by Piers Platt
Paisen stared at him, then sighed. “One hour. Then I’m leaving, regardless of who’s still on the platform. And that includes you.”
Rath picked up his auto-rifle and ran down to the platform. He pointed at the first row of captives. “Front rank, on your feet! Into the cargo hold, on the double. Second rank, stand up … follow them in.”
Rath pointed at a doctor seated in the third row. “I need your help. Take five people and head to the cafeteria, grab as much as you can carry in food supplies. And don’t forget water. I want you back up in fifteen minutes.”
Behind him, the Hurasu lifted off in a wash of hot engine exhaust. Rath turned and saw Paisen standing on the back ramp as the ship headed for the island. Then he turned back to the captives, and pointed at another doctor. “You: same deal, but I need you to get blankets, warm clothing, anything you can use to rig a shelter.”
“How long will we be on the island?” the man asked.
Rath glanced up at the cloudy sky above, searching for any sign of the approaching response team. “Probably not long at all.”
11
“We can wait in here,” Beauceron told the young woman. He showed her into the Hurasu’s lounge. “Ferrying everyone else off the platform will take some time, and we should stay out of their way. Do you need anything? Hungry, thirsty?”
“No, thank you,” she told him.
“Are you sure? It was chilly out there; I need something to warm me up. Cocoa, maybe?”
“Actually, that sounds nice.” She smiled, taking a seat on a couch.
Beauceron busied himself at the kitchen counter for a minute, then brought over two steaming mugs, handing one to her, before sitting next to her on the couch.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I’m Martin. I was a detective in the Interstellar Police.”
“I’m Dasi. Is this an IP ship?”
“No¸” Beauceron laughed. “Nothing remotely like that.”
“Are your friends detectives, too? Is that why they’re trying to locate Headquarters?”
“They’re not detectives – and neither am I, technically. I was forced to retire a few months ago. I’ll let them introduce themselves … they’re a bit secretive.”
“Why did you have to retire?”
“I was incautious, and let myself and another officer get kidnapped. My commanders felt they couldn’t trust me anymore. I’m not sure I blame them.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Mm,” he sipped his drink. “Every day. This endeavor is certainly different, and very important to me. But I miss the day-to-day of investigations.” He was lost in thought for a moment. “What about you? Do you miss your old job?”
She curled her hands around her mug, warming them. “Somewhat … but it’s complicated. More than anything, I miss my friends – no one here was allowed to talk to me. And I miss my boyfriend. They killed him before they brought me here.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Beauceron said. They were both quiet for a time, then Beauceron spoke again. “I lost my wife, many years ago. She was ill, so it wasn’t unexpected. I can’t imagine how I would have felt if she had been murdered. And then if I hadn’t been able to talk to my friends and family about it … that must have been very hard for you.”
Dasi felt herself nodding, and then all at once she was crying, great sobs wracking her body. Beauceron patted her shoulder, and was surprised when she buried her face in his chest. He let her cry, and rubbed her back comfortingly.
“I’m sorry,” Dasi said. “I think I spilled some hot chocolate on you.”
“No, no – don’t worry about it.”
Dasi found a napkin on the table and dried her eyes. She sniffed, and then looked at the detective. “Martin, will you tell me what this place is?”
“You’re on a planet called Fusoria.”
“And the facility, the island … it this all part of a secret government spy program?”
“It has nothing to do with the government. This is a training area for assassins. It’s run by a criminal organization, a corporation that turns young people like you into killers-for-hire. Have you heard of the Guild?”
“No.”
“No, well … it’s more well-known on less affluent planets, where they typically recruit. The recruits are promised fifty percent of their earnings – millions of dollars – if they can complete fifty contracts for the Guild. ‘Fifty for Fifty,’ they call it. But they don’t actually pay them – they just kill them and replace them with more recruits from here.”
“And you want to shut this place down?”
“I do. I want to find the people that run the Guild, and I want to see them arrested. I want the entire organization exposed. No more killing.”
“And your friends? What do they want?”
“A similar result. Though their reasons are a bit more personal.”
Dasi folded the napkin and took a deep breath. “The senator told me my boyfriend was killed by these people. The Guild, I guess, though he didn’t name them as such.”
“The senator?”
Dasi nodded. “I better start at the beginning.”
Beauceron glanced at the aft bulkhead. “Wait until we’re off-planet. My friends will want to hear this.”
“And they might abandon me here if I tell you before we leave?”
“I very much doubt it. But … best not to tempt them.”
* * *
The Hurasu gained altitude, and Rath stood for a minute in the open ramp of the cargo bay, watching as the last group of nurses and doctors made their way up the blood-red sand of the lagoon, heading for the rest of the refugees on the island. Then the ship passed through a patch of clouds, and the island disappeared from view. He hit the switch and the ramp swung upwards.
So long, Fusoria.
Paisen was alone with Mikolos in the cockpit when he entered.
“Scope’s clear,” she told Rath. “No other ships in system.”
“Great. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Fine by me,” Mikolos agreed. “Where to?”
“For the moment, anywhere out of system, somewhere reasonably close,” Paisen decided. “We need some time to figure things out.”
Mikolos scrolled through his navigation computer, flipping through possible destinations. “How about a deep space refueling station?”
“Fine. Just don’t go to the closest one – they’ll definitely be looking for us there. Pick one a few days out.”
By unspoken agreement, the two contractors stayed in the cockpit, eyes glued to the ship’s sensors. When the Hurasu shuddered and accelerated into faster-than-light travel, Rath exhaled and shared a look with Paisen. He gave her a tight grin.
“We’ve struck the first blow.”
She snorted. “A feeble one, perhaps. Let’s go see what our new passenger knows.”
They found the lounge empty, but walking across the hall, Beauceron was reading a datascroll at a desk in the sleeping quarters, while the young woman napped on his bunk. She woke when they entered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Paisen took a seat from the desk and pulled it across to sit in front of her.
“Let’s start with who you are, and why you were on Fusoria.”
Dasi looked questioningly at Beauceron. He shut the datascroll down and nodded back, smiling. “Go ahead.”
“My name is Dasi Apter. Up until a short while ago I was working public relations for Senator Charl Lizelle.”
“Chair of the Intelligence Committee?” Beauceron asked. He had his notebook and pencil out.
“Yes.”
Paisen cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“My boyfriend, Khyron, was a developer. An independent researcher. He wrote an artificial intelligence program, and I used my connections with the senator to get access to Senate databases, so that he could test his program on them. But the program found a link – it uncovered a secret about the senator.”
“Which was?”
“Khyron only told me a little bit of it, but from what I understand, the program discovered that every time Senator Lizelle met with two other senior senators, someone died soon afterwards. He found a secret committee, basically, that was sanctioning assassinations.”
The cabin was silent for a time. Rath, leaning against the bulkhead, was the first to speak.
“Martin, you look upset.”
Beauceron rubbed his hands together, frowning. “I believe you, Dasi. It’s just … we’re talking about the Guild. The longest-running criminal conspiracy in the post-colonial era. And your boyfriend’s program thinks that politically-elected leaders not only know of it, they are actually clients of the Guild? They’re ordering hits on constituents, and paying for them with tax-payer dollars?”
“For all we know, they could be the ones controlling the Guild,” Rath pointed out.
Beauceron shook his head. “I’m just having trouble accepting that the Guild is a government-sanctioned organization. That hundreds of senators are not only aware of its existence, but have hidden it from the Interstellar Police for so long.”
“I don’t know that it is,” Dasi said.
“Is what?” Paisen asked.
“Government-sanctioned. I think Senator Lizelle and two other senators know about it, and that’s where it ends. I’ve seen how information leaks at Anchorpoint – the place is a giant sieve, and it was my job to do damage control, often. This feels like too big of a secret to be kept by more than a handful of senior leaders.”
“Who were the other two senators?” Paisen asked.
“I don’t know,” Dasi said. “Khyron never found out, either. He only identified Lizelle, and then he stopped trying to figure it out, because he got scared.”
“What did you with the information?” Beauceron asked.
“We didn’t know what to do. We were terrified. We didn’t think the police would believe us, so we went to a lawyer … but he betrayed us to Senator Lizelle.”
“Who was the lawyer?” Beauceron asked.
“A District Attorney – his name was Yellen.”
Beauceron opened his datascroll and ran a cursory search. “Disappeared,” Beauceron said, setting the datascroll down with a long sigh. “His wife filed a missing persons report and he hasn’t been seen since.”
“Dead,” Paisen corrected. “They don’t let witnesses like that slip by.”
“Keep going, Dasi,” Rath told her.
“The lawyer had us give him all the evidence. The program, the data it collected, everything. Then Senator Lizelle asked me to accompany him on a shuttle ride.” She lowered her eyes, her cheeks reddening. “The senator and I had been … intimate … in the past. So he was able to save me from … from what they did to Khyron.” She took a deep breath, collecting herself.
“It’s okay,” Beauceron reassured her.
“But I couldn’t stay at Anchorpoint,” Dasi continued, her voice trembling. “He put me on a cargo ship, and they brought me here. He visited me, just a few days ago. He told me he was going to try to get me off the planet, eventually, but he couldn’t say when.”
“That suggests he’s not pulling the strings,” Paisen pointed out.
“He’s not,” Dasi agreed. “He has some influence over things, but I think he’s in trouble with the other senators, or whoever runs the Guild, for nearly exposing them.”
Paisen studied the younger woman for a few seconds. “Do you know what the Guild is?”
“Somewhat,” Dasi admitted. “Martin told me a little about it.”
“Did he tell you who we are?” She indicated herself and Rath.
“No.”
“We’re guildsmen.”
“My boyfriend was killed by someone like you. By the Guild.”
“Then we have a fair amount in common – the Guild has been trying to kill us, too.”
“Why?” Dasi asked.
“Because it’s done with us. Because it’s cheaper to kill us than pay us,” Paisen said.
“So you want your money?” Dasi asked.
“We want the Guild exposed,” Beauceron cut in.
Paisen shot him a look. “We each have things we want. What do you want?”
Dasi looked at each of them in turn. “I don’t know. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to have to live in fear, worrying that these people are coming after me.”
Beauceron smiled. “If you can help us expose them, then you won’t have to.”
Paisen stood up. “Rath, Beauceron – I’d like to talk to you across the hall. In private.”
“Why?” Beauceron asked. “You don’t believe her?”
“I believe her, but I still don’t trust her.” She looked at Dasi. “No offense.”
“She wants to help,” Beauceron said.
“I do,” Dasi echoed. “If the Guild killed Khyron, I want … well, I want his death to count for something. He would want me to help, I think.”
“That’s noble, but I still don’t trust you.” Paisen said. She and Rath left the cabin; Beauceron shrugged by way of apology, and then followed.
In the lounge, Paisen waited until Beauceron and Rath were inside, and then palmed the door shut.
Paisen powered up the hologram projector in the middle of the table. “After we refuel, we go after the senator.” A single asteroid appeared above the table, with a cluster of ships and permanent installations attached to it.
Rath let out a low whistle. “Anchorpoint is the single most well-guarded installation in Federacy space.”
Paisen rubbed her chin.
“He’ll have his personal security detail with him at all times. Members of the elite Senate Guards,” Rath continued.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“The Group is going to figure out that we took Dasi with us off of Fusoria, and anticipate a move against the senator,” Beauceron observed.
“Yes, they are.”
Rath pressed on: “At best, they’ll warn Lizelle, and his security detail will be on high alert. At worst, they’ll try to put a team there ahead of time and lay a trap for us.”
“That’s what I’d do,” Paisen agreed.
Rath rubbed his forehead. “Fuck.”
“We need to keep unraveling this thread,” Paisen argued. “If anyone knows where Group Headquarters is, it’s this senator. He has to.”
Rath glanced at Beauceron, who shrugged. “Well, let’s find out,” Rath conceded. “Anchorpoint’s a ways away, but—”
There was a gentle knock at the door. Paisen walked over and opened it with a frown.
“I wasn’t listening,” Dasi said meekly. “I mean, I couldn’t hear anything, even if I had wanted to. But I forgot something.”
“What?” Paisen asked.
“Are you hoping to find Senator Lizelle?”
“Possibly,” Paisen said.
“Yes,” Rath said, at the same time. Paisen shot him a look of annoyance.
“Well, if so, you need to go to Emerist.”
“Emerist?” Paisen asked.
“The Senate’s not in session, so the senators all leave Anchorpoint, and most go back to their homeworlds. Lizelle visited me on Fusoria, and when he left, he told me he was going back to his home on Emerist to do some fundraising.”
“Have you been there?” Beauceron asked.
“Yes. Wait, did you mean to Emerist, or the senator’s home? I’ve been to Emerist, and I’ve also spent some time at the senator’s house.”
Beauceron smiled, while Rath suppressed a chuckle. Paisen scowled at both of them, then walked back over to the table. She swiped away the 3D model of Anchorpoint, replacing it with a hologram of Emerist.
“Well, you better come in, then.”
12
“Definite traces of engine emissions,” the pilot told his passenger. “Someone was up here in orbit, pretty recently.”
“How recently?”
The pilot fiddled with his sensor computer, and a thin line appeared on the canop
y heads-up display, extending out from the planet. “An hour, maybe less. Headed that way, accelerating to FTL.”
“Can you tell where they were going?” 700 asked.
The pilot shook his head. “No. I mean, their initial heading narrows it down some, but no FTL route is perfectly straight … and if they were worried they were being followed, they would probably stop and change course, or even double back. Which means they could be anywhere now.”
A notification from Headquarters popped up in 700’s neural interface.
“I need to make a call,” he told the pilot. “Head down to the surface.”
“Sure,” the pilot agreed. He swung the craft’s nose around, and pointed it back toward the grey mass of Fusoria.
They started at the platform; 700 had the pilot make two low passes, and they even hailed the facility over the external speakers, to no avail. 700 established an uplink to Headquarters and streamed his feed to them, so they could examine the damage themselves.
“Communications array and weapons emplacements show signs of high-velocity impacts,” he noted, for their benefit. “Damage to the air car and lifeboats, as well. Put me down on the upper deck.”
The pilot hovered, and 700 clambered down a ladder extending from under the ship’s starboard wing.
“Radio check,” he said, upon setting foot on the metal deck.
“I have you,” the pilot responded.
“I’m on board. Circle the facility until I’m ready for pickup.”
“Roger.” The craft throttled up and peeled off, taking up station several thousand feet away.
700 unholstered his auto-pistol and headed into the super-structure. He swept the living quarters first, then the medical bays. He found the cafeteria a mess, with packets of food spilled across the floor, and several refrigerators left open. In the medical bays, one of the linen closets was open, and several sheets lay on the floor nearby. He swept a hand along the empty shelf.
“People were here very recently,” he told Headquarters. “I can still smell body odors.”
Suddenly, with an audible groaning of metal, the facility tilted to the left several degrees. 700 grabbed the shelf to steady himself.
