by Dan Moren
Stepping up, he punched in an ID code and PIN, then allowed the retinal scanner to get a good look at his eye. The screen flashed green and a line of text appeared: WELCOME BACK, MR TROLLOPE. Using a separate identity for the bank accounts was an extra layer of security and, fortunately, Bayern’s stance on data privacy meant nobody would link it to the ID he’d used to get onworld.
He tapped Check Balance: fifty thousand shares and change. That was a pretty good amount – enough to buy a nice hovercar. The SPT kept a big chunk of its discretionary operations fund here, as Bayern’s central bank had a reputation that allowed them to draw money on almost any planet in the known galaxy without having to sign off on pesky forms and paperwork.
And it was just as useful on Bayern itself. He had the machine dispense him a secure payment card with a direct link to the account, locked to purchases of no more than a thousand shares at a time. Not quite as good as cold, hard cash, but it was the closest there was on Bayern.
Thus equipped, he set out towards the Commonwealth embassy, wending his way down roads where the streetlights were just starting to come on for the evening. The daylight cycles were usually timed to coincide with those outside, except in the summer or winter when the days got exceptionally long or short. It gave a nice feeling of normalcy, despite the fact that Bayern’s rotational period was, at twenty-six hours, slightly longer than Earth standard. There’d been attempts to reconcile all the various days and times on the planets using a proposed Galactic Standard Time, but all the nitty gritty details just ended up leading to endless wrangling. Plus, the Illyricans had little interest in joining any common agreement, so standardizing the galaxy was pretty much a lost cause.
Still, humans needed nights and days to function and live healthily, and the Corporation was all about happy and productive workers.
Navigating Bergfestung’s streets was easy enough: the city had been laid out in a series of concentric rings, with the Corporation’s headquarters, an impressively giant edifice of glass and steel that climbed towards the opening at the top of the volcanic cone, at its center. Locating a particular building was a simple matter of finding the ring and sector. The embassies were mostly in Bergfestung’s central rings, close to the Corporation’s headquarters, so Kovalic hopped one of the hubward trams and took the five-minute ride to the city center.
The tram deposited him a scant minute’s walk from the Commonwealth embassy, a fenced-off building in a neo-classical style, supplemented by a decidedly non-classical armed marine out front. Kovalic made his way up to the sentry, a young woman with a teak wood complexion and watchful eyes.
“Sir,” the guard said. Her eyes assessed him, but she didn’t loosen the grip on her weapon. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” said Kovalic, donning his best innocent-traveler-abroad expression. “I just arrived on world from Nova and I was told when I arrived to speak to an official here. A Ms M’basa?”
“And your name, sir?”
“James Austen.”
“One moment.” The guard turned aside, murmuring into her sleeve.
If he’d had the time before leaving Nova, he could have had the general push through an actual meeting request which would have made this a lot easier. But as it was, he’d have to bank on the fact that M’basa, like any good spy, had a curious mind.
The guard looked back at him. “Do you have some ID, Mr Austen?”
“Of course,” said Kovalic, producing his completely hundred-percent genuine fake Commonwealth ID card and handing it over. He smiled pleasantly as the marine compared his face to the picture on the card and checked the cryptographic seal. Nodding, the marine handed the card back then gestured him through the gate.
“Straight through there to the main desk. They’ll give you a visitor badge and escort you to the deputy consul.”
Kovalic tried to avoid raising his eyebrows. Deputy consul was a position usually reserved for the station chief, not a number two – he didn’t recall seeing that in the mission briefing. He thanked the marine, and followed her directions into the embassy.
It took only a minute for the man at the desk to give him a plastic ID badge, which he clipped to his front pocket. Signing in on the register, he waited until a low-level embassy official collected him. Kovalic was led through the plushly-carpeted halls, up the stairs, through a security door, and then to a small office with the nameplate “Sarah M’basa.”
His escort knocked on the door, and at an assent from within, ushered Kovalic inside.
M’basa’s office was pleasant, if businesslike. The desk had a secure terminal and was littered with flimsies and other detritus of the job. A pair of tall shelves were adorned with a couple photos and a handful of knickknacks – a trophy from what looked like a fencing team, an abstract sculpture of green and blue glass – and a few books.
Next to a large window, which looked out on the embassy’s internal courtyard, was a comfortable-looking sofa. On one end sat M’basa, studying a tablet that was laid on her knees. She looked up as Kovalic entered, a flash of recognition – though not, Kovalic noticed, surprise – crossing her face.
Issuing a small laugh, she shook her head. “Really, it was only a matter of time before you turned up, I suppose.” She waved to Kovalic’s escort. “That’ll be all, thanks.”
Kovalic raised an eyebrow as the door closed behind him. “Oh?”
“I meant with the rest of your team here.”
“I don’t know what you–”
M’basa rolled her eyes. “Come on, Fielding. Austen. Whoever you are. I recognized your man – the old, grumpy one. It wasn’t too much of a jump to figure out that Adler and Mulroney were part of your little outfit. Which, by the way, I’m apparently still not cleared to know even exists, even as station chief.”
So she was station chief. That was new. “I couldn’t possibly comment on that.”
“Of course not. So, should I bother asking what you want now? I hope it’s not another van – that first one was hard enough to get signed out from the motor pool.”
“Nothing like that,” Kovalic said, covering his curiosity. He wasn’t sure what Nat had needed a van for, but he wasn’t here to backseat drive. Just to pass on the general’s message and then get out of Nat’s hair. “I’m just here to check in. Things are going smoothly, I take it?”
M’basa cocked her head to one side, a slight frown creasing her mouth. “Smoothly enough,” she allowed. “Granted, I’m not sure how much trouble they could get into at a cocktail party.”
Kovalic gave her a bland smile, trying to adjust to the bizarre feeling of someone else knowing more about his team’s movements than he did. “You’d be surprised.”
Drumming her fingers on her leg, M’basa continued to frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Me? Like I said, just–”
“Checking in, right. I got that. I mean your team. I’m not thrilled about letting you guys run amok around town.”
“You sound like a station chief already.”
M’basa rolled her eyes. “I used to think my old bosses were stick-in-the-muds, but let’s just say I’ve started to gain a healthy respect for their… stickiness.”
Trying to keep the frown off his face occupied Kovalic’s foremost brain cells as he gave a careful nod, but the rest of his mind was taking in everything M’basa had said. A van. A cocktail party. M’basa as station chief. None of this had been in the briefing the general had given him, which either meant he had deliberately withheld information – not impossible – or that he simply hadn’t known. Neither would have surprised Kovalic, but he was betting on the second; situations on the ground had a way of being, well, fluid.
“I presume your vans have a tracking system?”
“Naturally,” said M’basa. “Top of the line, and almost undetectable.”
In Kovalic’s experience, the boffins at R&D tended to describe every piece of equipment they produced as “almost” something – indestructible, infallible, u
ndetectable. That was pretty much shorthand for “until it isn’t.”
“Good. If you’d be kind enough to provide me with their current whereabouts, I’d like to touch base with them.”
“And you can’t just call them?”
“Covert operations and all that.”
“Uh huh. I’d ask you for your authorization, but given that this whole ‘covert operation’ has been off-book from the start, I’m guessing that would be a complete and utter waste of time – yours and mine.”
Kovalic grinned. “You’re starting to get the hang of this.”
“That’s what worries me,” M’basa sighed.
Chapter 11
Eli had been to a cocktail party. Once.
It had been held in advance of his graduation from the Imperial Academy, and all the top brass had been invited. The academy’s ballroom had been resplendent: chandeliers gleaming, tables lined with exquisite food and drink, formalwear-clad waitstaff everywhere.
So he’d put on the crimson-and-black dress uniform of an Imperial cadet and mingled. Not so much with the brass, of course, who were mainly from the upper echelons of Illyrican society, but with his friends from the academy – except, of course, for those friends who were from the upper social echelons. He’d gotten a bit too drunk on Sevastapol vodka, and he was pretty sure that he had hit on a pretty girl from his avionics class before passing out on a couch in one of the upstairs hallways. Not, perhaps, the most illustrious evening he’d ever spent.
The affair at the Illyrican embassy made that party look like a barbecue down at the local firepit. The amount of jewelry on display could probably have bought his home planet of Caledonia, moons and all. Dresses swooped every which way and more than a few of the dinner jackets made his carefully but hastily tailored suit look like a shirt with a picture of a tuxedo plastered on the front.
Eli held out the invitations M’basa had given him to the man at the front gate. The gray-haired fellow, who looked like he could have been a venerable lord in his own right, handed them in turn to a young woman at his right, then waved at another man – this one roughly the size of a small tree – who stepped forward, holding a handheld scanner.
“Good evening, sir. Madam,” said the older man, inclining his head. “Just a security precaution. How may I introduce you?”
The man with the scanner held it up and squinted at Eli through a viewport. Frowning, he shifted it up and down, then left to right.
Eli cleared his throat, and tried to will the sweat on his forehead from dripping into his eyes. “Mr Elias Adler of Terra Nova.”
The older man gave him an expectant look; when Eli didn’t respond, his eyes shifted. “And your companion, sir?”
A white-gloved grip tightened on his arm, and he looked at the woman attached to it. Somehow, as out of place as he felt, Taylor looked exactly as though she belonged here. From the purple sheen of the satin dress, cut exactly to her fit, to the pile of elegantly coiffed hair on her head, she looked every inch the part. Teardrop diamond earrings dangled from her ears, coruscating in the light, while the trace amounts of rouge, lipstick, and mascara managed to show off all her best features without the slightest bit of tackiness. Where the hell did she scrounge all that up? Or does she travel with it, just in case she has to go to a formal ball?
The man holding the scanner gave her a once-over that was no less thorough, but still managed to maintain the decorum of professionalism. Apparently satisfied, he clicked the scanner off, nodded to the older man, and stepped back.
“Of course,” said Eli, with perhaps a touch too much faux gallantry. “Ms Tara Mulroney, also of Terra Nova.”
“Thank you,” said the man, bowing. “Please, enjoy your evening.”
A party at the Illyrican embassy on Bayern, surrounded by officials of state and the military? What’s not to enjoy?
Eli returned the bow, and the two of them climbed the stairs to the embassy’s foyer.
“So far, so good,” murmured Taylor.
“Yeah, so far I only almost botched our names.”
“Relax,” said Taylor with a sideways look. “Try to have some fun. Tonight, you are Elias Adler. Nobody here has the slightest idea who Eli Brody is. Nor do they care. Besides, I’m the one who has to do all the heavy lifting.”
That’s right, Eli thought. I’m just the distraction. Entertain guests with scintillating tales of being a rich playboy, while Taylor tries to figure out who the envoy is and what he’s up to. Easy.
They’d gone over the plan in detail, after getting Eli fitted for his tuxedo. He and Taylor would enter the party using the invitations, while Tapper waited around the block in the unmarked van that they’d borrowed from the embassy. The security scans had been anticipated, so the team would keep communications inactive until after they were in the embassy. The earbuds they were using shouldn’t show up as long as they were off, or unless someone peered into their ears. And though security at an event like this one was certainly thorough, the upper classes usually didn’t like being constantly poked and prodded – and what the upper classes didn’t want had a tendency to not happen.
Once in, Eli would circulate, making small talk and picking up whatever interesting gossip he could, while Taylor focused on identifying the prime candidates for the Illyrican envoy. If possible, she’d also slip away and see if she could access the embassy’s network. Anything about the envoy was likely to be under heavy lock and key, but Taylor had just shrugged and said it would be worth checking out as long as they were there.
As they stepped into the embassy’s front hall, which was lined with fresh vases, overflowing with flowers, Eli caught a flash of crimson and repressed a shiver. He’d been expecting officers in their dress uniforms – it was an Illyrican party after all – but he still hadn’t quite gotten accustomed to seeing his former comrades-in-arms. If any of them knew he’d essentially deserted the Illyrican Navy – and worse, had joined the Commonwealth military – he imagined they’d have little hesitation about trussing him up and delivering him to a tribunal. That is, if they didn’t shoot him on sight.
Of course, he was just one guy. And, like Taylor had said, nobody here had any idea who Eli Brody was. As far as anybody who did know him was concerned, he was dead and buried on Sabaea.
So why was he still so damn worried?
I am not going to be a liability. Not this time.
Taylor squeezed his arm twice and then let go, raising a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A moment later, Eli did the same, feeling the hard, lacquered texture the gel had given it. He’d fought against the stuff, but Taylor had pushed him into a chair and threatened to demonstrate an advanced interrogation technique unless he let her do his hair. Really, it was only the latest in a line of indignities he’d suffered at the hands of his new colleagues.
He was sure Tapper had enjoyed every minute of it.
Speaking of whom. Under cover of the gesture, he surreptitiously tapped the earbud in his left ear, causing it to beep to life. He turned to Taylor and gave her a smile, then squeezed his left cufflink.
“Nice party, isn’t it?”
“It is at that,” she said carefully.
“Well with gripping conversation like that, I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t be,” came Tapper’s voice, right in Eli’s ear. “I read you both loud and clear. Everything’s good here; you are go.”
Eli would have preferred to keep an open line throughout the course of the evening; he had to admit that he felt more secure knowing that Tapper would be listening in, abrasive as the man could be. But Taylor and Tapper had vetoed the idea. A constant transmission would not only draw much more attention to them, but also make it easier for someone to intercept their signal and locate its source and destination. Instead, they’d use microbursts, triggering the comms only when necessary.
“Well, then,” said Taylor. “Let’s mingle. Keep your eyes peeled for Vallejo. She’s the best lead we have to finding the Illyricans’ envoy.”
Eli bowed, making a broad sweep with his hand. “Please, after you.”
The Illyrican embassy’s ballroom was twice the size of the one Eli had breakfasted in at the Commonwealth embassy, and probably about ten times as extravagant. Chandeliers and candelabras in wall sconces provided bright illumination, while Eli’s shoes sunk into a carpet so thick and luxurious that it was like a fur coat. Long oak side tables were draped in deep reds, golds, and blacks: the colors of the Illyrican royal house.
A tuxedo-clad waiter with a crimson bow tie appeared at their side, holding a silver platter that contained tiny little hors d’oeuvres, decorated in the shape of the Illyrican emblem.
Jesus. And to think this used to be my tax dollars at work.
Taylor smiled and took one, while Eli waved it off, unable to stop thinking about Tapper’s advice not to eat or drink anything. This is going to be one dull party if I can’t even have a drink.
A nudge from Taylor took him in the ribs. “That’s Dubois, over there,” she said with a tilt of her head.
Eli followed her indication to a stiff-looking black man, dressed in impeccable finery. He wore the uniform of an Illyrican Lord Admiral, his shoulders covered in gold epaulets adorned with a pair of crossed swords and the stylized hawk of the Imperial emblem. So many campaign ribbons covered his chest that Eli wondered if there was a battle the old man had missed.
Well, Sabaea, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here. He’d heard of Dubois while at the academy; the man was a legend, having served beside the emperor when they were young men – he’d been part of the infamous Talons of the Hawk, the emperor’s closest council of advisors. Later, he’d been appointed the head of the Imperial Navy, and then the Chief of Staff for the entire Illyrican military. Five years ago he’d retired, in the wake of the Imperium’s ignominious defeat at Sabaea, a campaign of his own planning. In return for his years of service, he’d gotten a cushy appointment as the Illyrican ambassador to Bayern. Just luxurious enough to keep him living in the style to which he’d become accustomed, while far enough away from the center of Imperial power that it was conceivable he’d been punished.
