by Piers Platt
“Thanks,” she said.
Neither of their badges worked on the security gate, so, exasperated, Dasi lifted herself up and hopped over the turnstile, motioning for Hawken to do the same. The gate’s alarm sounded, honking urgently.
Shut that thing off, Six, Dasi thought. The noise stopped abruptly a moment later.
Hawken cocked an eyebrow at her, but decided to stay quiet. They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, and found their way to the conference room. The door stood open, and Dasi heard sounds of a loud argument from within. Hawken rapped on the doorframe.
The Interstellar Police chief of staff, a stern-looking man in a general’s uniform, looked up from the conference table.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Hawken said. “I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I’m Jace Hawken, a district attorney. The fire chief down at the Senate sent me here when they rescued us.”
The chief of staff stood up, and held out his hand. “Welcome, sir – you’re in the right place.”
“Okay,” Hawken said, shaking his hand.
“I’m General Childers,” he said. “I convened this session.” He gestured around the table. “We’ve got representatives from the fire department, air traffic control, utilities management, hospital services, public relations, and, of course, I’m representing the police.”
“Okay,” Hawken said, frowning. “I’m sorry, but can you just tell me why I’m here?”
“You’re representing the government, sir,” the general told him.
“The Anchorpoint government?” Hawken asked.
“The whole goddamn Federacy,” one of the men at the table corrected him.
“But, I’m … I’m just a D.A.,” he protested. “I’m not a senator.”
“You’re the closest thing we’ve got right now,” General Childers told him. “Emergency situation or not, I’m not about to establish a police state. We need someone people voted for. Which means you’re in charge, Mr. Hawken.”
“You want me to be in charge of the entire Federacy,” Hawken repeated.
“It’s not about what we want, sir – it’s about what we need,” Childers said. “We need a central authority making decisions. And the people need to know the government will continue on. They need to see that someone’s in charge.”
“We need to get you in front of the cameras, and soon,” the public relations official added.
“What? I don’t …” Hawken rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know that I want that much responsibility. I don’t know that I’m up to the task.”
“Look around you, sir,” the general said. “Most of the people in this room are filling in for more senior people that died in that explosion. This morning I was just the chief of staff around here, but now I’m the acting commanding general. None of us asked for this.”
Hawken looked around the conference room, surveying the people at the table, who sat watching him with a mixture of hope and fear. He nodded slowly. “I’m going to need help.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Childers agreed.
Hawken took a deep breath, and then pulled out the chair at the head of the table, and sat. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with the rescue efforts. What else needs to be done?”
The fire department representative cleared his throat. “I can catch you up, sir. First priority was to seal off the area from further atmospheric leaks. We’re still dealing with multiple fires, but we’re also transitioning to rescue operations. We’ve had some help from a few ships in port ….”
Still standing, the general turned to Dasi, dropping his voice. “And you are?”
“Private Apter, sir. I’m an officer assigned to Mr. Hawken’s investigative team.”
“Thank you for escorting him here, Private,” the chief of staff told her. “If you want to wait outside—”
Hawken interrupted the fire department head and turned to face Childers. “Dasi stays,” Hawken said, firmly. “I need her with me.”
The chief of staff inspected Dasi more closely. “Very well, sir.”
Dasi took a seat along the edge of the room, and the general sat down beside Hawken.
“… in short,” the fireman concluded, “I think we’re doing all we can. I could use some help from the cops in keeping civilian traffic away from the site, but that’s about it.”
“Okay,” Hawken agreed. “General, can your officers assist?”
“Absolutely,” Childers agreed.
“Let’s go around the room,” Hawken said. “And talk through our priorities. General, if you want to go next?”
“So far, we’re not seeing any signs of mass panic here at Anchorpoint, but I’ve increased presence patrols just to reassure the citizens,” Childers reported. “I’m also putting together an investigation team. With an event like this, there will be rumors, conspiracy theories. We need to ascertain exactly what happened, and who did it. Right now our best working theories are that Ricken detonated the weapon accidentally, or one of his underlings deviated from the plan and betrayed him.”
Dasi cleared her throat. “Sir, is your team aware that Anchorpoint’s external defense systems activated just prior to the explosion?”
The general frowned at her. “I don’t believe they are. What are you suggesting, Private?”
“That there may be some other reason for the explosion, sir. An external factor,” Dasi suggested.
“Are you saying someone else attacked us?” a man at the end of the table asked.
“It’s possible,” Dasi said. “I’m saying we shouldn’t rule that out.”
“Who?” the man asked. “Who would possibly have reason to attack the seat of the Federacy, other than Anders Ricken?”
Childers raised his hand for silence. “Let’s not start spreading wild theories. But I will have my team look into it,” he promised.
>>>Dasi, news reports are claiming a large fleet of militarized, deep-space vessels has begun landing armed forces on the planet of Tarkis.
What? Dasi asked Six.
>>>According to ship registration records, the fleet appears to be from the territory of Jokuan.
A younger policeman, out of breath, burst in through the conference room door.
“A fleet of ships just invaded Tarkis,” he told the room’s startled residents. “We’re at war.”
3
“Warning: hull breach,” the PA system in the cargo terminal announced, in its expressionless, automated voice. “This sector has been sealed for safety. Remain in place and await further instructions.”
In the front passenger seat of the patrol car, Beauceron shook his head. “We seized Ricken’s ship. We cut the power to the high energy device in time. I don’t understand.”
In the backseat, Vence was skimming news feeds on her datascroll.
“News media is just saying ‘an explosion of unknown origin in the vicinity of the Senate Chamber,’ ” she said. “In other words, they don’t know what’s going on. But I found video footage of Ricken right before the blast.”
“What was he doing?” Paisen asked, from the seat beside her.
“Standing at the podium with some senator,” Vence said, shrugging. “He’s in the middle of talking to the senator, and then the feed gets cut. No one threatened him, he wasn’t waving a detonator around or anything.”
“It’s possible that Ricken had a backup device,” Atalia commented.
“No, I don’t buy it,” Paisen said, from the backseat.
“Why not?” Atalia asked.
“Even if he had a backup, it doesn’t look like he triggered the bomb,” Paisen said. “He and the two women with him were acting normally.”
“Maybe they triggered it by accident,” Atalia said.
“It just doesn’t fit,” Paisen argued.
Abruptly, the red alert lights around the bay stopped flashing, and the massive steel door sealing off the cargo terminal began to rise upwards.
“Hull breaches sealed,�
�� the PA system said. “All non-essential personnel are requested to remain off of roadways to allow Anchorpoint emergency crews unrestricted access.”
“Fucking finally,” Atalia said. She started the cruiser’s engine again, and flipped the sirens on. “Senate building?”
“Yes,” Beauceron agreed.
“Or whatever’s left of it,” Vence said.
* * *
Atalia parked the car outside the ring of fire trucks and ambulances surrounding the Senate building, and the four of them climbed out slowly, in shocked silence.
After a time, Beauceron said, “We failed.”
Far above them, a group of drones worked to weld a pair of huge, temporary hull patches together more securely. Through the transparent patch material, they saw several small spacecraft maneuvering around the interior of the blast site, spotlights playing over offices and hallways exposed to the vacuum, searching for any survivors.
“We did the best we could,” Atalia said, squeezing Beauceron’s arm. “But that doesn’t make this any better.”
Beauceron took out his holophone and tried calling Colonel Jesk again. As before, he got an automated message that the phone was out of service.
“Still no answer from Colonel Jesk,” he said.
“He was here in the building, right?” Paisen asked.
“Yes,” Beauceron said.
Vence walked over to a nearby firefighter, who was changing the air tank on his spacesuit, sweating from exertion.
“How bad is it in there?” she asked him.
“Bad,” he said.
“Are you finding many survivors?”
The firefighter gestured to the ambulances, where a knot of EMTs stood idly, watching the building. Two of them were laying out empty body bags in a neat row along the sidewalk. “What does it look like to you?”
Vence helped him heft the new tank back onto his back. “Be safe in there,” she told him. He nodded, distracted, and headed back toward the building’s entrance. Vence walked back over to the others.
“He says they’re not finding anyone alive.”
“Anyone that wasn’t killed in the blast would have been sucked out into space,” Beauceron said, wincing.
Paisen turned and faced the group. “Look. This happened. Whether we could have prevented it or not, I don’t know. But either way, Colonel Jesk is dead, and the Senate is gone. I suggest you mourn them later. We still have responsibilities, here.”
Beauceron studied her for a moment, and then stood up straighter, appearing to reach a decision. “I’m sorry, you’re right. There will be an investigative team getting ready to tackle this. We need to find them and tell them about Ricken’s ship.”
“And the fleet that just deployed from Jokuan,” Paisen pointed out. “Whatever just went down here, it’s only one piece of the puzzle.” She pointed at the smoking remnants of the Senate building. “Everyone that knew about Ricken and the Jokuans was in that building. Except for us.”
Beauceron nodded, and then scanned the crowd of emergency workers. “Does anyone see any police personnel here?”
“No,” Atalia said. “Apart from traffic cops keeping the civilians away. And us.”
Beauceron spotted a fire chief directing the repositioning of several fire trucks. “Wait here,” he said.
He hurried over to the man. “Chief,” he called. “Any idea where the local IP commander is located?”
“Back at his office,” the chief replied, watching his crews begin spraying the building again. “No, the window on the left!” he shouted. “Yeah, that one!” He glanced at Beauceron for a second, then did a double take. “You’re Martin Beauceron.”
“I am,” Beauceron nodded.
“Some of your colleagues were poking around here earlier, but I had to kick them out,” the chief told him. “We can’t start the investigation until the fires are out, and rescue ops are concluded. What do you need?”
“I just need to talk to whoever’s in charge,” Beauceron said. “I’ve got some information that they need.”
“IP Headquarters,” the chief replied. “There’s an emergency committee meeting being held there right now.”
“Thanks,” Beauceron said. He hurried back to the others. “IP Headquarters. Let’s go.”
In the police cruiser, Atalia flipped the sirens on. They pulled out onto the main highway snaking down the battle cruiser’s central corridor, Atalia weaving the car around several slower-moving construction vehicles filled with debris from the blast site. Paisen sat frowning, drumming her fingers on her knee. A message appeared in her heads-up display from Vence.
>>>What’s our status when we get to the IP station?
Paisen looked over at her, cocking an eyebrow.
>>>Good question, she replied.
>>>We only came clean to Beauceron because we didn’t have much choice, Vence pointed out.
>>>Not sure we have much choice now, either.
Vence scowled, shaking her head. Then she glanced downward meaningfully. Paisen saw that she had her jacket open slightly, revealing a multi-purpose grenade and her auto-pistol attached to her belt.
>>>Just in case.
The police station reception area was a raucous tangle of shouting officers. Beauceron pushed his way through the crowd, heading for the security gates and the elevator banks. He and Atalia swiped their ID cards and the gates opened. Paisen took out the stolen Senate Guard’s ID, and then turned to Vence.
“I don’t have one,” Vence said, spreading her arms wide.
A young patrolman, seeing them standing outside the gate, walked over, hand resting on his pistol.
“Martin,” Paisen called.
The patrolman pointed at Vence. “No ID, no entry,” he said.
Beauceron said: “They’re with me, officer.”
The young man shook his head. “Sorry, Detective. I just got chewed out because someone hopped the gates a few minutes ago. No one gets in without an ID.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Atalia said, sighing.
Paisen walked over to the patrolman. She pointed at Beauceron. “Do you know who that is?”
The patrolman nodded. “That’s Detective Beauceron. From the Guild investigation.”
Paisen nodded. “That’s Martin. Fucking. Beauceron. And he’s telling you to let us in.”
The young man squirmed. “Can you just wait here while I go find my boss?”
“Sure,” Paisen agreed, exasperated. “We’ll just wait.”
The patrolman turned and hurried off.
“Come on,” Paisen said, when he had disappeared. She swiped her ID and gestured for Vence to follow. The younger woman jumped the gate, and it began hooting and flashing.
“Someone’s probably going to yell at me for that later on,” Beauceron told Paisen, as they headed for the elevators.
“You’re a big boy,” Paisen told him. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Now, where are we going?”
4
The lifeboat access hatch slid open, startling the Jokuan crew member as he walked by. Wielding his spacesuit helmet like a club, Rath brought it down on the man’s head, and followed that strike with a swift kick to the stomach. He tossed the helmet back inside the lifeboat, grabbed the unconscious man by the collar, and hauled him into the lifeboat, dumping him on the floor. A minute later, he stepped back out into the corridor, wearing the man’s uniform, and Colonel Ikeda’s face and hair. He slid the door to the lifeboat closed, and strode off down the hall.
He found a computer terminal at the third intersection he came to, and tapped on the screen. After a second of searching, a schematic of the ship appeared, floating in the air above the terminal. The ship’s forward section contained a massive cargo bay, he saw, designed to hold several mechanized units’ worth of armored vehicles.
But we landed a few minutes ago. Are Ikeda and Jaymy still on the ship?
He typed on the screen, accessing an exterior view from the ship’s nose-mounted camera. Several
jeeps and tanks were driving forward away from the ship, across an open field. In the distance, Rath saw city buildings. They’ve already deployed. He typed once more, and the schematic returned, with a small section of the ship flashing in yellow. The label Emergency Arms Locker – Bridge Personnel, appeared over the area. Rath took his bearings, and headed off down the corridor.
He passed two other crewmembers, who saluted smartly when they saw him. Rath returned the salutes, and then found the arms locker, a set of panels recessed into the wall of the ship. He was alone in the hallway now, standing across from a large, closed hatch.
That’s the bridge through there.
The arms locker opened at his touch, and he stood back as the doors folded apart automatically, revealing several racks of auto-rifles and pistols. Sets of armored vests hung from hooks along one of the doors; the other held spare magazines for the weapons.
In his mind, he heard Yo-Tsai, back on the Guardian’s bridge. You’re a killer, Rath. And you always will be. Rath took a deep breath. Not by choice. But today I am.
He slipped into an armored vest first, tucking spare magazines into the pouches around his waist. Then he hefted an auto-rifle out of the rack, rammed a magazine home, and cocked it, flipping the safety off. He turned, and the door to the bridge slid open. A crewmember looked up from his datascroll mid-stride, and his eyes went wide. Rath whipped the butt of his gun forward, smashing the man in the face, and his datascroll went flying, clattering across the floor of the bridge. Technicians in chairs around the room looked up at the sudden commotion, as Rath stepped inside the closing hatch. In his heads-up display, his targeting computer logged each of their startled faces in turn, as several stood up in alarm. Rath raised the auto-rifle to his shoulder and started on the left, working his way clock-wise.
When he had finished, he dropped the magazine and loaded a fresh one. The bridge’s sole surviving crewmember held his hands up, shaking.
