“Captain March,” said Karlman. “I’m glad we could join you. What’s the situation?”
“We just got here,” said March “I’m going to go have a look around, see if anything has changed. I suggest you set up your equipment and get ready. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Heath, stay here.” Heath nodded and moved near one of the walls as the Ronstadt men began setting up their signal jammer.
March walked back to the double doors leading to the main chamber holding the dead smelting furnaces. He had wrenched open the doors during his last visit here, and they had not moved since. March paused long enough to check the doors for traps or any security tripwires but found nothing.
Sloppy. The Graywolves should have patrolled the complex again by now. Then again, reputable mercenary companies would not work for the Machinists. March slipped through the doors and into the vast, gloomy chamber. Nothing had changed since his last visit. The Graywolves still stood guard around the prefab building, nearly a dozen of them. The security drones had not moved. March took a moment to scan the vast chamber, looking for hidden traps and cameras, but nothing seemed out of place.
Either the Graywolves had gotten complacent, or this was an excellent trap.
There was only one way to find out.
He slipped back through the doors and into the corridor. The Ronstadt men had finished setting up their equipment and were ready for action. The mercenaries had donned gas masks and goggles, giving their faces an insect-like look. One of the men was operating a jamming device, typing commands into an attached laptop computer, while two of the mercenaries held launchers loaded with gas grenades.
“Better sync your earpiece to our frequency,” said Karlman, his voice rendered metallic by his mask. “Our jammer blocks the entire radio spectrum, but it does have a rotating window of variable frequencies that allows us to communicate.”
“Right,” said March. “Heath, do it too.” Heath nodded and donned his own gas mask and goggles, syncing his earpiece to the jammer, and March followed suit. The gas mask and its attached cylindrical respirator felt tight against his mouth and nose, the straps digging into the back of his neck, and the goggles were heavy. He had a feeling of asphyxiation, and then the goggles flicked on as he took a breath of odorless, dry air. Enhanced images scrolled across the goggles, along with environmental and targeting information.
“Ready?” said Karlman.
“Ready,” said March. “Have your men set up, and for God’s sake keep it quiet.”
They slipped through the doors one by one, working with reasonable silence. The snipers set up, putting their rifles on tripods and calibrating their scopes. The men with the grenade launchers aimed the weapons at the prefab building. The rest of the Ronstadt men filed through, save for those assigned to guard the man operating the jamming machine. Heath slipped through the doors and put his back to the wall next to the Ronstadt snipers, adjusting his own rifle.
“All right,” said March in a quiet voice. “I’m going to get into position. Switch on the jammer when I send word, and then fire the gas grenades. I’ll neutralize as many of the guards as I can. Remember to use non-lethal force if possible.”
“It’s your money,” said Karlman with placid calm. “Or Bishop’s, anyway. Good luck, Captain March.”
“You too,” said March. He nodded to Heath, put his rifle in its harness across his back, drew his stun pistol, and glided forward.
March moved with absolute silence through the vast chamber, using the abandoned machines and carts as cover. The stealth training of the Final Consciousness had been brutal and efficient, with punishments administered for every failure, and the skill would remain with him until his death. It pleased him to know that he was now using the skills the Machinists had given him to hinder their purposes.
Step by silent step he moved closer through the old mining equipment, and then ducked under a conveyor belt that had once carried chunks of ore quarried from the asteroid’s heart into the smelting furnaces. He crawled through the rock dust and then got back to his feet, crouching behind another cart.
He was only about thirty meters from the prefab building. Any closer and the security drones would almost certainly detect him. In fact, they could have already detected him but might have lacked the necessary logic capabilities to conclude he was a threat until he took a hostile action. A dozen Graywolves stood in clumps before the squat rectangle of the prefab building, speaking to each other in low voices. They were not paying attention, no doubt trusting in the security drones to alert them of danger.
It was as close as he was going to get.
He tapped his earpiece.
“I’m in,” he whispered. “Karlman, start the jamming.”
“Acknowledged,” said Karlman.
There was a burst of static in his ear, and then Karlman’s voice came a moment later, with an odd resonance from the modulation program.
“Snipers and grenadiers in position,” said Karlman. “Firing in five, four, three, two, one…firing!”
A lot of things happened at once.
The Ronstadt snipers knew their business. There was a flash of plasma bolts, and suddenly both security drones twitched, charred craters appearing in their centers of mass. The Graywolves started to turn, frowning in confusion, and the grenadiers fired. Both grenades exploded with a flash and a bang over their heads, but nothing else happened. The gas contained within the grenades was invisible.
But it was fast-acting. Four of the Graywolves dropped at once, their eyes rolling into their heads as they collapsed. Four more reeled on their feet, staggering. They must have only gotten a partial dose, but the gas would take effect before much longer.
Four of the Graywolves had avoided the gas entirely and had enough presence of mind to snap masks to their faces, raising their rifles as they did.
March was already moving.
He seized the side of the mining cart with his left hand, using its cybernetic strength to heave himself over the vehicle. March hit the ground running, taking aim with the stun pistol as he did so.
The Graywolves, panicked by the sudden attack, did not see him coming until he was ten meters away and firing. A flash of blue light from the stun pistol and one of the Graywolves collapsed. The remaining three men started shooting at him, and March ducked, throwing himself to the side of the prefab building. Plasma bolts passed him, tearing chunks from the prefab wall and molten chips from the stone floor.
March dropped his stun pistol, yanked the rifle from his harness, flipped the selector to full auto, and spun around the corner.
They had enough prisoners.
He squeezed the trigger, the emitter flashing as the accelerator hurled charged plasma particles. The bolts hit two of the Graywolves, sending their corpses to the ground. The third Graywolf mercenary jumped around the corner, rifle flashing. March dodged, his left hand seizing the barrel of his enemy’s rifle and slamming it against the wall hard enough to shatter both the weapon and the mercenary’s wrist. His right hand hit the mercenary in the head three times. On the third blow, the mercenary collapsed.
March stepped away from the wall and dropped the ruined rifle just as the Ronstadt men rushed to the prefab building. At Karlman’s command, they produced handcuffs and started securing the stunned Graywolves, binding their hands and taking their equipment.
“Good God, man,” said Karlman, striding forward with a rifle in hand. “Four of them at once?”
“I was in a hurry,” said March, striding to the prefab building’s door.
He hit the lock four times with his left hand, and it shattered. His metal fingers gripped the door and ripped it aside, and he strode into the building, leading with his rifle as he checked the corners.
The building was one room, long and rectangular. There was a computer desk in one corner, and racks of rifles lined the walls. A chemical commode occupied another corner, and crates of supplies stood on the wall opposite the rifle racks.
There was absolutely
no sign of Thomas Vindex.
Chapter 7: Interrogation
To March’s complete lack of surprise, Administrator Heitz had a black site for dealing with undesirables.
He had encountered this before when dealing with security forces on the fringes of the great starfaring powers, where laws were lax, authority was distant, and the local officials could get away with a lot so long as they kept it quiet. Local officials in backwaters like Rustbelt Station tended towards the thuggish, and invariably had black sites where they could imprison undesirables, conduct interrogations, and do business under the table.
Administrator Heitz was no exception.
His black site was an abandoned hydroponics bay about forty kilometers from any of Rustbelt Station’s landing bays, making it harder for any prisoners to escape. The Ronstadt men had bound and hooded the surviving Graywolves mercenaries, and packaged them up for transportation to the hydroponics station. March and Heath rode with them on the station’s cargo lift system, guns trained on the prisoners. The cargo lift took them to the hydroponic station in ten minutes, shooting through the tunnels on magnetic rails, and the Ronstadt men unloaded the hooded and shackled prisoners, urging them none too gently into the hydroponics bay.
March left the cargo lift and looked around the bay, his weapons ready. It was a long rectangular room carved from the rock of the asteroid, with harsh white lights shining overhead. Hydroponics tubs stood in orderly rows, empty and cold, and a maze of tubes and cables covered the walls and ceiling. Heitz and Ronstadt Corporation had modified the bay, and a row of cells with heavy steel doors stood on one side of the room.
“How often do you have that many prisoners?” said March to Karlman.
“Hardly ever,” said Karlman. “But it does come in handy when we need it.” Each Graywolf mercenary was shoved into a cell and cuffed to the walls, the hoods and handcuffs still in place. He pointed at a balcony that ran the length of the room, with doors opening into small rooms on the side. “Heitz is waiting for you in room five.”
“Thanks,” said March. He walked to a grillwork stair and climbed to the balcony. The doors on the wall looked like they led to offices and administration rooms once used by the hydroponic workers. March opened the fifth door and stepped into a conference room. Once it had been opulent, but now the carpet was faded and worn, and the table looked dingy and battered. Heitz sat at the table, smoking a cigar, a battered laptop computer before him.
“Well, well,” said Heitz. “Captain March. I knew you were trouble, but I’m glad you aimed the trouble at the other side.”
“That’s my job,” said March.
Heitz grinned around his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Graywolf prisoners to interrogate and not a single Ronstadt man lost. If we avoid having to pay any death bonuses this year, we’ll be able to negotiate a lower rate on the security contract for next year.”
“No sign of the hostage,” said March.
Heitz shrugged. March knew he didn’t care that much, so long as none of the blame for Thomas Vindex’s misadventures landed on his shoulders. “Well, we’ve got nine prisoners. We’ll beat it out of one of them.” His phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. “Bishop’s on his way down.” He glanced at Heath. “Bringing your girlfriend, too.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” said Heath.
“Bad idea, getting women mixed up in this,” said Heitz, taking another draw of his cigar. “When it comes to interrogation, women either have no stomach for it, or they’re way too vicious.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” said March. “I’ll meet her and Bishop and bring them here.”
“Do that,” said Heitz. He waved a thick hand at the window behind him. “I’ll have Karlman set up for interrogations next door. We can watch from the conference room. Sooner or later, we’ll figure out what happened to your hostage.”
March nodded and went through the door, Heath following him. Four Ronstadt men approached, escorting one of the Graywolf prisoners, and March and Heath stepped aside to let them pass. They disappeared into the office next to the conference room. Bishop and Roanna hadn’t arrived yet, so March leaned against the railing, looking over the derelict hydroponics bay. Once it had grown food, and now it was a deserted room full of failed machinery, which put him in mind of his childhood home. The thought made him grim, so he put it aside.
“Are they going to torture the Graywolves?” said Heath.
“Probably not,” said March, not looking at the younger man. “Doubt there will be a need. See how they’re cooperating? They haven’t tried any trouble yet. They know the game. They’ll tell us what we need to know, and then we’ll dump them on a neutral world somewhere.”
“And if they don’t cooperate?” said Heath.
March shrugged. “Then I’ll get it out of them myself.”
“Torture is illegal in Calaskar,” said Heath.
March let out a short laugh. “Yes. So are several other things we’ve done in the last few days. Out here, there aren’t really any laws. You can do what you want, so long as you can endure the consequences. A place like Rustbelt Station is where you see what a man really is. Out here, your only guide is your conscience and your duty.”
They stood in silence for a while.
“You’re a hard man, Captain,” said Heath.
March grunted. “Yes, I am. Can’t deny that. But someone has to do what needs to be done.” He flexed his metal fingers beneath the glove. “I’m better equipped for it than most people. Might as well be me.”
“Why?” said Heath.
“Why what?” said March.
“Why did you join the Silent Order?” said Heath.
March almost told him to shut up. Yet, to his surprise, he found himself talking. No one could overhear them here, for one. Heath had handled himself well during the fight, so maybe he deserved to know. Or perhaps the hydroponics bay had put March into a melancholy mood.
“I was born on Calixtus,” said March. “Suppose you know what happened there. Poor colony world and the Machinists came in and took over. It became one of the slave worlds of the Final Consciousness. I grew up in a labor camp. Eventually, I was tested for compatibility, and then I was joined to the Final Consciousness.”
“And you became an Iron Hand,” said Heath.
“Yeah,” said March. “I did. For years I was an Iron Hand. I did the Machinists’ dirty work, and I heard the Final Consciousness in my thoughts the entire time.”
“What’s it like?” said Heath. “Being part of the Final Consciousness, I mean. They…say it’s like slavery, like you’re a puppet with strings on your arms.”
“It is,” said March, voice distant. “But you don’t know it at the time. You don’t realize it. Imagine everyone you ever knew, everyone you ever cared about. Imagine they all are talking in your head at the same time, and they all agree, and they all want you to do something. That’s what being part of a hive mind is like. You’re still an individual, but it’s like you’ve got God in your head, and he’s there telling you what to do.”
“It’s…like social pressure, is that it?” said Heath.
“Sort of,” said March. “If you want to look at it like that, social pressure is like aspirin. The Final Consciousness is the finest nanotech-refined morphine.”
“Why did you leave?” said Heath.
“Martel’s World,” said March.
Heath hesitated. “You…were part of the bombing?”
March snorted. “No. I missed it. That was why I left.”
He fell silent. Heath waited. March sighed and kept talking.
“When the Machinists occupied Martel’s World, I was part of the occupation force,” said March. “During one of the riots, I was wounded and separated from my unit. When I woke up, I was in one of the slum apartments. I thought they would kill me. Instead, the family that lived there cared for me until the nanotech regenerated enough for me to walk.”
“Why?” said Heath.
They stood in silence for a while.
“Hell of a story,” said Heath.
“Mmm. Most of it is technically classified. Tell anyone, and I’ll have to kill you.”
Heath laughed. “I might be an idiot around women, but I’m a loyal Kingdom man.” He sighed. “Even if I am going to get a dishonorable discharge.”
“Depends on how this turns out,” said March. “We come back with the Vindex twins, the Earl of Sundrex would probably put in a good word for you. I might, too.”
“You would?” said Heath.
“Depends on how this turns out.”
Heath laughed again. “Fair enough.”
March heard the whirring noise as the lift slowed. “Speaking of things that make men into idiots, your girlfriend’s here.”
“For God’s sake,” said Heath. “She’s not my girlfriend. She threw herself at you, not me.”
March supposed it was a good sign that Heath could joke about that.
He watched as the lift door opened and Bishop and Lady Roanna stepped out of the car. Bishop strolled into the hydroponics bay with confidence, but Roanna hesitated for a half-step. She had likely realized that she was the only woman in a room full of men comfortable with violence and breaking the law. Then the cool mask fell back over her features, and she followed Bishop.
Silent Order: Iron Hand Page 13
