Escape Velocity: The Anthology

by Unknown

  An air-scooter flashed by overhead, garish courier livery emblazoned on its side. The scooter’s passage was accompanied by a ripple of orange lights along the top of the buildings it passed between, matching its pace and warning the driver to slow down. The warnings were ignored, which meant that the courier company would be fined. Big deal – I knew from my own dealings with the couriers that such expenses were routinely built into their quotes.

  This was supposed to be the digital age, but the sophistication of hackers and digi-thieves, security agencies and the military, meant that nothing was totally secure. As a result, anything of importance was once again being committed to paper.

  Despite the war, courier companies were raking it in.

  Imposed security restrictions and the scarcity of fuel meant that air traffic was sparse, so the scooter was still clearly visible, highlighted by a rolling surf-wave of amber.

  At that instant the girl from the subway stepped out of a shop opposite. I knew then I would have to kill her.

  So much for relaxation.

  Leading the girl on a merry chase and losing her somewhere was out of the question. My schedule was far too tight. I was going to have to improvise, and quickly.

  At least this area was familiar. I had cased it years ago – noting details such as the position of CCTV cameras, which alleys were blind and which the most secluded. All this in preparation for the day when the nearby dead-drop might become active, as it now had.

  I walked quickly, not seeing any point in dawdling. As I left the environs of the station and its attendant rash of shops and cafés, I was already reviewing the available options. Despite time pressures, the killing ground would have to be chosen carefully – there was nothing to be gained in being sloppy and everything to lose. I rejected each option in turn with depressing rapidity, until one remained. It only meant a few minutes detour and seemed ideal; a blind alley, which ran behind an arcade of small stores and restaurants, and was not in view of any cameras.

  I crossed the road, nearly stepping in front of an oncoming car in my distraction, and earning a long horn-blast as it shot past; the irate driver mouthed soundless obscenities at me through the windshield.

  I was constantly aware of the girl behind me. Her claustrophobic presence became a near-physical pressure, creating the illusion that she was within touching distance. My ears, honed to the sharp rap of her heeled shoes, those hateful brown shoes, suggested otherwise, but the sensation persisted. It was all I could do not to give in to temptation and look back.

  She was making little effort to be discreet, and I wondered at that. Was she trying to panic me, to goad me into some rash act? Or perhaps she was simply toying, waiting for the right time to make her move. More fool her if so, because I wasn’t about to hang around and give her that chance.

  One more corner to negotiate and the alleyway would be in sight. I glanced up to check again that no new cameras had been installed since my last reconnaissance. None had.

  The street was empty apart from us two, though there were people and traffic crossing the top of it not far ahead, where it met a major road. No aerial traffic either. At the last moment I took a pair of thin protective gloves from my pocket and slipped them on, just before I darted into the alley.

  As soon as I was out of the girl’s line of sight, I pressed myself against the near wall. There was a narrow wedge of the main road visible, with a flicker of pedestrian movement. If any of them happened to glance this way at the wrong time…

  Knowing there were only seconds available, I reached into the same pocket that had contained the gloves and took out a folded and sealed handkerchief, ripping off the thin polythene cover.

  I was breathing hard, anxiety and the exertions of the walk catching up with me, but there was no helping that.

  The clipped footfalls drew nearer.

  As the girl entered the alleyway I lunged, covering her mouth and nose with the cloth in my left hand and wrapping my right arm around her, pinning both arms as I pressed my body into her back. At the same time I propelled her across the alleyway, so that she slammed brutally into the far wall, where we were both now hidden from anyone crossing the top of the street.

  At the sight of me she had tried to say something, perhaps to cry out, but the handkerchief muffled any noise. I continued to sandwich her against the wall, impervious to her struggles, keeping the cloth clamped to her face. We stayed like that until long after she had gone limp.

  The handkerchief was impregnated with a fast-acting neurotoxin, which brought death in seconds, but it seemed to stretch out far longer than that. All the while I kept expecting to be interrupted by a shout, but none came.

  Although crude, a piece of poisoned cloth was one of the handiest and least detectable weapons to carry around in a big city. Since it contained no metal or power source, a cloth was invisible to automated sensors, several of which I would have passed through in the subway.

  I felt it when she died. There was no spasm, no abrupt rigidity; her body just sagged against me, suddenly free of tension, of all animation. Still I held her, to be sure.

  Only after stepping back and allowing her to slide to the ground did I take the trouble to really look at her. Only then did I realise how beautiful she had been. Fine, honey-blond hair, porcelain skin laid over prominent cheekbones, full lips and pale blue eyes that now stared ahead, as unfocused and unblinking as those of a doll. I looked away, refusing to think of her in those terms. Her death had been a necessity. No point in feeling guilty.

  Small things began to impinge on my awareness – a dull ache in my left shin where she had kicked me as I held her, another in my right arm where it had collided with the wall – minor injuries, anaesthetised at the time by the surge of adrenaline.

  I felt nauseous and had to pause for precious seconds, bent over and breathing hard until the sensation passed.

  I had to hide the body. Although I’m not an experienced professional in terms of killing somebody, nor am I stupid. I’d thought about disposal in advance, factoring it in when choosing the location. The restaurants and cafes that backed onto the alley were serviced by two large trashcans. Girl, poison-impregnated cloth and gloves all went into one of them, with strategically rearranged sacks of garbage hiding them from cursory inspection.

  I was under no illusion: this was a crime that was destined to be discovered. It was killing on-the-hoof, not some meticulously planned assassination. Even though the alleyway itself was not directly overlooked by cameras, the streets that led to it were. Her body would be discovered, the CCTV recordings would be inspected and my proximity to the dead girl would be noted. There would be evidence forensics could glean from the discarded gloves. None of this was a ‘maybe’, it was all fact, and the uncovering of my guilt was only a matter of time. But that was the telling point; time was all I needed. I wouldn’t have to escape detection indefinitely. If the crime went undiscovered for just a few more hours, I’d be off this god-forsaken planet and away before anything could be done about it.

  I left the alley feeling elated, amazed that I had managed to commit a murder in broad daylight, in the heart of the city, without being seen. The whole process had taken a handful of moments, but the threat of discovery had been ever-present. Success gave me more of a buzz than I could have imagined.

  I remembered little of the walk to the drop-point; it passed in a blur, as the world took on a surreal edge. For those fleeting moments I felt invulnerable and knew that nothing in the universe could touch me.

  My thoughts turned to wondering what I was on my way to collect. The coded message that had greeted me that morning provided no clue. It had to be something important. After ten years in deep cover I was established in a responsible position within the civil bureaucracy. Sensitive material passed across my desk, making me too valuable an asset to cast away – unless the potential gain was worth it.

  The blueprints for some new class of war ship? A revolutionary new weapons system? Surely I would hav
e heard rumours of such. There was only one thing I could think of that might merit the sacrifice of my position: Henderson’s battle armour.

  Building effective armour for mobile infantry was the holy grail of military weapons designers everywhere. Over the years, reputations, careers and small fortunes had expired in its pursuit. There was a long list of practical reasons why the super-human armoured battle suits of popular myth could never be built: too heavy, too underpowered, too unreliable, too lightly armoured, too cumbersome, too expensive and too impractical. Any one of the above deficiencies could be overcome, but in doing so, it made at least one of the other factors inevitable until a scientist and former soldier, Richard Henderson, came along. Rumour had it that he had found a way around all the obstacles.

  If true, Henderson’s battle armour might just prove to be the decisive factor in the interminable war. Now that would be worth blowing cover for. Excitement bubbled inside me, as visions of returning home a hero swam before my eyes. I saw myself standing before a cheering crowd, clutching plans for the much-vaunted battle armour in my upraised fist.

  The sense of euphoria lasted until I reached the drop-point.

  It was empty.

  In an up-market apartment block, I stood before a private mailbox, which had been security-sealed and, when opened, contained nothing. I went outside to confirm that this was the right address. Ludicrous because the key card had opened the front door and the given combination had opened the mailbox, so it had to be the right place. But when something this unexpected happens you find yourself double-checking everything, even the certainties.

  Was I too early? Impossible; the message had been all about immediate action.

  I fought down a sense of rising panic. My reservation on the outgoing Passenger Star was already booked and there was no way I was about to miss the flight, particularly with the ticking time bomb of a dead body hidden on my back-trail. On the other hand, how could I leave without whatever it was that had sparked all of this off?

  I calculated that by squeezing the already-tight schedule to the absolute limit, an extra twenty minutes or so could be wrung out of it. So I walked around the corner, happened upon a small park and managed to find a seat whose self-dry systems were still working well enough to have cleared the recent rainfall. I gazed at the still-threatening clouds, daring them to start raining again, while praying that the mystery documents would appear in my absence.

  They did not. The box was as empty as before.

  All dreams of returning home a hero withered. I was left with no choice but to flee empty-handed.

  Confused and increasingly anxious, I headed for the subway, with a host of questions and doubts clamouring for attention. What had gone wrong? How much did the authorities know? Why had they been tailing me – was it because of definite identification or just vague suspicion? Had the girl been missed yet, was she due to have reported in by now? Worst of all, had the body already been discovered?

  A police unit hove into view, cruising along at rooftop level, which in this district meant about six storeys up. It was a routine patrol, the like of which I had seen a hundred times before, but on this occasion it was all I could do to prevent myself from cowering down or breaking into a run.

  My paranoia returned, this time on over-ride, which made the subway journey to the terminus a nightmare and the subsequent wait at the spaceport itself even more so. Everyone was a potential enemy, every glance in my direction a threat.

  I was sweating despite the departure-lounge’s air-conditioning and it took an effort to convert shallow panting into deep and measured breaths. The woman opposite favoured me with an anxious, disapproving look. I attempted a reassuring smile and offered, “Nervous about space flight,” as way of explanation.

  She resumed reading her magazine.

  I closed my eyes in an effort to relax, to pull myself out of this funk. If I tried to board in this state, they’d arrest me for certain.

  At last the flight was called, though the announcement took a moment to register. Once it had, it was all I could do to stop myself from leaping to my feet and rushing towards the gate.

  While a tide of people began to wash past me, I forced myself to stand for a moment, pulling the fragile veil of this newly-built calm around me before stepping forward to join the queue. I watched as those ahead filed through security. The queue was like a stick being forced into the teeth of a buzzing saw, its tip being whittled away so that the stick grew ever shorter. We shuffled forward in fits and starts and my turn drew inexorably closer. I concentrated on thinking about anything but the armed guards who flanked the security position on either side.

  Soon there was just one person ahead of me – an overweight traveller in a crumpled powder-blue leisure suit, which might have fitted him once. I watched as he stepped into the open security cage, where he paused for the required second before being beckoned through by the guard. Another guard on the near side of the cage motioned me to come forward. Attempting to remain calm, I did so.

  The instant I stepped into the cage, all hell broke loose. The air was split by a deafening shriek of alarm, and the cage closed. Energy screens dropped into place, boxing me in. Composure evaporated and all the panic came crashing back. For the first time in my life I knew the stomach-lurching shock of despair. How? Had they been waiting for me, had they found the girl’s body, or what?

  Eternity-stretching moments passed before the energy-wall in front of me dissipated. Three men stood there. Two were soldiers in full combat uniform, heavy-duty rifles trained on my heart. Between this pair stood a tall man in a tailored suit and toting designer shades. He was smiling.

  “Mr Symonds, how nice of you to join us,” said the suit. I had no doubt which of the three was the most dangerous.

  I was escorted away, vaguely aware of the stares of startled travellers who were being ushered aside by blue-uniformed security, leaving a clear corridor for our passage as if afraid I might be contagious. I was marched across a hastily opened rope cordon towards a featureless door that suddenly loomed out of nowhere. We went through, leaving the public areas and entering a world where everyone wore uniforms of blue, black, or green, with one or two vision-distorting shimmer suits in evidence.

  Our destination proved to be a white-walled cube of a room, mirror along one wall, a table and two chairs at its centre. The chair they sat me in was comfortable enough, apart from the two wrist restraints and the one secured around my neck.

  I knew this type of chair.

  The suit took the more conventional seat on the opposite side of the table, one of the soldiers stationed against the wall at his back, the other vanishing somewhere behind me, presumably to stand by the door. There was no telling who else might be present on the other side of the mirror.

  Whatever they hoped to learn I was likely to prove a disappointment. In a tradition that stretched back untold centuries, I knew next to nothing about my side’s covert operations on their world, having only ever seen one other agent: my direct superior – a supposed ‘Aunt’ who had originated the message that started all of this. We’d met on two occasions and I had never been told her name. So there was precious little for them to learn and nothing at all for me to bargain with, even had that been a realistic option.

  A 3D image of a man appeared above the bare tabletop: me.

  “Joshua Zy Symonds,” intoned the suit, in a rich but neutral voice. He then reeled off a list of facts representing the adopted persona that had been a part of me for the past ten years.

  “It’s a good cover,” he conceded. “Good enough to pass vetting at different levels on no fewer than four occasions.” He smiled; an expression that spoke of satisfaction rather than anything pleasant or comforting. “We’re looking forward to dissecting it, which I’m sure will prove invaluable when it comes to recognising others of your ilk.”

  The image vanished, to be replaced by another – only a bust this time – head and shoulders emerging from the tabletop. It showed a d
istinguished lady, just on the wrong side of middle age. Intelligent, calculating eyes gazed from a face that had never gone down the route of rejuve or cosmetic surgery. My heart sank. It was my superior – the ‘Aunt’ who had sent me the urgent message.

  “Ah good, I’m glad to see that you recognise her.”

  The suit’s comment was no surprise. The bands around my wrist and neck were more than restraints. The entire chair was designed to judge and interpret my response to anything I saw or heard – the ultimate lie detector and then some.

  “I’m afraid to say your ‘Aunt’ is no longer with us.” Again that malicious smile, conveying all the warmth of an ice storm. “But you were perhaps anticipating such a loss following this morning’s message and your subsequent capture.”

  What was he driving at? I gazed back, maintaining my silence.

  “You see, your Aunt’s demise was… inconvenient. She took her own life, when we really would have liked to have chatted a little more.”

  Why was he bothering to tell me all this? Why give so much away? Surely these bits of information were things he might have held back to play at a later stage. Unless there was something they wanted, something they needed urgently. I felt the faint stirrings of hope. Maybe I did have something to bargain with after all, or at least they thought I did. Perhaps the plans for Henderson’s battle armour or something of similar importance really were at large.

  “As you’ve doubtless worked out, we sent the message you received this morning.”

  I concentrated on the suit’s every word, trying to figure out exactly where my angle was and how much leverage it was likely to give me.

  “You see, we knew that another agent was out there somewhere,” he continued, “but not exactly who he might be. Doubtless given time you would have revealed yourself. But as you may have noticed, there’s a war on, and we didn’t have the luxury of being patient. So this morning we sent out that bogus message to the six possibilities identified as potential spies. Then all we had to do was sit back and see what it flushed out. It worked royally. It brought us you.”