by R S Penney
Closing her eyes, Jena pressed a palm to her forehead, then raked fingers through her short auburn hair. “We place him under arrest on charges of conspiracy and high treason.”
“And if he resists?”
“Where is he now?”
Larani frowned as she tilted her head back, blinking several times. “I believe he is on Station One,” she said. “He's been spending most of his time in the lounge ever since we relieved him of duty.”
Rage warmed her face, rage that she struggled to keep in check. “I told you to restrict his movements,” she spat. “But did anyone listen to me? No, you just let him go where-”
“There was no cause to restrict his movements.” Larani was trembling as she spoke those words, her eyes downcast to avoid looking at Jena. “We can't just imprison people on a whim. We must follow due process.”
“Slade is different.”
“How?”
Jena slammed her hands down on the surface of the desk, leaning forward to glare at the other woman. “He's dangerous,” she said. “Think about it, Larani. If he can infiltrate the Justice Keepers, there's not a whole lot he can't do.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to stop a high-calibre bullet and long enough to make her regret her last outburst. It wasn't Larani's fault. Not really. The other woman was following a procedure that was designed to protect the innocent from any abuse of their basic human rights. Keepers were inculcated with the notion of innocent until proven guilty. Until now, they had nothing against Slade but suspicion.
She pressed thumb and forefinger to the surface of her desk and spread them apart to expand a window. “Call Anna Lenai,” she ordered. If they acted quickly, they might be able to incapacitate Slade without any civilian casualties.
A square-shaped window appeared on the surface of the desk, displaying a close-up of Anna's face as she spoke into her multi-tool. “Jena, what's up?” she asked. “I just took our guests to their quarters.”
“We're going after Slade, and I want you by my side,” Jena explained. “Meet me in the SlipGate chamber in ten minutes. And bring a weapon.”
Chapter 15
Jasmine was a club on Station One, bathed in the harsh glow of blue neon lights that fell upon a sea of tables. A small balcony overlooked a dance floor that was almost empty, but the music went on nonetheless.
Slade let out a sigh.
He sat in a chair with his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled together in front of his face. “So, you wish a transfer back to Leyria…” he began with just enough volume to be heard over the music. “You're unhappy here?”
The young woman who sat across from him had long blonde hair and kept her head down so that he could not see her face. “It sounded like a great opportunity,” she said. “But the people on Earth are so…aggressive.”
Pursing his lips, Slade turned his face up to the ceiling. “I cannot argue with that,” he said, dark eyebrows rising. “But honestly, Lissa, do you truly believe that giving up is the best course of action?”
She looked up at him with a slight flush in her cheeks, blinking as she considered the question. “No,” she said at last. “Keepers don't give up. I think I'd rather finish my assignment here.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
She set her elbow on the table and rested her chin in the palm of her hand, watching him the way most young women did when a man caught their eye. Idly, he toyed with the idea of indulging her interest. He wasn't exactly craving a woman's attention, but with so little to do these past few months, he had to admit that he felt bored. “You're so helpful,” she said. “I can't believe you'd make time to talk to me about…this.”
“A good leader makes time for his officers.”
Lissa frowned, bowing her head to stare into her lap. “It's just a shame you have to endure this insult to your good name.” She offered a tiny shrug, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. “I wish they'd let you return to active duty.”
“As do I, my dear.”
He stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from his jacket with one hand. With a warm smile, he nodded to her. “But the truth inevitably comes out. It's only a matter of being patient enough to find it.”
He left before she could formulate a response. When courting, it was always best to make the woman come to you, to make her seek out your attention instead of desperately trying to get hers. If she didn't take the bait, it was of no consequence. There would be other women, and he had larger concerns.
A curving staircase led down to the first floor of the club where half a dozen people gyrated on the dance floor and serving bots moved among the tables. These robots were human-shaped with metal arms and legs and swiveling heads that located customers and took appropriate action.
A hologram appeared at the end of the bar: the image of a copper-skinned woman in a mini-skirt and tiny top. Her face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and bright red lips. “Leaving already, sir?” she asked. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Shutting his eyes, Slade took a deep breath through his nose. “Thank you kindly,” he said with a curt nod. “But I must be on my way. Please see to the young woman at table seventeen.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The hologram vanished as he walked past, ignoring the junior officers who cast glances in his direction. Many would be surprised to see the former head of the Justice Keepers visiting a night club.
Jaren, the young bartender, stood behind the counter with an empty glass in hand, staring out at the dance floor with a vacant expression. These establishments were often run by a single individual with robotic cooks and servers.
Once outside, he found himself in the main concourse, a large, curving corridor that followed the circular path of the station's ring. There were a few people milling about at this time of evening – Station One was synced to the Paris, France timezone – but most had either gone home or chosen some other venue to pursue their revels.
He made his way across the concourse.
A five-minute walk brought him to the place where smaller hallways branched off from the main corridor. These were simple, unadorned with gray walls and doors spaced at even intervals.
There was very little activity; he caught sight of a few engineering technicians and a mail delivery bot rolling along through the corridors, but other than that there was no one in sight. That suited him fine. He preferred to walk alone. It would take over an hour to reach the residential section of the station on foot, but he didn't mind the exercise. He was about to mutter a complaint about his growing sense of boredom when he turned a corner and stopped short.
Three women stood side by side in the middle of the long, gray corridor, blocking his path. Jena Morane was tall and proud in black pants and a matching t-shirt, her short hair a mess.
On her left, Anna Lenai was dressed identically and equally disheveled. The girl had one hand resting on the grip of a pistol that she wore holstered on her right hip. He had seen that look on her face before…
Larani Tal was the third, and though she wore casual clothing, the glare she sent his way told him that they were not here for a pleasant chat. Had Jena really decided to press on with her foolish accusations? He thought he had her sufficiently cowed.
Jena took one step forward, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “Grecken Slade,” she said in a voice as cold as an arctic blizzard. “You are under arrest for the crimes of high treason, kidnapping and conspiracy to undermine the Leyrian Accords.”
“What is the meaning of-”
“You have the right to legal counsel, which will be provided by the state if you are unable to broker an agreement with a private attorney. You will be guaranteed access to food, clean water and medicine while you remain in the care of the state, and no officer of the law may deny you these things. You will not be harmed in any way so long as you do not resist arrest, attempt escape or cause harm to an officer or another prisoner. Do you understand these rights
as they have been outlined?”
“Jena, you must have lost your-”
“Do you understand these rights as they have been outlined?”
Grinning down at himself, Slade had to resist the urge to laugh out loud. He shook his head in dismay. “You really didn't think this through, did you?” he said. “Computer, run program Slade Onicar One.”
A force-field snapped into existence between Slade and the three women, cutting them off. Each corridor had force-field generators built into the walls every few metres or so, a precaution in case a prisoner tried to escape.
He looked up at them with an ugly rictus smile. “Were you really that stupid?” he asked, quirking one dark eyebrow. “Did you really think I wouldn't build safeguards into my own station?”
They couldn't hear him, of course; a force-field cut off everything, including sound, but it was fun to watch them panic. Behind the flickering curtain of static, Jena turned to her companions and gestured emphatically. By now, they would have realized that their command codes were useless and that the comm systems were down.
He left them without another word.
A scowl contorted his features as he shook his head in disgust. “Foolish man,” he chastised himself. “Never believe that an opponent is defeated until he lies dead at your feet. How many times must you learn that the hard way?”
He rounded a corner.
The sound of a force-field appearing behind him was a source of relief, but it didn't change the fact that he had to get off this space station now. The computer would monitor his movements and seal off the relevant junctions with force-fields so that security teams would be unable to ambush him. Now he just had to reach the SlipGate.
In Tarel Desana's estimation, Central Ops was usually one of the most calm and orderly locations on Station One. On any other day, technicians would have been sitting at their stations, monitoring the life-support systems and keeping an eye on incoming ships. But today…Today was a very different day.
A black-tiled ring overlooked a pit where technicians were scurrying about like hummingbirds, zipping from one station to the next. They were frenzied, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Tarel stood with arms folded, shaking his head and trying to remain calm. “Give me an update,” he said, approaching the railing that bordered the pit. “What do we know so far?”
One young man looked up at him with eyes so wide they might just pop right out of their sockets. “We…we don't know, sir,” he stammered. “Internal sensors are offline, and so are the communication systems.”
“Life-support?”
The kid slammed a hand down on his non-responsive console, biting back the first syllable of a rather nasty curse. “I don't know, sir,” he said. “We can't get accurate data on anything. Our screens just went dark.”
One young woman sat with her back turned, anxiously studying the readout on her multi-tool. “Trams are down,” she said. “As are the elevators leading to the shuttle bay. The SlipGate is not responding to our commands; we can't bring in any outside help.”
“Use your multi-tools and send a signal to any incoming shuttles,” Tarel said. “Tell them that all docking procedures are suspended until further notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“After that, I want you to make life support your priority.” He gripped the railing, leaning over to peer into the pit. The anxious faces that stared up at him were glistening with sweat. “We've got three thousand people on this station. I won't have them dying on my watch. Get to it; I want reports every half hour.”
They all snapped into action after that, formulating plans for how to carry out his orders. When a crisis hit, people usually just needed someone to give them direction, to show them where to focus their efforts. He just hoped that none of his own fear and anxiety showed through.
Slade had been walking through empty corridors for the better part of ten minutes, and so far there had been no major incidents. People rushed past him every now and then, most scurrying toward their quarters, but none paid him any mind.
Though the comm systems were down, people still had access to their multi-tools, and the first act of any panicky citizen living on a non-functioning space station would be to place a multi-tool to multi-tool call to someone in the administration and demand an update on the situation. All that noise would make it very difficult for Jena to get a signal through to the right people.
There was no doubt in his mind that she had been trying to alert station security to the threat he represented, but the fact that no one had accosted him meant that – so far – she had been unsuccessful. With any luck, he would be able to enjoy a quiet, uneventful walk all the way to the SlipGate chamber.
He turned a corner to find a young man in the ugly gray uniform of station security walking through the corridor. Keep calm and go about your business, Slade told himself. Ignore him, and he will ignore you.
The boy looked up at him with large gray eyes, clearly frightened. “Director Slade, sir,” he stammered. “Do you know what's happening? I can't get through to the Security Office, and I don't know what I should do.”
“It is a minor glitch in the station's computer.”
The boy seemed to consider that, deep creases forming in his brow. “I saw a small crowd of people about three sections back,” he said. “Maybe I should go escort them to a designated shelter area.”
Slade forced a small smile, nodding his approval. “That sounds like a grand idea,” he said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. “I will make contact with Station Ops and try to rectify this situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he stepped past the young man, Slade breathed out a sigh of relief. So far, he had been able to evade suspicion with a few carefully chosen words and the promise of order. People were sheep who yearned for a shepherd; give them a sense of direction, and they would follow almost any-
An earsplitting screech interrupted his train of thought, and he looked down to see his multi-tool blinking with the word “warning” spelled out in bright red letters. His own face popped up a moment later, filling the screen and captioned with the words “Suspect Extremely Dangerous.”
He turned to find the young man hunched over and staring at his multi-tool. A cold, stretched-out silence lasted for what felt like an eternity before the boy looked up and glared at him.
“Computer,” Slade barked. “Hostility protocol.”
A force-field appeared between the two of them, trapping the boy on the other side. However, that would only provide him with so much protection; it was only a matter of time before the lad tried to punch through the force-field with EMP rounds.
Slade turned a corner.
This wasn't the fastest route to the SlipGate chamber, but he didn't want to be on a direct line of sight with anyone who carried a pistol. Things had just become much more complicated, which meant he was going to have to escalate his response.
Slade looked up at the ceiling, then narrowed his eyes to slits. “Computer,” he said. “Reactivate communications systems and establish a link to the Central Ops.”
A burst of static from his multi-tool was followed by the sound of a man's voice speaking in high-pitched, frenzied tones. The station administrator's name was Desala, if he recalled correctly. “Slade? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. Desala, it's me.”
“You have to know you aren't going to get anywhere with this,” the man said with a surprising amount of bravado. “You just gave me your location, and I've got five security teams on their way, and the Keepers are mobilizing.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Slade grinned and shook his head. “My, it seems you've thought of everything,” he said with a shrug. “I would never have anticipated that you would send security teams after me.”
“Don't be glib about-”
“Call off your dogs, Mr. Desala.”
The man said nothing in response, and Slade was treated to the sound of his heavy breathing coming
through the speaker. No doubt he was choosing his words cautiously, trying to avoid any sign of weakness. “Why should I do that?”
Amusement bubbled up in Slade's belly, causing his whole body to tremble as he walked down the corridor. “Computer,” he said in response. “Deactivate life support on all decks.”
The computer chirped in compliance.
Now they would see which of them had the stronger will. Slade had faced down many opponents over the long years of his life, and though cunning, strength and skill all had their place, most contests were decided by tenacity. Who wanted it more? Who was willing to sacrifice the most in the service of his cause? “You-you can't do that,” Desala pleaded. “You'll die too!”
“I am quite ready to die.”
“You…Bleakness, no.”
“I have grown weary of this,” Slade said, stopping in the middle of the hallway. “Call off your men, or you can watch everyone on this station suffocate.”
Young people were so predictable. Right now, Desala was weighing the pros and cons, deciding whether he was willing to “negotiate with terrorists” or whatever this sad generation chose to call it. They were all the same, all weak. When the man spoke again, every last trace of defiance was gone. “What are your demands?”
“You're going to clear a path for me all the way to the SlipGate chamber,” Slade replied. “Keep your people off of me, and order the Justice Keepers to stand down. I am the only one who can reactivate life support, and if I die, so do all of you.”
“It's done,” Desala said. “I've recalled the security teams.”
“Computer,” Slade said. “Reactivate life support on all decks. Establish a link with my multi-tool and monitor my vital signs. If they drop, deactivate life support and wipe the computer core.” That would prevent anyone from countermanding his orders once he was dead. Now to sweeten the pot a little. Threats could be very effective, but it was usually best to give your enemy more than one reason to comply with your wishes. “Once I am safely off the station, return control of the main computer to Central Ops.”
