by Josh Leone
There was a man resting against a landing strut, apparently asleep. Jonah let his foot fall on a twig, hoping the man would wake from his slumber at the sound of the snap. But the man did not stir, not even a twitch.
“Hey,” Jonah called. “You there. Wake up.”
“Not nice to bother a man when he’s sleeping.” Jonah just barely stopped himself from jumping at the sound of the voice coming from behind him. As he watched, the sleeping man flickered and vanished. A hologram, Jonah realized. He turned to see the source of the voice and saw the man who’d been the model for the hologram.
The man had a large pistol, obviously a custom weapon of some kind strapped to his hip. Jonah’s tech assured him that the pistol, despite its size, was no serious threat to him. The tech outlined half a dozen ways Jonah could disarm the man without killing him, and another dozen or so that did not take preservation of human life into consideration.
“How did you sneak up on me?”
“Hologram. Oldest trick in the book.” Okan responded.
“No, I mean how did you physically sneak up on me? That shouldn’t be possible. My neurotech should have warned me.”
“Computers aren’t perfect. Maybe it didn’t see me as a threat.”
Jonah considered that. He’d have to be careful not to rely overmuch on the tech, not to forget that the organic part of his brain was just as important.
“Captain Okan?”
“That’s me. And you would be?”
“Jonah, Jonah Haj.” It occurred to him only in hindsight that perhaps giving his full name was not the best idea. Yet another reminder of just how untrained he was for undercover work. Too late to do anything about it now. Best just to move on.
“Hello, Jonah Haj. Ready to get on with your trip?”
“Yes, indeed I am.”
“Then come aboard and let’s get off world.”
Jonah followed Seth onto the ship. The first thing Jonah noticed was the feeling of lived-in-ness. It wasn’t messy; messy was a bad idea in space travel. Even in the most luxurious vessels square footage was at a premium and any improperly stowed items could be a major hazard during a crisis. The most carefree travelers still went to great lengths to make sure everything had a proper place and stayed in it when not in use.
The lived in feeling Jonah got when he entered the Journey’s main cabin came from the décor and the comfortable furnishings. The walls were freshly painted and every surface that was part of the ship was almost too clean, without a scratch or blemish to be seen. Jonah would have guessed the ship was nearly new. But the chairs, the small couch, and other things that hadn’t come standard with the ship were second hand and chosen for comfort. Jonah listened as Seth gave him the tour.
“The door on the left toward the back will be your cabin for the duration of your stay. Food is available from the dispensary whenever you like. It’s your standard fare, supplement bars, shakes, that sort of thing. There’s some real food in the cooler unit down in the cargo box if you want it.” Seth told Jonah where the safety equipment was located, where the environmental suits could be found, where the medical kit was stashed, etc.
“There are two others onboard. My partner is back in the engine tunnels and Iyanna, another guest, is probably in her cabin. That’s pretty much everything.” Seth said in a friendly tone. “I was told you’d have nav data for me?”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me.” Jonah handed Seth a data-chip.
“All right then,” said Seth. “Make yourself at home and we’ll get under way.”
Jonah went to his cabin and suddenly felt very tired. It was not a fatigue of the body, of course. Rather it was a fatigue of the mind. So much had occurred, so much that was new, so much he’d never been prepared for. Thus far being one of the Honored Returned was not what he’d imagined it would be.
◊
Franks was happy. A spectator would not have been able to tell, but he was indeed very happy. He was hunting. It was his natural state. Predators hunt, and Franks was through and through a predator.
Franks had been tracking his current target for over six hours through an urban jungle. The city was a large one, the capital of a planet named Orius. Orius was a core world, heavily patrolled by the Legion and the Civil Authority both. Franks had first tracked his target through chains of data, communications, and records. It was the kind of detective work that challenged his predatory mind. Once he’d located his target Franks had flown to Orius to begin the physical element of the hunt.
Now the end was drawing near, the moment of blood fast approaching. Franks liked to extend his hunts as much as possible. He liked watching his prey without being seen. It gave him a sense of profound power. Franks was strong and his prey was weak. Weakness is the only true sin. That had been one of the first things Vashek had taught him.
Franks could have taken the prey from kilometers away with any number of long range weapons. But such Impersonal ways of killing gave Franks little satisfaction. Vashek had not specified the method of the murder - merely that it must be done. Franks appreciated his master’s kindness.
Franks made his way inside the hotel that his target was using as a base for his criminal operations. As he exited the elevator into the correct hallway Franks drew a small pistol from under his coat. There were two large men positioned by a door at the far end of the hall. They saw Franks and the pistol and immediately drew firearms of their own, much larger ones.
“Put it down!” One of the men approached Franks while the other remained in position near the door, his oversized weapon leveled at Franks’ chest. Franks complied with the order and carefully placed the pistol on the floor.
“Kick it over to me!” Franks did so.
The closer of the two men knelt down, picked up the small weapon and ejected the power cell. The other armed guard moved to a better position from which to cover his partner while Franks was scanned for other weapons. The handheld scanner used by the first guard was state of the art and could detect any sort of energy or chemical weapon with a high degree of accuracy. The scanner showed green and the guards took positions on either side of Franks, leading him to the door they’d been guarding.
They were much larger than Franks, too much larger. Franks was of almost exactly average height. His own gene modification had insured that. They were obviously enhanced for strength, stamina, probably sped up reflexes. Sub-dermal armor would complete the standard thug package.
The room Franks was led into was an exact copy of a billion other mid-priced hotel rooms one could find anywhere in the Primacy. Another enhanced thug stood in one corner while Dravik sat before a complex array of screens manipulating a holographic interface. There were two shielded hard lines connecting a hidden computer system directly to the back of Dravik’s neck.
Franks was made to wait a couple meters away from Dravik, well out of arm’s reach, until the data thief had completed whatever task occupied him. Franks was patient. When Dravik disconnected the wires from his neck, he turned to Franks with a smile.
“Salazar, my friend! So glad to see you again.” Franks may have looked like Salazar, but there was no longer any need to act like the fictitious persona. Franks said nothing. Franks was patient.
“Nothing to say? Then let me speak your mind for you.” Dravik stood up and lost his smile.
“You came here to kill me, as if you could. I know you work for someone of great power, Salazar, if that is even your name. If I were to guess, I would say it is someone in the Ministry, someone very high up the food chain.”
Franks remained unresponsive. Franks was patient.
“Still nothing to say, Salazar? Then let me continue this game.” Dravik began pacing back and forth as he spoke.
“What I cannot figure out is why the Ministry would go to such lengths to acquire the genetic material of a Returned? Unless there is trouble within that collection of data pushing drones, perhaps?
“If that is the case, then such information would be highly
valuable. Of course, I would need more details. Fortunately, you have come right to my door.” Dravik’s smile became genuine.
“Oh, you think you won’t talk. Everyone thinks they won’t talk. Most of the information I obtain comes from the various quantum networks, but sometimes it is most pleasurable to do things in the ancient ways.”
Franks did not flinch. Franks was patient.
Dravik gestured to the men on either side of Franks. “Take him to the Baker Street house. Secure him and wait for me. I have a few things to finish up here.”
The men began to move, but despite their enhanced reflexes, they were not fast enough, not nearly. Franks had known this moment would come before he’d ever stepped off the elevator, the moment when he would no longer be patient.
The first thing that occurred was that the small pistol the guard on Franks’ left had taken from him exploded. It was not a large explosion, not even large enough to kill the man, but it was more than enough to send the room into chaos.
Franks’ hand impacted the stunned man’s throat with crushing force and perfect accuracy. This was followed by a spin and kick to the other guard’s knee. Even in the most enhanced warriors, the throat and knees were weak points. The man’s knee did not break, but his instinctive reaction was to protect the joint, causing him to back quickly away.
The third guard in the room had almost drawn his weapon when a slim, triangular blade appeared in his throat. The thrown blade was finer than a razor and it buried itself deeply, its tip embedded in the man’s spine. Another blade, similar to the first, was held in Franks’ hand and put to good use. The remaining two body guards were down and bleeding out within seconds, neither having had the chance to actually fire their weapons. Dravik had retreated to hide behind a large chair. That made Franks chuckle.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of death, Dravik.” Franks moved with fluid grace, making his way around the room to where Dravik cowered. “It’s what comes before death that you should fear.”
“Please,” Dravik had lost all pretense of confidence, as well as control of his bladder. “Please don’t do this. I can give you credits, lots of them.”
Franks was not concerned with the noise that had been made during the very short fight with the three bodyguards, nor with the raised voice Dravik used to beg for his life. Franks had noted the sound-canceling tech mounted to each wall of the hotel room, obviously something added by Dravik when he’d first rented it. The room had heard its share of screams, now it would hear more, but no one else in the hotel would.
“Dravik, my friend,” Franks said. “I want to tell you about a game I play sometimes.”
Franks bent down to face the terrified data thief and whispered, “I don’t think you’ll like it, but let’s play anyway.”
The sound-canceling tech worked well, leaving Franks alone with music and memories.
◊
He’d had no name when he’d been born. His mother had waited for a year before she called him anything other than ‘Boy.’ After he’d proven he could endure at least a full year of life, his mother had taken to calling him ‘Treasha.’ He hadn’t blamed her for the delay in naming him. There was little point in naming most children on A79. Most died before they’d lived a single year. A79 was harsh. It was to be expected, he supposed. A79 was, literally, a dump. The original colony had failed centuries ago. For a century and a half afterward the small planet had been used as a penal colony for criminals beyond rehabilitation.
By the time droning had become a viable alternative for such criminals and A79 had been repurposed as a Primacy trash dump, it already supported a large population. Over generations A79 developed a culture of predation and intense violence. This was what he’d been born into.
He’d killed his first human at the age of six. The old man hadn’t been threat, but he had a blanket that would keep Treasha warm at night. It was a simple matter of drawing a sharp piece of metal across the old man’s throat while he slept. The blanket had been stained by the man’s blood, but it was warm.
During his seventh year of life, Treasha killed four more people, including two children his own age, one that was a little older, and another adult. The children had begged. Treasha had felt nothing but disgust. The adult had fallen into a pit lined with sharpened spikes the boy had lovingly prepared. The older child, now that had been something special. The older child had fought back. There was a feeling of intense satisfaction in overcoming the older boy, of knowing that defeat meant death, that he could earn his life through own skill.
By nine years of age, Treasha had become confident in his ability to survive, to kill at need. But though he was a killer, tried and tested, he was far from the apex of the predator/prey dynamic on A79. There came a time when the odds were stacked too much against him.
A gang had moved into the area and quickly eliminated all opposition. Treasha had tried not to offend the gangers in any way, but that was impossible when the simple act of existing on their territory was offense enough. They chased him for days, always just one step behind. Treasha fled from bolt hole to bolt hole, catching an hour of sleep when he could before the gang closed in.
Eventually, Treasha ran out of places to hide. He’d trapped himself in the burnt out remains of an ancient building. There was only one way in or out. Treasha had created several improvised weapons including an air powered dart launcher of which he was very proud. He’d even found a caustic combination of common chemicals that he could coat the darts with to increase the pain of a wound. The dart launcher allowed him to hold off the gang for a while. But he knew his darts would run out and it was only a matter of time before he was helpless as well as trapped. Treasha would save the last dart for himself. It would be painful, but not nearly as painful as what the gang would do to him, especially now that he’d led them on such a lengthy chase and hurt a few. They were angry and they would take it out on him for hours.
As the sun set, something that could be detected on A79 only because the ash clouds overhead grew darker, Treasha knew his time had almost run out. He was down to his last few darts, and the muscles in his arm burned from using the portable pump that kept the dart launcher’s air tank full. Treasha decided that he’d rather die fighting than from suicide. It would be interesting to see how many he could take with him.
“That will be enough of that.”
The voice was unlike anything Treasha had ever heard. It was more than calm, more than confident. It was the voice of utter control and power. Though it had come from beyond the door, out where the gang was waiting, it had obviously not come from one of them.
“Who the hell are you?” That was a ganger voice, too loud, expending too much effort to sound strong.
“Stand aside and you won’t be harmed,” responded the voice of power.
Gangers communicated mostly with violence, not words. There was a single scream, and then nothing. Treasha waited several minutes but the silence remained.
“You can come out now, child. It is safe.”
There was something about the voice that made Treasha believe in it. If the voice said it was safe, then it surely was.
The boy moved cautiously from his hiding place. It was never truly dark on A79. Artificial light trapped by the ever present ash cloud provided perpetual dusk, and the inhabitants developed excellent natural night vision as a result.
The being seemed almost to glow. Its golden robe was free of stain or smudge or wrinkle. Treasha’s mother had told him about angels, beings that in ancient times would guide and protect believers in the pagan gods. The golden robed being was almost certainly an angel.
Treasha pulled his eyes away from the angel and looked around. The gangers were gone, all except three of them. Among the three gangers left behind was the leader, an ugly brute of a man with so many piercings in his face Treasha wondered how he’d managed to speak. The three bodies looked almost peaceful, as though they’d simply fallen asleep amidst the debris that covered A79. Except for the blood. Fr
om eyes, noses, ears, and mouths, thin trails of blood could be seen on each body. The angel had struck down the evil men and for a moment Treasha felt fear. How could he defend himself against such power?
“Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you.”
“Is ya an angel, sa?” Treasha was unused to speaking, but tried his best to sound respectful. He did not wish to anger the angel.
“An angel?” The golden one laughed, but it was not cruel laughter and it made Treasha smile. His face was unused to the expression, but it felt good. “No, I am not an angel. What is your name, child?”
“Treasha, sa. Me ma call me Treasha.”
“Treasha?” The not-angel thought about that for a second. “A fine name, for you are indeed a treasure. Do you know what that word means?”
“It meanin’ me, sa, though ya sayin’ it funny.”
“Yes, it is your name. But ‘treasure’ also means something dear, something with value to its owner. Would you like to be my treasure?”
“Sa, I sayin’ thanks fer the killin’ ya done’,” Treasha was afraid of angering the not-angel but there were things his mother had told him never to do, not for any price. “But sa, I not to bein’ no one’s toy, sa. Some otha kids, they be toys fer gangers. Get used bad, they do. Me ma sayin’ me neva be made a toy, not fer nothin’, even food.”
“I assure you child, I have no such designs on you. I need no toys, I need a weapon. I want you to be my weapon.”
“Ya meanin’ like me blade, sa?”
“Exactly so. I need a human blade, child, one of the very finest quality. Make no mistake, child. What I ask of you will not be easy. There will be pain. But if you endure, I will make you into a blade no enemy can withstand. Will you be my blade, Treasure?”
Treasha had spent all of his young life becoming a weapon. But how long would his luck hold out? Hadn’t he almost met his end just minutes ago? If the not-angel hadn’t come for him, he’d have been dead, or worse.
