Chimera Company Season 2 - Deep Cover

by Tim C. Taylor

  It was all he needed to launch himself across the room at her and apply a grip like a fusion-powered vise to her gun-hand wrist.

  Her training emphasized shooting the bastard first. If they got a hold on you, it was game over. So she dropped her needle pistol.

  “Are you going to murder me?” she asked haughtily, still far from sure that Sanderson had ever intended to betray her.

  “No,” he replied, patting her down for more concealed weapons. “Though it is very tempting. I don’t like you, In’Nalla, but I took an oath to stay above politics.”

  “Oh, so you’re still Legion.”

  “I’m on sabbatical.”

  She rolled her eyes. No one leaves the Legion.

  “My name isn’t Marc Sanderson.”

  “Oh, you do surprise me.”

  “Marc Yergin, 27th Independent Field Squadron, 141st Brigade. Nydella Sanderson, 4th battalion, 83rd Brigade. They died. So did many others, and they gave their lives in a far bigger cause than your petty world with its grubby politics. I can’t murder you in cold blood, not because I can’t stomach the act, but because you simply aren’t important enough.”

  “Works well for me, Legionary. It means you will die.”

  “No. I’m going to walk out of here, just fine.”

  “Delusional! Like so many others of your kind. Your only hope is to surrender to me and beg for clemency.”

  She knew soldiers. Had seen many of them break. Seen the calm that came over some of them when they realized they were caught in a trap they would never escape from alive. At first, she’d mistaken the man’s confidence for the calmness of an imminent demise, but Sanderson really did think he’d won.

  “Take a look at the screen behind you,” he said.

  She did.

  “Oh, sweet fuck!”

  The screen showed the Revered Leader of Eiylah-Bremah in her privacy bunker.

  “I want a dirty bomb,” she said in the recording. “Radiation. Fallout. Fear!”

  Godsabove! Do I really look so unhinged?

  After a brief pause a male Zhoogene voice replied, “Not a problem. I can do that.”

  Another pause and then, “Wouldn’t it be better to blame the bomb on the Panhandlers? You want to unite the public behind you, right? Wouldn’t that be easier if you blame off-worlders?”

  “You’re right, damn you. Nuke that city into radioactive glass and make it look like a Panhandler atrocity. Blame them both if you can.”

  In’Nalla switched off all the screens.

  “It looks like Department 9’s changed horses,” said Sanderson.

  “Department 9? He said he was Blue Chamber.”

  “He? We are talking about Zhoogene posing as Militia Lieutenant Ren Kay. Right?”

  In’Nalla looked away in shame. It was mortifying to have seen her half-crazed face calling for the mass destruction of her own citizens, but more than that, she was ashamed to have been played so easily by that damned Zhoogene.

  A last spark of defiance lit her soul, and she regarded the man who had called himself Sanderson. “You want Ren Kay dead as much as I do.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t promise anything–” She had to fling her arms out suddenly when the news wagon began to rock, angry fists pounding on outside, calling for her blood. “But I’ll try to get him to reveal something about himself. Maybe you can use it to end him.”

  Ren Kay answered as soon as she called. He was out of his Militia uniform now, just one more unremarkable civilian in a city undergoing a revolution. “It’s damned fortunate you called,” he said. “I can’t get a signal through to you in that wagon unless I ride your outgoing channel. Don’t suppose you’d care to step outside?”

  “Help me,” she begged.

  “No,” he replied. “You’ve done an excellent job for us, Revered Leader, but we don’t need you now.”

  “What do you mean? You worked for me. You committed atrocities.”

  “Under your orders. The evidence will clearly show that you staged the Massacre of Krunacao, Revered Leader.”

  “Why? What could you possibly hope to gain?”

  “Our agenda is to shake the Federation out of its stupidity. You should understand, In’Nalla. Societies without a challenge to face drift into dysfunction and division. They need firm leadership for their own good. That’s what you were trying to do on Eiylah-Bremah, and it’s what we shall succeed in doing across the Federation and beyond. The outrage citizens will feel at your actions will be one of our propaganda coups. It will help push the bleating sheep of Far Reach citizenry into calling for strong, centralized and, above all, coherent leadership. So, you see, you have succeeded in furthering your political goals, even though you personally won’t be alive to see the benefits.”

  In’Nalla frowned at the man’s image. He wasn’t even gloating properly. All the while, he was busy gesturing like crazy at a workstation. Setting up something, but what? Not, In’Nalla supposed, that it mattered to her anymore.

  With a flourish, Ren Kay completed his workstation task and peered out of In’Nalla’s wrist slate with piercing golden eyes. He was looking behind her.

  “If that’s your new bodyguard in there with you, say hi from me. Marc Sanderson, I believe he’s calling himself. How romantic. I’m so sorry about Sergeant Sanderson’s tragic demise, Sergeant Sybutu. She was your lover, I understand. But, hey, look on the bright side. You’ll be joining her very soon.”

  OSU SYBUYU

  “Unlike those pansy-ass poseurs in Naval Intelligence, SpecMish never gloats,” Bronze had told Sybutu back on the Phantom. “They never threaten until the last moment before their target is eliminated.”

  Bronze’s words rang through Sybutu’s head as he looked in horror at In’Nalla’s wrist slate. She was still venting her anger at Ren Kay, but the Zhoogene’s threat to him had been made, and sounded very final.

  He worked the bolts to the hatch and shoved suddenly and with all his might against the crush of people on the outside fighting to get in.

  He was still pushing when In’Nalla’s wrist slate exploded.

  The door blew open with Sybutu still hanging on. The pressure wave felt like it was crushing his chest like an old steel can, and the light armor under his clothing thudded with shrapnel fragments.

  The roar of the blast still filled his skull, but legionary training took over and he made an initial check for injuries. It hurt to breathe. Something had pierced his leg behind his right knee. And his head throbbed. But he didn’t think anything vital had been pierced.

  Inside the vehicle, it was a different matter.

  In’Nalla’s arm had been blown off by the booby trap set into her wrist slate by Ren Kay. Thick blood dripped from every surface.

  He checked her over. She was still alive, but only just.

  Her blood-soaked eyelids flickered open, but she couldn’t focus on him.

  “I did what I thought best for my people,” she croaked. “Always.”

  He contemplated the tyrant of Eiylah-Bremah for a long moment. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “But that doesn’t mean a damn. Pretty much every tyrant in human history believed they were doing what’s right. You were nothing special.”

  She gave a death rattle. Then her head slumped against a rack of inert camera drones, and she was gone.

  Sybutu stood by what he’d told her at the end, but he hoped she hadn’t heard his final words.

  He regarded her for another moment or two. Then he got his shit together. He was Sergeant Osu Sybutu, a sapper of the Legion on a temporary posting to Chimera Company. And he had a job to do.

  He jumped outside the news wagon.

  The crowd parted for him, leaving him a space of his own.

  Streaming with blood – mostly from In’Nalla, but with his own body scorched and torn too – he must look a fearsome sight.

  “Keep away!” he growled.

  They backe
d up further.

  He keyed the Chimera channel on his comm set. “Fitz, Basement, Vetch, In’Nalla’s dead. What’s your status?”

  “We’re on overwatch,” said Vetch. “A hundred feet above your head.”

  “Basement Ops here,” said Enthree. “Outrage is flowing around the world. No one is going to weep for In’Nalla.”

  “Good work, everybody,” said Fitz. “I’m calling this a victory for Chimera Company. I’ll call in Commander Slinh. Now is the time for her to pick up the pieces, with a little help from Colonel Lantosh. Sybutu, seal yourself back in that wagon until we can get to you.”

  “Roger that,” Sybutu said. “I might not be able to get a signal out, so I’ll say now that Ren Kay of Department 9 knew a helluva lot about me. I think that blast was intended for me as much as for In’Nalla.”

  “Regrettably, I suspect you’re right. Basement Ops, your new target is Kaylingen Space Port. Sybutu! I told you to get your jack ass inside that wagon. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sybutu hopped inside and sealed the hatch.

  He tried to remember why Fitzwilliam was in charge and what his strategic objective was, but his head was still filled with white noise.

  After setting the screens to give a wide-angle exterior view, he sat numbly and waited.

  IZZA ZAN FEY

  After sweeping for surveillance devices and triggering the privacy shroud, she activated the quantum link communicator.

  He hadn’t left a message.

  Not that she expected one. The plan had been that he would communicate first, and only when he was ready to proceed to the next stage.

  So she didn’t transmit anything, but knowing that she could if she wanted was better than nothing. It was tenuous, but she felt the two of them were connected.

  She had been rationing herself to sitting here like this on Phantom’s flight deck a maximum of once every four days. But a loneliness had eaten away at her all day, and she’d finally yielded to it, despite having been here the previous night period.

  As always, she settled into his seat, settling her heels on his customary spot on the flight console and taking solace from the majestic stars watching her through the cockpit window.

  “You’ve been exceedingly naughty,” snapped Fitz.

  She almost fell out of the seat! She had never expected him to speak.

  He sounded cross, but without being able to see and smell him, she wasn’t sure if he was genuinely angry.

  “I expect officers to show decorum aboard Phantom. She is not a clothing-optional vessel. And leaving me a message like that was outrageous.” This time she could hear his grin. “The link was meant to be used for emergencies only.”

  “But it was an emergency. I have needs.” She smiled. “I need you, Tavistock.”

  “Can’t you…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. She knew what he was about to say and how difficult it was for him. “Can’t you find… distractions? It’s not as if you exactly have to try hard.”

  She thought back to the people who’d shared her quarters since he’d gone. Since he’d left her. This hadn’t been her idea, she reminded herself bitterly. “No. I’ve tried. But it doesn’t work. I wish it did, but it would appear that I can accept no substitutes, however unlikely that sounds when I say it out loud.”

  “Tell me being separated isn’t for nothing,” said Fitz.

  “It isn’t. It went better than expected. Nyluga-Ree took the bait. I’ve left what you need for now at Drop Point 17.”

  TAVISTOCK FITZWILLIAM

  Despite the band starting up with a funky up-tempo electro-thump number, Fitz resolutely sulked in the wings of the Global Palace ballroom.

  Tonight was the opening of the peace conference, just two days after the fall of In’Nalla. Tomorrow, the hard business of putting this world back together would begin in earnest. Fitz had every intention of not being there with the hungover victors of the revolution.

  He’d expended a lot of political capital in insisting the word ‘reconciliation’ wasn’t used in the official name of the conference. To those toasting victory, that word meant firing squads and show trials, and Fitz thought Eiylah-Bremah had suffered quite enough of those, thank you.

  Unfortunately, part of the cost of that bargain had been for him to make his appearance tonight and do so with hat off.

  Hat off, everything off, as far as he was concerned. So he left his shades in the pocket of the formal velvet robes they’d given him.

  Everyone stared at his mutant eyes.

  Well, let them. He raised his glass of wine in acknowledgement at the scandalized stares. Just so long as he kept everyone’s attention on him…

  “We’re through, Captain,” reported Sybutu over Fitz’s earpiece. “Though I’d advise giving our ex-Militia troopers a crash course on basic concealment.”

  The waiter hovering by the corridor opposite gave a slight frown of concentration on her delightful green face. She reminded him of Izza.

  But she wasn’t. Fitz would happily wager a million credits that this particular Zhoogene was one of the Department 9 operatives working the event. They were closing in on him, and while he doubted they could decrypt his link to Sybutu, the sharp-eared Zhoogene would be able to hear his side of the conversation.

  “Your complaining sounds like Lynx, Sergeant. And our passenger?”

  “Colonel Lantosh is with us.”

  “Good. Standby, if you please.”

  Fitz marched over to a pair of women deep in discussion about ten yards away.

  They looked up in surprise at his approach, and then blushed a little at this unexpected attention from the hero of the moment.

  “Hold that for me, will you?” Fitz thrust his glass at one of the women’s hands. “Got a case of the galloping trots. Be right back.”

  The woman took his glass but called after him as he hurried away. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The trots?”

  Fitz halted. “I picked up something in the jungle. It’s demanding an urgent visit to the restroom.”

  Leaving behind a flurry of sympathetic noises, he resisted the temptation to wink at the Zhoogene waiter and all the other people he suspected were about to spring a Department 9 trap.

  He bypassed the nearest restroom, favoring one instead with an exterior facing wall.

  Luckily, it was absent of civilians, which made his exfil less messy.

  He activated his comm. “Sybutu, begin pre-flight checks.”

  “But we don’t know how.”

  “Ignore Sergeant Jack,” said Lily. “We’ve just found the manual.”

  “Excellent work,” said Fitz as he ditched his heavy robes and pressed the breach charge to the window. “Do the best you can. I have a suspicion we’ll be making a hot exit.”

  He took cover in the farthest corner of the restroom.

  The explosion rocked the building, spraying splintering glass out onto the street twenty feet below. Using his robes as a blanket over the shattered portal, he lifted himself up and was halfway through, with his butt wriggling for the final push, when the enemy finally made their move.

  “Stay there, Fitzwilliam,” shouted the Zhoogene waiter. “We want a word before you die.”

  Fitz looked back and saw the Zhoogene was accompanied by one of the musicians, a young human girl. He was disappointed: he hadn’t clocked that operative.

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Fitz told the Department 9 waiter. “This is a gentlemen-only amenity. If you wouldn’t mind leaving and coming back with a male killer to make the threats, then I would feel so much more comfortable.”

  The Zhoogene put a bullet out through the window, passing a fraction of an inch from Fitz’s face.

  “Your only warning,” she said. “We can kill you hard or we can do it easy. Which is it to be?”

  “I’m disappointed,” Fitz replied. “In Naval Intelligence, we never gave warnings.”

  Two suppressed blaster bolts shot out from one of th
e cubicles – the one whose door had silently opened while the two women were concentrating on Fitz. The bolts burned through their necks, cutting the connection between their brains and their trigger fingers.

  The two would-be assassins died messily, pumping fountains of blood over the pristine tiles of the restroom facility.

  “I don’t think those suppressors work,” said Fitz. “My ears hurt.”

  “Suppressors work fine,” said Bronze, walking out of the cubicle. “Your bomb was too powerful. You were only supposed to blow the window out. Typical Naval Intelligence.”

  Both men laughed and got on with the business of jumping out of the building and driving to the space port.

  TAVISTOCK FITZWILLIAM

  “Let’s get this bucket of rust and bolts up into the black,” Fitz announced the moment he entered the flight deck. “Better strap in. There’s no knowing whether this old tub has been maintained properly.” He took the pilot’s station and rubbed his hands with glee as he tried out the controls.

  Far from a rust bucket, the ship they’d stolen had been In’Nalla’s luxury space yacht, a heavily customized Hitomi-class racer with jump capability, opulent berthing, and from what his people had reported so far, lavishly equipped drinks cabinets.

  But it was tradition for a new pilot to treat a ship with cynicism until their first shakedown flight. So rust bucket it would remain for the time being, though as he spooled the main engines and felt the ship throb with power, he didn’t think he’d be calling it that for long.

  “Where are we headed?” asked Lily, just beating everyone else to the same question.

  “Away is good enough for now,” Fitz replied. And that might not be easy if Department 9 still retained as much influence as he suspected.

  “Signal intercept,” said Zavage. “Militia fighter craft have scrambled from polar airbase to the north.”

  “Militia, eh?” Fitz lifted off from the landing pad. “I wonder whose side they’re on today?”

  Not theirs, that was for sure. After In’Nalla’s death, the Militia in Kaylingen had first negotiated a ceasefire with Gzeiter’s surviving troops, which had allowed the remaining Panhandlers to leave the city unmolested. Since then, the Militia had heavily reinforced their presence in the capital but had declined to take a view on the ‘internal matter’ of who should rule Eiylah-Bremah, so long as they followed the requirements of federal law. The long war with RevRec was over. For now, at least.