by Mark Wandrey
Upon examination, it appeared the blade had developed a stress fracture at the bolster, near the handle. He made a note that future versions needed a guard of some kind. If the knife had jumped back at him instead of rebounding away, he could have lost his hand.
Finally, he examined the edges as best he could. He didn’t have a machine to do a BESS assessment, so he sufficed with the portable microscope he had. The edge hadn’t curled. It wasn’t possible for the carbon-carbon to be turned. It looked like some had simply ablated, and there was tiny pitting in evidence. The edge looked to be only .1 micron, or maybe a BESS of 20. He frowned. The blade had seriously underperformed his expectations.
The bits went into a sample case and was stowed in the toolkit. Maybe further thought would yield an improvement. He’d conceived of the idea when a Marine complained the standard CASPer arm blades had difficulty cutting through Oogar armor. He’d set about making an improvement. While the fusion knives were certainly better, the processes involved in making the two he’d produced suggested a CASPer-sized variant would cost roughly five million credits, each. Not including the vibration device, which was a rather complicated gadget as well. The concept was reduced to the two samples, now just one. Oh, well.
He turned to the armored mailbox with a frown, eyebrows knitted in concentration. He didn’t know what else he had that would work, and was considering waiting for Rick to wake up and having him laze the fucking thing open, when he saw the door was ajar. He pulled it closer and examined the incisions.
The fusion knife had produced edges in the high-carbon steel box which themselves were nearly as sharp as a scalpel. The first hinge had been severed neatly, however the second had caused trouble, as he knew well. He couldn’t see what had done the number on his knife. Despite wanting to, he focused on the box itself. Redonning the heavy, blood-stained gloves, he carefully pulled the door free, pivoting on the still intact lock, and then worked the locking bolt out of its hole, completely removing the door and revealing the contents.
All that rested inside was a key. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Sato said as he fished it out. It looked a little like a hotel room key, with a plastic tab attached to the keyhole. He turned it over in his hand, then flipped the severed box door over and tried it. The keys weren’t compatible. “Well, that’s good,” he said and chuckled. How ironic would it be if the box contained the key to the box?
No, he knew it wouldn’t be something like that. It must be something important, both because of the significance of the memory and the efforts he’d taken to stash it. So he used his pinplants to scan every minute detail of the key and its plastic tab. Fully scanned, he slipped the key into his pocket and began running an analysis.
The key was of a type widely available on Earth, though not in current production. The last time it was produced was 55 years ago. Sato frowned as he double-checked on the AetherNet, confirming the data. The key ID verified that this particular one was likely manufactured between 2030 and 2046. But why would he stash away a key which had been made nearly 100 years ago?
The tag was more difficult. His eyes could just detect faded writing. It took several attempts to discern the words or numbers. Finally, he realized it was written in Japanese. Sakura Maru—22XF.
“Sakura Maru,” he whispered.
The ship looked so big, yet compared to the ones the aliens came and left in, it was actually tiny. Sato reached out and touched the landing leg. It was made of a hundred parts, the metal intricately machined with many cuts to reduce weight. It seemed too fragile to support the ship’s many thousand tons of weight. He tilted his head up and back, following the graceful lines. His heart swelled with pride and the weight of responsibility he would bear.
He blinked as the memory retreated. Another Aethernet search confirmed what he knew he’d find. They needed to go to Japan next.
The work finished, Sato carefully scooped the shards of his defunct fusion knife into the empty mailbox, then set the lid back in place. Using the laser that had failed to cut the hinge, he performed several spotwelds before the laser’s battery gave out. It wouldn’t stop anyone determined to get into the box, but it would stop a casual observation. He took the box outside, found the hotel’s garbage dumpster, and managed to muscle the mailbox over the top and drop it inside. It landed with a resounding booong!
Sato glanced around. Nobody was in sight, so he headed inside. The bandages were still in place, though the long gash on his arm was bleeding through, so he replaced it. Everything done, he reclined on the other bed, gave a sigh, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Chapter Five
Rick woke up to find out they were going to Japan. Part of him wasn’t surprised. Sato was Japanese, after all. However, the scientist had never once mentioned visiting his homeland. In fact, his English was so free of any accent, Rick had wondered if he actually was from Japan.
“What are we doing there?”
“Going to a museum.”
He’d heard worse reasons to travel halfway around a planet. Even with a destination, they still had other stops to make.
The first proved to be pretty easy. They located a black-market hacker just outside Houston startown. Rick was glad they could avoid entering the startown. Despite the area being in total chaos, there was still some security. The hacker they hired modified their Yacks to show that they’d arrived legally on Earth at the Houston Starport instead of aboard an alien ship in Sao Paulo.
With their newly updated Yacks, the pair could go anywhere they wanted with impunity. It was unlikely the IDs would pass muster with a Peacemaker or someone from the UCX, of course, but they were unlikely to run into either in their travels. Regardless, they didn’t want to risk a flight from Houston.
Dakkar didn’t seem to mind where they were going. His only request was some fresh food soon, and maybe a chance to swim in the ocean, though he was in no hurry. Once again, it seemed maglev trains were the best option. Luckily the US had much better ones.
They left the car at the curb by the North Houston maglev station. Sato typed 666 on the phone and hit dial. It quickly made a connection.
“Thank you and good luck,” someone said and disconnected.
“Pretty shifty.” Rick laughed.
“Sounds about right,” Sato agreed.
Rick picked up the support module with Dakkar inside. His repaired leg was working well, though the armor’s computer warned him it was only operating at 91% capacity. He decided 91% was better than 0%. The short sleep had left him fully refreshed, and his armor’s batteries were at 35%, higher than he’d predicted. More than likely, he could finish charging them on the train.
Leaving the nice SUV behind, they rode the lift to the maglev station. Because it was adjacent to Houston Starport, it was modern and well maintained. The corporation that operated the maglev trains had hired mercs who stood around in light combat armor, weapons on slings, carefully watching the passengers.
Rick was glad he had his cloak and hood. Next to the various aliens taking advantage of the cheap transportation, and apparently a tourist, he didn’t draw unwanted attention.
Tickets were purchased from a robotic kiosk for a ‘mere’ 250 credits, including baggage in the form of Dakkar’s support module.
“Prices are outrageous right now,” Rick grumbled as they paid; 250 credits should have been enough to buy a new luxury car. ‘War surcharges’ were more than half the price of their tickets.
“I think we can afford it,” Sato said. They watched the robotic luggage handler pick up Dakkar’s module and move it into the lower deck of the maglev parked in the station. Rick thought it was a strong juxtaposition from the station in South America, where the baggage handlers were all poor downtrodden men and women, probably working for a pittance.
The kiosk took no notice of their forged documents. It issued them tickets, and the pair boarded. The train was nearly empty. Not many were moving about the country. The pair were able t
o secure comfortable seats in the upper deck, just behind the dining car. Minutes later, the train left the station and quickly accelerated to 450 kph.
The seats were comfortable, and thanks to a mostly empty train, largely anonymous. As the train had security, there were no conductors, and robots handled service from the dining car. Rick wasn’t sure whether any Humans were physically operating the train, or if it was being operated remotely.
Sato was snoring in minutes, still exhausted from their ordeals over the last few days, so Rick used the train’s Aethernet access to study the war.
General Peepo was dispatching her dreadnought and a massive war fleet to the Winged Hussars’ secret base, which she apparently knew the whereabouts of, in order to deal a deathblow to the Human mercs’ last bastion of resistance.
A slight smile crossed his lips. Peepo would find New Warsaw a far harder target than she could ever imagine. His memory of the Hussars’ home system was incomplete due to when his memories were copied, shortly after his arrival. He remembered a vast field of asteroids, many apparently both mobile and armed. Then there was the Hussars’ huge fleet of ships. Finally was Prime Base, the biggest space station he’d ever seen. No, despite the power she wielded, Rick doubted Peepo would come out of that fight a winner.
There were a lot of images from Sao Paulo of the immobile Raknar, 30-meter-tall battle machines. These were often accompanied by stills of Jim Cartwright and his fellow ‘Raknar Pilots,’ as they were called. They’d surrendered to allow the rest of the Horsemen to escape, when Alexis Cromwell was killed and the attack fell apart.
Colonel Cromwell dead will make things more complicated, he thought as he looked at his long-lost friend. Jim looked defeated, but not beaten. He recognized the boy in the man. One of the now-fabled Horsemen. One of the articles showed all the Cartwrights who’d led the Cavaliers. Jim looked the most like his great-grandfather, the original Jim Cartwright, who’d been in the Alpha Contracts over a century ago. Jim Cartwright senior might not have been as large as his grandson, but he had the same facial features. Sometime in the intervening years, the younger Jim had also picked up a self-assurance Rick had never seen before. It suited a man who drove a 30-meter-tall war machine.
General Peepo was offering a one-million-credit reward for capture of the little aliens the Raknar pilots used to help operate the machines. Called ‘Fae,’ they were tiny, only half a meter tall, it appeared. One was in a file picture of Jim from before the war. Brown fur, huge blue-on-blue eyes, a long tail, and equally long, expressive ears. It seemed to be grinning, just like Jim. Something about the look suggested intelligence.
Rick considered breaking his old friend out of prison. The Æsir armor had capabilities Peepo’s people couldn’t imagine. Whatever Sato had in mind wouldn’t take more than a few more days, he figured. Maybe after the scientist was safely stashed away in Japan, Rick could hop a shuttle back to Brazil and kick some Veetanho ass. The thought made him grin.
The flat display built into the seat backs showed four and half hours to their destination. He searched around the seat and found a power receptacle. Plugging in, he was pleased to find its power output quite high. By the time they arrived at their destination, he would have over 90% capacity on the suit’s hybrid batteries. He plugged in, found some music on the Aethernet, and zoned out, listening to Drowning Pool. How could I forget how awesome this is?
The train made three stops: first in Shreveport, Louisiana; next in Little Rock, Arkansas; and then in Memphis, Tennessee. Each time it was 10 minutes sharp before the alarm sounded and the doors closed. Each time, he kept a careful eye on the train platform, alert for any sign of one of Sato’s old mystery friends.
Most aliens riding the train were gone by the time they stopped in Memphis. Now the passengers all looked like working men and women who couldn’t afford a shuttle flight, with a smattering of average people or families on a short trip. Nothing looked questionable or even shifty to him.
The train accelerated back to top speed. Just under two hours later, it slowed as they approached their destination.
“Sato,” Rick said and gently jostled the other man.
“Hmm?”
“We’re coming into the station.”
“Oh, right,” Sato said, stretching and yawning. He looked around, blinking. “Did I sleep all the way here?”
“Yes, but that’s not a problem.” Rick retracted his power adapter. “I got a full charge and listened to some music.”
“Good, good.” Sato stood and stretched again.
“We don’t have to stop here,” Rick said, feeling the beginnings of nervousness.
“Yes, I think you need to do this. But it’s your decision.”
Rick sat as the train continued to slow. Outside, the north side of Indianapolis slid past. He recognized Eagle Creek Park off to his right, then they whizzed over Interstate 65, now looking old and disused. Only a few more minutes. He realized he was being foolish.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “It won’t take long.”
“There’s a restaurant just outside the terminal, still inside the station perimeter,” Sato said. “I’ll have Dakkar’s module moved to cargo transfer while you do what you want to do.” He reached up into the overhead and retrieved his shoulder bag. “Take as long as you need.”
The train entered the Carmel Terminal, the second largest maglev station in Indianapolis. A few passengers exited with them. Rick caught the cargo bots unloading Dakkar’s well-traveled module and had them move it to a secure area. There was a sign mentioning the food court.
Sato held out a handful of credits. “Let me know when you’re on the way back. I’m hungry anyway. See you soon?”
“Sure,” Rick said, taking the currency. “Don’t get adventurous. Remember, I have your laser.”
Sato nodded. Now that they were outside the lawless area around Houston, it wasn’t safe for Sato to continue carrying the holdout laser Rick had given him. Random searches weren’t uncommon in the United States Zone, and Carmel, Indiana was a quiet urban area. Rick had secured the weapon in one of his armored compartments, making it nearly impossible to detect.
Outside, he summoned a robotic flyer cab instead of a piloted one. Many didn’t like the robotic cabs, Humans still having more affinity to flesh than metal. Rick suspected he would find little compassion from his own species if push came to shove, though he was still predominantly flesh.
The cab dropped him off after a short flight, and Rick paid with cash. He walked away from the landing zone even as the cab was spinning up its turbofans and leaping back into the sky. He took a second to look around and find his bearings. A few things had changed. It was now late in the afternoon, and it was threatening rain.
He turned down one street, then another. A man out getting mail from his box stopped in mid-sorting and stared at the visage Rick presented walking down the street toward him. The man must have thought he was the source of the strange person’s interest.
“C-can I help you?” the man asked when they were only a couple meters apart.
“No,” Rick said and walked past without pausing. He could see the man following his progress via his rearward facing sensors. Probably going to call the police, Rick thought and turned at the next intersection.
His original plan had been to walk up to the front door, but after leaving behind a skittish local, who might have summoned law enforcement, he changed plans. Two blocks further down, he spotted a house he recognized. There was no sign of anyone, so Rick turned casually, walking across the lawn, and easily vaulted a low fence into the back yard. Immediately he was set upon by a large dog, growling and snapping at his leg.
“YIPE!” the dog yelped in pain and surprise as Rick felt teeth crack on his armored leg.
“Sniff before you bite,” Rick said. The dog ran a few meters away and turned, growling and barking. This won’t do, he decided and deployed his non-lethal system. A bolt of electric plasma arced out, connecting Rick’s suit arm to the d
og, which yowled, jerked, and fell over unconscious. “Never liked dogs much,” Rick said, and proceeded in the direction he’d been heading, jumping another pair of fences before landing in another yard and stopping.
It was like he’d been there only days ago. The swing set of his childhood still rested in the corner, paint peeled and rusting. A faded memory of his father putting it together not long before he left. The confusion that followed, and his mother struggling to pay the bills on her meager salary. It felt so familiar, yet like he was looking at a movie he’d watched long ago, though he’d been here last less than three years ago.
Rick walked to the rear door of the home he’d grown up in. The door lock looked unchanged. He gave a rueful smile. I wonder, he thought, and reached out to punch in a code. The door buzzed and swung open for him. His mother had never removed Rick’s private code. He walked inside.
Like the yard, nothing had changed, though the paint was faded, and the cabinet work more chipped and worn. His armor picked up a hint of garlic, his mother’s favorite seasoning. He checked his chronometer. It was 16:44 local time. She would be getting off work in 16 minutes, and if she still worked at the same place, she’d be home in less than an hour.
He’d intended to go to his room and wait for her to get home, but he stopped in the living room. Until now, everything was as he remembered it, especially since the breakthrough with his recollection of Jim Cartwright. All the memories were more complete, clearer, and more vivid. What wasn’t in those memories was the picture of him on the fireplace mantel.
Rick walked over slowly to get closer. It was him in his official Winged Hussars uniform, with a single stripe, when he was only a private, taken just weeks after joining. A black ribbon was wrapped around the framed picture, and a golden necklace was draped over it. He reached out and lifted the necklace. It was the Saint Christopher medal his mother had given him when he’d left home as a merc.
“So they sent it home to her,” he said. That also meant something else.
