Storm Warning

by Jaxon Reed

  “What can our organization do for you, Ms. Stormy?”

  “I have a quest. The reward is in a locker. I’ll give the combination with confirmation upon completion.”

  The old man nodded.

  He said, “How much?”

  “I’m offering 50,000 credits.”

  “That’s a little low. But we might have some players willing to participate at that level. Who is on your list?”

  It was far safer to meet and arrange things like hits on people inside online games like Honor Guard than in real life.

  Here, words like “assassination” would not set off alarm bells. Arranging hits was a common enough quest in Honor Guard that a word search on player transcripts would not flag anything.

  “Dirk. The arms dealer.”

  It occurred to her at that moment that she did not know Dirk’s last name. Or if he even used one.

  Tarleton nodded. Dirk was apparently known to them.

  He said, “The organization accepts your quest. We will expect the location of the locker and its combination upon confirmation of the quest’s completion.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  In real life, a coded message made its way through a clandestine communications system via old school encrypted emails.

  The beauty of this system lay in its double protection. If the digital encryption were ever breached by law enforcement, they would only uncover coded text using a one-time use key. That message would remain frustratingly short and also difficult to decipher. Even with so much protection, its contents remained deliberately vague.

  Hundreds of assassins in Octavia and throughout Diego received the following message: “Dirk. The Projects. 50K.”

  16

  Dirk woke up early and let Spargle’s house droid prepare him a meal. And coffee. The bot was dressed like a butler and acted like one.

  Once he was sure the old Verberger unit understood what he wanted, he wandered off to the bathroom to change into something more suitable for public appearances.

  The bot, like the one stationed at the door, was an older model. In days long past, Verberger and other droid manufacturers struggled to create realistic eyes on service units. Older models featured what were derisively called “spooky eyes.”

  It turned into a selling point for newer models when the company upgraded their lineup. With a terrific ad campaign, Verberger convinced thousands of customers to trade in their old models for new ones.

  Dirk remembered the ad’s tagline: “Eyes like mine!”

  But the house bot, like the old guard bot, predated realistic eyes. It dolefully puttered around the kitchen when Dirk returned, bringing the plate over from the stove with two eggs, sunny side up, an English muffin topped with butter, and a heaping portion of fried poshbird imported from Lute.

  “Your meal, sir.”

  “Thanks. Is the coffee ready?”

  “I will bring you a mug, sir.”

  Dirk sat down and opened his personal holo to watch the morning news.

  He preferred La Galaxia, a media organization that aligned with leftist political parties. It was the largest socialist media outlet on Diego, in fact. Their coverage was heavily slanted against the current coalition in Parliament and they had published opinion articles in favor of the League during the run-up to war.

  This morning, their anchors were griping about yet another perceived slight Chancellor Cole had made against the League. They transitioned to slamming Admiral Severs for his “alleged” involvement in recent nightclub shootings as well as dancing drunk in the street with prostitutes.

  “Is this really who we want running our government?” One of the artificial anchors said. “I’ll be voting for someone else.”

  Dirk smiled as he swallowed the last bite of poshbird. The anchors were constructs. “Mario,” the male anchor who angrily made the statement about voting, had not changed the way he looked for at least 20 years.

  “Visual images do not vote,” Spargle said, coming into the kitchen.

  Dirk muted the volume and smiled at his host.

  He said, “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “I’ve gotten to where I don’t watch the news. It’s so hard to find a good channel, you know? They’re all so biased.”

  Dirk shrugged.

  He said, “So, find one that aligns with your own political leanings.”

  “Ha! But sometimes I wish to know both sides.”

  “So, find another that takes the opposite stance and listen to them too.”

  “Ah, but then the day is half over, Dirk, wasted by listening to opinions. I do not wish to constantly hear all sides and try and track down where the truth may lie, which is often somewhere in between. It’s easier to simply ignore the news.”

  Dirk shrugged again. He liked La Galaxia. The editorials neatly aligned with his own political beliefs, and he felt little need to hear the other side’s position on any given argument.

  He said, “I have imposed on you enough, old friend. Thank you for putting me up for the night. But now I am going to cash in some more IOUs with other people, and see about trying to track down the woman who did this to me.”

  “But of course. It is only good business to help out my old vendors in their days of trouble. You are welcome to call on me at any time. And perhaps, when you get reestablished, you can extend to me a steep discount on some needed item or two. I have long been out of the Order’s business, but I find myself in need of money these days. Perhaps I will jump back in with some gadget of yours that will give me a leg up on the competition.”

  Dirk nodded vigorously.

  He said, “Absolutely. I will not forget your help in my hour of need, Carl, old friend.”

  A notification flashed via Spargle’s implant, a tiny envelope. It was an older model implant, of course. Notifications in these pre-war versions appeared as tiny holos projected from under the ear. Newer models showed notification in the mind’s eye of the user, offering a more private interface.

  “Ah, you must excuse me, Dirk. Work is calling. Or sending a message, rather. And I truly need to work these days. I just need to access my secure terminal for a moment.”

  “Don’t mind me. Go right ahead and take whatever time you need. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”

  Dirk pushed his plate back and let the droid butler take it away. He leaned back in his chair and motioned for it to refill his coffee mug.

  The droid saw him and grabbed the pot. It turned, slowly but steadily carrying the container to the table.

  Thip!

  The tiny bolt flew wide, and took out the coffee pot instead of Dirk’s head. Hot liquid and glass splattered everywhere.

  Dirk turned and stared wide-eyed at his host.

  Spargle stood with a small concealable handgun, barely bigger than his fist, pointed at Dirk.

  “Sorry, old friend. Duty calls. You have a price on your head, and I’m afraid I desperately need the money.”

  He squeezed the trigger as Dirk jumped off the chair.

  Thip!

  The tiny bolt sailed over Dirk’s head.

  On the floor, Dirk kicked with both feet, sending the chair flying into Spargle.

  The older man stepped back with the impact and fired again, sending his third bolt into the ceiling.

  Dirk scrambled to his feet and ran out of the room. Spargle quickly recovered and ran after him.

  Down a hall, Dirk cut into the doorway of the spare bedroom he had been using.

  Thip!

  The thin bolt narrowly missed his shoulder.

  He raced for his bag and ripped it open, searching for his own blaster.

  Spargle called his security bot from the front door. It clanked over, red eyes round and glowing.

  “Apprehend the visitor. Use deadly force as needed.”

  A compartment in its middle opened and it retrieved an old blaster.

  Its voice came out in an electronic monotone.

  “Yes, sir.”

>   The bot clanked down the hallway heading to the bedroom.

  Spargle yelled, “Give it up, Dirk! You’re no match for my trusted guard bot.”

  Dirk rifled through the rest of his luggage.

  “No grenades. No grenades. Why didn’t I bring any grenades? Here’s the incendiary ones, but . . .”

  The sounds of metallic footsteps clanked closer.

  He checked the power pack in his gun, then raced to the door, flattening his back to the wall.

  It was a long shot, but he thought of a way to defeat the bot without grenades. It all depended on just how old the model was. He thought it was old enough. He thought—

  The steps came to a halt and the bot poked his head through the doorway looking for him.

  Dirk slapped the access pad, triggering the manual override and slamming the door shut on the bot’s neck. He held his blaster to the base of its head, where it connected with the neck.

  He fired at point blank range.

  Thoop! Thoop! Thoop! Thoop! Thoop!

  The circuits fried as the bolts slammed into a vulnerable spot. Red eyes blinked out, and the bot’s body slumped against the door.

  Dirk palmed the pad again and the door opened. The bot collapsed on the floor.

  Spargle’s voice filled with horror.

  “What have you done?”

  Dirk jumped out in the hallway, firing his larger gun.

  He was filled with righteous indignation and had a snarl on his face as he advanced down the hall.

  Thoop! Thoop! Thoopah!

  The bolts slammed into Spargle’s middle, knocking the old man down.

  His hand trembling, Spargle aimed the little handgun at Dirk for a final shot.

  Thip!

  The bolt flew wide in the hall, burning through Dirk’s side instead of his belly. He screamed in pain and rage and shot Spargle in the face.

  Thoop! Thoop!

  He walked over to the bloody corpse and looked down at what was left of the old man.

  Somehow, the ancient implant survived. An email text displayed on Spargle’s personal hologram, still coming out from below what used to be his right ear.

  Dirk bent down to read the decoded text.

  “Dirk. The Projects. 50K.”

  He took a deep breath, thinking. His first thought was, only 50,000 credits? Spargle must have been willing to take it because he knew where Dirk was at the moment. It must have seemed like easy money. It would have been if Carl had not muffed it up.

  But, who put the contract out on him?

  He thought about it for a moment.

  His eyes grew big.

  “Stormy, you bitch.”

  17

  That morning Boggs, Collier and Jamieson stood around the desks in Wilcox’s Eastside building.

  Wilcox cut the connection with her droid back at AOJ HQ and joined in the conversation, letting the trio fill her in on what they learned from the day before.

  Collier summed up the verbal report after the two former corporals concluded.

  “So essentially, ma’am, one of Kraft’s scientists created what is in effect a time machine.”

  “Got it,” Wilcox said. “It combines virtual reality with clone technology and quantum physics. Very neat. Like a lot of other great ideas, it blends existing innovations and uses them in new ways.”

  Jamieson said, “Exactly. Dr. Hsu’s contribution to the whole thing was what he called ocular quantum cellular . . . something or other. But then other members of his team worked diligently to make it more accessible to people using the, uh, time machine clones.”

  “Which Mortie here tried out,” Collier said, smiling at the agent.

  “It was awesome. The experience of a lifetime. I saw and interacted with myself without creating a time paradox or anything.”

  Wilcox furrowed her brows.

  She said, “Yeah, that’s good. But I can’t believe Kraft had a time machine tucked away in a closet all these years and nobody thought to use it. That’s the part that really blows my mind.”

  Jamieson said, “According to Dr. Hsu, war broke out about the same time they finalized everything. The machine got lost in the shuffle. Forgotten in the fog of war, so to speak. They closed the door to the room and moved on to more practical efforts.”

  “He did indicate he was waiting for his own cloned self to show up and say hi,” Collier said. “Since that never happened, he just assumed he had not used the machine yet.”

  Wilcox said, “Still, it seems odd. We’ve got a machine that can send a version of a person’s willful self back to before the war started. It’s just been sitting there all these years. And nobody thinks this is a bad idea?”

  “It’s a rotten idea,” Boggs said. “But it’s there. Still works, too.”

  “And nobody knows what our elusive Mr. Bainer was doing all those hours in the past?”

  Everyone looked at one another for a moment in silence.

  “Well, no,” Boggs said, rubbing his chin where Bainer had slugged him. “We didn’t get a chance to ask before he ran away.”

  “Alright. Today, why don’t the three of you go see if you can find Mr. Bainer in the present and interrogate him. Start with his wife and make your way back to the Shipworks facility. Chances are he’s in or near one of those two spots.”

  “Have you seen the size of that place?” Boggs said. “It’s ginormous.”

  Wilcox said, “He may be difficult for PLAIR to locate if he’s ditched his implant. But I bet the factory compound and other areas in Plairmont have additional security measures. You might be able to find him easily, if you look.”

  Jamieson glanced at the agents.

  He said, “You two want to accompany me to Mrs. Bainer’s place?”

  Boggs and Collier both nodded.

  Boggs turned back to Wilcox and said, “What are you going to do today, Sarge?”

  “Somebody is still trying to kill me. Or at least, I presume the contract filed with the Burgomeisters is still active. Therefore, I will continue acting as bait and we’ll see if anyone tries to collect the bounty. Also, I’m gathering intelligence within the agency, trying to see who is a black hat and who is only gray.”

  “No white hats?” Collier said.

  “Not that I’ve found, yet.”

  Boggs said, “What about us? We’re good, right?”

  “You two are still rookies. You haven’t had time to get stained yet. Now get going while it’s still early. Maybe you can catch Bainer at his place, still asleep.”

  They headed for the rooftop stairs.

  As they walked toward the cars parked there, Collier said, “What about her? Is she a white hat or gray, do you think?”

  “Sarge is neutral,” Jamieson said with a smile. “She can wear whatever color hat she needs to get the job done.”

  -+-

  When everybody left, Wilcox turned her attention back to her droid double at AOJ HQ.

  She concentrated and took over the droid’s persona. It sat inside her office, alone.

  Wilcox accessed Assistant Director Montoya’s call log. She knew Montoya was having an affair with the leading opposition candidate, Dermot Kruger. Wilcox asked for and received from PLAIR a mandate to surreptitiously record all of Montoya’s electronic conversations. She was able to do that by having Director Fonteneaux open a case file and flag Montoya as a suspect. This made surveillance acceptable as far as PLAIR was concerned.

  As an assistant director, Montoya would not realize she was under surveillance. At least, that’s what Fonteneaux and Wilcox hoped. They were still a bit uncertain as to how deep corruption ran in the agency. But since Fonteneaux was at the top and had made Wilcox her number two, they figured that the other ADs would remain in the dark about being investigated.

  Wilcox skimmed the transcripts of all Montoya’s recent calls. Most were made to Kruger. In contrast he, Wilcox noted, did not call her very often. Most of the calls were from her to him, despite that first conversation she overheard
when he reached out to inquire about ongoing investigations.

  “Yeah, she seems a little needy,” Wilcox said out loud.

  With that, she pulled up the last call and played it back over the droid’s interface, picking up toward the end where the two lovers discussed more recent events and Montoya’s new officemates.

  “I don’t know. Jake is convinced something is terribly off with that Wilcox woman.”

  “Is that right?” Kruger said.

  Jake of course, referred to Jake Applegate, the other AD who was there before Fonteneaux and Wilcox joined the agency.

  “Yes. Complete disregard for the rules. But as a former Marine with combat experience, she is pretty lethal in the field. You heard what happened when somebody tried to run her over?”

  “Haha. Yes. Well, sometimes with people like that, they get shot in the back of the head when they’re not looking, you know? They get a little too self-confident and it comes back to bite them.”

  “I . . . oh, don’t say that, Dermot. I hope nothing bad happens to Wilcox. She’s a shrew and a terrible, mean thing, but she doesn’t deserve that.”

  “Well, she still has a contract out on her, doesn’t she? That doesn’t sound good for her future, if you ask me . . .”

  The conversation meandered at this point, leading to the two lovers whispering sweet nothings. Gina turned it off in disgust.

  She cancelled the connection with her droid, too, letting the doppelgänger resume its autonomous mode.

  Something about the conversation between Kruger and Montoya bothered her. She sat back in her chair thinking about it.

  A few minutes later, after replaying it in her mind, her lips pursed.

  “How did he know about the contract on me?”

  Of course, she thought, he was the one who took out the contract on her. She just had no proof. Here he was talking with an AOJ AD, though, and he acted like it was old news. That information Montoya shared should have been confidential, but he already knew about it.

  She began collecting all the transcripts from the conversations between Kruger and Montoya she had, trying to tell if the older assistant director ever mentioned that a contract had been placed on Wilcox with the Meisters.