but I already knew how the dream would have ended. I had to breathe deeply for several minutes to recover. By then, one of the LR surgeons had arrived in response to the developing medical crisis and squeezed into the room.

  MacFinn said out loud, “Nightmare. Bad un. I recorded it, but I ha bin warned not t’watch it, not even on a wall monitor.”

  I agreed, “What I dream about could get all of you killed. I can tell you that this one was a warning. I cannot ride a Martian ship all the way to the Moon, nor any other transport over which Martian Intelligence will have control. Even Lunar Recovery will probably be forced to wait until the chaos that will attend the arrival of the viceroy has subsided, and then the scrutiny will be intense for anyone attempting to disembark.”

  The LR surgeon looked puzzled. “What kind of warning do you get from a dream? My dreams never make any sense except sometimes psychoanalytically when I am under stress.”

  Same was true of most of mine, but not all of them. “Mine sometimes do. They include realistic simulations of what is likely to happen, starting from some scenario and incorporating all that I know and much that I can reasonably guess. My strongest conclusion is that I must not put Lunar Recovery under any more risk. I should leave this ship as soon as it would not compromise my ultimate recovery, and I need to find some way to disembark at the Moon as a TDF officer from a TDF ship. I must thank Alexander for having left me that option. What happens in be
tween is less obvious.”

  MacFinn replied, “I hope that means ye ha given up on the Martian warship? Can I tell Sa’id that ye said na?”

  The surgeon disagreed, “That might be diplomatically difficult. We have already agreed to travel with them, you and I, our patient here and the two crew from the Columbia. They might get suspicious if we back out now.”

  Thinking ahead, I said, “Then we should go with the Martians. Ask for an honorary escort of TDF ships to bring us into port and have all TDF personnel transfer to the escort to simplify our arrival processing. I expect they will have enough on their hands that they will appreciate the suggestion.”

  The surgeon paused, then replied, “I have passed that suggestion to our Cap who agrees that it would set a good precedent for some of our politically sensitive passengers.”

  Now I had to worry about our reception in practical terms, not just as an intellectual exercise, “We should give some thought to the protocol of the transfer. I am nobody special and need to be treated as just another patient under your care. I am also eager to meet our new friends. Not all of me is equally eager, of course, but I am sure we have much in common.

  “I would really like to start our relations with polite respect. Do we know what different ranks are called on their ships? Do they use Cap, Com, Nav and Eng? What do they call surgeons on the Martian ships? We should at least try to get the honorifics correct.”

  The surgeon frowned a bit, “Those are harder questions than you might imagine. There is always a rank equivalent to captain, and every language has something equivalent, but the Imperium always seems to use the full title Captain, never the abbreviation Cap. From the chatter between ships, the other factions may use chief, boss, or master.

  “The Imperium does not have a rank equivalent to Com, but the nearest equivalent may be Political Officer, which they abbreviate as poloff. It is unclear to us whether the captain or the poloff is in final control of the ship. Again, the factions all have different systems.”

  MacFinn picked up, “The pirates say there’s na distinction equivalent t’the sailor/marine division, which ha only existed in the TDF since the Counterstrike. Admiral Wang considers that distinction t’be artificial and counterproductive and wants t’eliminate it. Commander Sa’id ha bin told t’observe how their crews’re divided and somehow considers this t’be a valuable opportunity. I repeat, though no one seems t’be listenin, ye’re all mad.”

  The surgeon continued, “I believe the Imperium calls their surgeons medics, but we were told to expect healers, nightinggales and sawbones, depending upon which if any of the factions choose to accompany us. I am still not sure how to pronounce sawbones so that it sounds respectful. Also, shamans are sometimes political or religious leaders and sometimes psychiatric advisors.

  “Our orderlies are drawn from the ranks of Eng and marines on a rotation so the everyone has some basic medical training, and we believe the Martians follow a similar system. It is hard to know, however, since the lower ranks are never authorized to speak over the comm and they have not seen fit to explain.

  “The fact is, we do not really know what anyone is called nor even who is in control of the ships. This will be a real cultural experience and should be quite exhilarating. It reminds me a lot of my first visit to the Earth, when I visited five regions with different languages and cultures.”

  It sounded like my first day at university, trying to figure out languages and titles from every region in Noram. Or my first visit to any city on Mars. “So, we wait to be introduced before we address people by name, and we should expect multiple titles for each position, probably with somewhat different duties.”

  The surgeon commented, “Sounds like you have met this kind of situation before.”

  He continued, “I regret making more complexities, but we have had a request from the CI agent who was shot during the pirate attack at LUVN. She is healing nicely and will be able to be discharged when we reach the Moon but feels sufficiently energized that she wants to start work immediately. She is quite distressed that we refuse to let her open external comm channels, which is necessary to prevent our ships from being classed as liners rather than hospitals. She is desperate to contact Langara Unitary for some reason and feels that the Martians may be more amenable to her request. Would you mind terribly if she accompanies us? I will ask that our whole contingent transfer to the TDF on arrival.”

  A small world of possibilities opened for me. “Thank you for that suggestion. I would be delighted to meet a fellow member of Commerce, especially if we share an interest in improving trade within the Imperium.”

  MacFinn/private, “Lad, ye scare me more every time I meet ye. What are ye tryin t’do?”

  Me/converse, “When I was on Mars, the Governor’s policies were mostly designed to keep himself wealthy and powerful. Without the Earth to bolster his rule, he would have been overthrown immediately, and the factions would have fought for dominance following the same evil model. It was the only form of government they knew, and the only reason to have a government.

  “I am trying to give the Imperium better reasons to exist than the power of the autocrat. For the Martian and Belter people, medical care and commerce could both be better under the Imperium than they have been under Extraterrestrial Affairs. Health, prosperity and justice are all better reasons to have a government.”

  MacFinn/converse, “Ye want t’reform the Imperium all by y’self?”

  Me/converse, “No, I have already been warned not to try to punch out the Emperor, but I will raise the issues whenever I can in the hope that someone more competent will pick up the cause.”

  Out loud I said, “I suspect that as mere patients, we two should simply be introduced as members of Commerce under your care. We should probably gather before we go to get our stories straight.”

  The surgeon replied, “That might be difficult. We will be very crowded if we take on our full complement of patients, and it sounds like these patients may be more challenging than usual. It might be best to take a leisurely trip in the transport between ships. I see we are getting close to Valhalla. I had best go and prepare for our new guests.”

  The acceleration alarm sounded out in the hallway as the surgeon slipped back out the door. This was Lunar Recovery, doing what it did best. I was in the hands of the medical gods of space.

  Me/converse, “I am sorry that I am dragging you onto a Martian warship against your will. We will be there for several days, and I will have to take off my mask, so all your good work will have to be redone when we get to the Moon.”

  MacFinn/converse, “Not a chance, lad. Ye’ll be stuck wi that face for a couple o’months. No more surgeries ’til this one’s completely healed. Paint, make-up, clothes and wigs if ye want a disguise. Ye’ve burned up all y’other options.

  “Now, what’s wi these dreams? I only heard o’a couple of agents who could plan in their sleep like that, an they all died years ago. Are the dreams really what’s killin ye? I can suppress them, but it’d affect y’memory, and ye seem to need y’memory more’n most. Ye promised Alexander ye would na go killin y’self, and he made it sound like it’d be my fault if ye do na come back alive. I said it b’fore, travellin wi the Martians is the closest thing t’killin y’self that I can imagine.”

  Me/converse, “The dreams are filled with terror, pain and aching despair. My medical monitor tries to compensate and that is what drains the reservoirs, even if the rest of my body does not need the drugs. When the reservoirs run dry, it is much worse. Alexander understands to some extent what is happening, but it might shorten your life to learn about details that the Martians will want to know. For myself, I need my memory, but want to avoid the worst of the nightmares. Please monitor my mental state very closely while I am sleeping and wake me if my emotional response becomes too extreme. If my Doctor asked you to record the dreams, please do, but do not watch the video, not even projected on a monitor, unless you want to know why I nearly died and what will hap
pen if the Martians kill me prematurely. Do not sample them through your comm unit at all. Two of my team are borderline suicidal because of those dreams. That is why the Columbia is driving so hard to get to the Moon.

  “I absolutely promise that I will not put myself needlessly at risk. But I warn you that some of what I will do to minimize the risk will be unorthodox. I suppose you already understand that.”

  He whistled.

  MacFinn/converse, “That explains some o’the wee lass’s nerves. Ye’re a livin, breathin bundle o’trouble. I’ll take care. Umm... Is that part o’the reason we’re travelin wi the Martians? Blow up there, rather than here?”

  Me/converse, “No. I do not want them to know anything about the dreams. Not for decades, maybe never. I am very sorry Surgeon MacFinn. Knowing me can be dangerous.”

  So, I was going to travel to the Moon on a Martian ship after all. It would be dangerous to travel in the company of a Martian Intelligence officer, but not quite reckless, given where I currently found myself. If I could pull it off, I could gain valuable insights into the real working of the Imperium and subsequently might even be ignored. I had done more outrageous things before, and for less compelling causes. As I tried to think of alternatives, I realized that my normal image of the Path, a branching walkway paved with golden bricks that looped through rolling hills of tall grass, had been replaced in my imagination by a single writhing line of razor wire as hot as the sun, threading into the mouth of a vortex of churning hellgate. I could not see the end to tell whether it broadened into multiple options or vanished into damnation without ever completing the Mission. I only knew I had no other choices.