Peacekeeper

by REEVE, LAURA E.

  "Excuse me, I have to go,” she said, her cheeks flaming. Everyone in the mess hall seemed to be watching her table. She hurried toward the exit.

  "Did you have enough time to read her, SP?” Dr. Istaga asked Isrid after the steward had mopped up their table.

  "Not as much as I’d like. Her aura was interesting,” Isrid said thoughtfully. It’d been a beautiful aura; he had almost lost himself in the deep blue, with an almost purplish cast, shot through with sparks of turquoise. The scent reminded him of the clean air that blew in over the seas of Quillens Colony.

  "How so?”

  Isrid looked at the gregarious interpreter and wondered how much he could trust him. If Dr. Istaga was exactly who his records claimed, then Isrid had little control over the man and he’d never trust him. If this man was Andre Covanni, as Isrid was beginning to suspect, then he certainly couldn’t control him—but could he trust him? Isrid could message and request data from Andre, but the mysterious Andre answered only to the overlords.

  "She was frank with you, but she knew what we were doing. The beer accident was contrived.” Isrid glanced upward, using the universal reminder that all CAW public places, even on military installations, had a plethora of recording devices.

  "Really? It looked so natural.” A small smile of admiration flitted across Dr. Istaga’s face. "Well done, including the flush of embarrassment.”

  "Probably grounded on true feelings, which helped complete the scene.” The academician’s admiration for Major Kedros’s theatrics convinced Isrid that he was speaking with Andre.

  Thus, Isrid didn’t tell Dr. Istaga about the most interesting aspect of Major Ariane Kedros. Her aura had stress fractures, usually indicative of an immense emotional burden, perhaps of guilt, under her facade of crisp competence. He intended to find out why.

  What a waste of a perfectly good beer.

  Ariane slowed to a normal walk after leaving the mess hall. She’d felt Jacinthe’s eyes on her the entire time, making her face burn. Spilling beer on visiting dignitaries (enemies, claimed her gut) had a good side: It might convince Jacinthe that she was the subperformer her records indicated.

  She took a deep breath, rubbing the muscles in the back of her neck. Her knees were weak and rubbery with relief. Her stomach had clenched with terror as soon as she realized that Parmet was slipping into a trancelike state for somaural reading. CAW intelligence insisted that somaural reading didn’t qualify as telepathy; instead, they called it "an enhanced state of empathy.”

  Why did it matter if Parmet sensed her turbulent emotional state? So, I’m fucked up—does that make me any different from anyone else around here? She was beginning to feel pleased with her acting skills.

  She passed a pair of Terran inspectors coming out of uniform clothing and walking toward the mess hall. The inspectors wandered freely on the mess level, but, as Owen predicted, the Terran overlords required their inspectors to remain paired, both on and off duty.

  Forever hopeful, Owen provided procedures labeled "what to do if an inspector approaches you regarding defection,” as well as cautions to note any slips of intelligence or technological information. Ariane had dutifully briefed the procedures, but she doubted they’d ever be used. Owen hadn’t underestimated the paranoia of the overlords, considering that even State Prince Parmet had an escort.

  Dr. Istaga gave Ariane a greasy, itchy feeling, particularly on her scalp. She’d had this feeling before, when her instincts helped her come to a conclusion before logic could. There was no doubt in her mind, or in her nerves, that Dr. Istaga deserved constant monitoring.

  "Hey, Major! Want to share a drink with the backbone of the officer corps?”

  Lieutenant Santorini leaned against the entrance of the Company Grade Officers Club. Inside, Ariane saw a nicely provisioned bar running the long length of the triangular room. The club was crowded with customers. Today had been stressful for the personnel assigned on Karthage. After a period of intense preparation, either they were escorting their traditional enemy about or they were confined to their quarters and the mess level.

  Santorini was still in uniform. His dress coat was rumpled and hanging open at the neck. There were shadows about his eyes, but a relaxed smile on his face.

  "Have a drink with us, Major Kedros,” he said.

  Ariane hesitated, for several reasons. The rank of major required walking a fine line. By definition, she was no longer company grade, and senior officers weren’t supposed to fraternize with their subordinates. To make matters more difficult, she wore the black and blue. Intelligence officers were supposed to distance themselves from the operational rabble, while said rabble consequently disdained their company.

  Should she be a prick and rebuke Santorini’s less-than-regulatory attitude? Should she hold herself aloof from the lower-level officers?

  But there was an easy justification, obvious when she looked over Santorini’s shoulder and saw majors and senior captains mingling in the club. Generating "team spirit” and "building unit fiber” were excuses for senior officers to drink with subordinates. Decisions about drinking aren’t necessarily about control, she thought, spitefully silencing the echoes of Matt’s voice in her head.

  "Why not?” She stepped through the hatch.

  CHAPTER 9

  We understand the basic chemistry of substance abuse and I won’t babble on here about GABA receptors and dopaminergic pathways. We’ve had success using deep-psyche neural probes, but this treatment requires voluntary exposure of memories so we can break the brain’s reward pathways. Another disadvantage is it only works on addicts with "maintenance” profiles. At least sixty percent of substance abuse occurs under the "normal” and "binge” profiles that allow addicts to remain productive and hidden within our society. Bingeing is a special case of the reward-punishment cycle. . . .

  —We’re All Addicts, Dr. Diotrephes to Senatorial Subcommittee on Substance Abuse, 2102.52.12.15 UT, indexed by Democritus 15 under Metrics Imperative

  Ariane woke suddenly, but not from a nightmare. "Karthage Command: display time,” she mumbled. She had to repeat herself before Karthage’s systems responded. They were still learning her voice.

  The time that slowly brightened on the wall was an hour before she needed to get up for the inspection. The massive quantities of alcohol she’d consumed only hours before had screwed up her sleep cycle, one of the unfortunate side effects of too much beer. Karthage Point had stores of many exotic beers and she’d made a point to sample all of them. The few lieutenants who tried to keep up with her could still be lying under tables. Santorini slid off his chair onto the floor before she’d left the bar.

  What woke her? Looking around her small quarters, she saw that her message queue was blinking, patiently holding waiting messages. None were high priority; none would have sounded an alarm. Her tongue felt as if someone had danced upon it with dirty boots; perhaps she should get up and try to work off the alcohol.

  Sitting up, she groaned. Her altered physiology tolerated higher dosages of chemicals, both natural and unnatural, but she still suffered consequences. On the natural side, she could pump adrenaline for longer periods, showing endurance beyond what anyone might expect. She could also drink more alcohol, take more drugs, and abuse her body in ways that might harm or kill others. As for recovery, her body was a binger’s wet dream: She suffered only modestly from overindulgence and her body shrugged it off more rapidly than was natural, although she doubted that most people would realize or mark that fact.

  She could use some of that rapid recovery right now. Opening her hygiene closet, she got a mouthful of water and swished it around before swallowing. Then she drank deeply and took care of basic functions. At least she hadn’t vomited or urinated in her sleep. She thanked Gaia that she’d never choked while—

  She paused. This was the first time she’d gone over the edge while on active duty orders for the Directorate. It wasn’t the first time she’d drunk on active duty, because some of those hellh
oles she’d slunk about in for Owen had required socializing, but it was the first time she’d lost—lost control, my ass. I can call it whatever I want, but I still went on a binge. She couldn’t blame circumstances, stress, or Lieutenant Santorini. She’d known, subconsciously, what she was going to do last night after she heard the invitation come out of his mouth. She couldn’t pretend she made a conscious decision, since her mind had already preordained and blessed the drinking. However, she’d stepped over one of her imaginary lines. I wasn’t going to lose control again, not on reservist duty.

  She looked at her reflection on the back of the hygiene closet. Her face was filling out; she’d gained back a little weight since her last N-space drop. Her dark eyes looked liquid and tortured. There was no accusation in them, only pain and knowledge.

  She ran her fingers through her tousled curls and they behaved themselves, as always, but her scalp still prickled. Those little nerves of intuition had woken her. She looked at her message queue. The last message had no sender. Hesitantly she opened it, finding only text.

  "Colonel Icelos is in danger.”

  She hadn’t had time to speak with Colonel Icelos privately. No one could think they had any connection at all, yet this warning displayed on her wall, sent anonymously through a military system that should allow tracing. The message header indicated chaotic encryption, meaning that it originated somewhere on MilNet. She swallowed hard.

  "Karthage Command: Trace origin of last incoming message,” she said.

  UNKNOWN displayed on the wall.

  Impossible. "Command: Trace insertion point.”

  The Karthage systems could only cycle a moment and then blink UNKNOWN.

  Ariane wasn’t an expert on chaotic encryption, but she knew that message could only have been generated on military equipment. Both sending and receiving equipment had to perform the same chaotic dance, a counterintuitive concept of synchronization that Cipher had once had to explain to her.

  "Command: Save current message in—cancel!”

  It was too late. The message was autoshredding, triggered by her save command. Unless all incoming messages were copied to crystal—no, there wasn’t any organization that could afford that expense. The message was gone.

  She chewed her lip. Someone might be probing for information. In that case, who was the target: Colonel Icelos or her?

  Someone, or some group of someones, had killed twelve people, all in the chain of descending command that had processed the Ura-Guinn execution orders. Ariane visualized the list of names exactly as she’d read them, by date of death. They’d been killed almost in order, in the proper sequence of descending command and control. Almost, because Cipher’s death should have been later—she was actually at the bottom of the chain, after Brandon and Ariane. Of course, there was still the possibility that Cipher’s death was an incredible coincidence.

  If Ariane was right and the order of death was meaningful, then Icelos was the next target. The command post controller verified the execution order before passing it to the executing crew. Had Owen warned Icelos of the danger? She assumed so. After all, they’d hurried away to have their colonel-huddle, so Owen had plenty of opportunity.

  The schedule showed that Icelos worked first shift, and this was third shift, so he could be anywhere. She put through a high-priority call to his quarters, in case he was resting, but he didn’t answer. An autoanswerer told her to call again during first shift, an inappropriate response to her Intelligence Directorate authorization. With that authorization and priority, the system should have told her where he was at that moment.

  "Command: Show location of Colonel Icelos,” she said. Being responsible for ensuring treaty compliance, Ariane had the authority to override privacy constraints.

  She gaped at the response. Military personnel couldn’t block their implanted transponders in a military facility, and Karthage showed Icelos in his quarters on level 7 as well as in the gym on level 8, one level outward. Showing two locations simultaneously was a system malfunction of serious proportions.

  Ariane smelled a trap. She was tempted to call Command Post to report a system malfunction and have them track down Icelos, but she’d have problems convincing them it was an emergency. CP wouldn’t act quickly. This was something she’d have to do herself, to get a chance to catch the assassins.

  She quickly pulled on her uniform and left her quarters. It was late in third shift and there was hardly anybody in the corridors to note her hurry, or her wary checking at intersections and air locks.

  As a military habitat, Karthage Point was an example of functional form that didn’t waste space and money on aesthetics. To be honest, it could be called butt-ugly. Its symmetric, but inexpensive, wheel shape surrounded its artificial gravity generator. All personnel quarters were on the same level, but senior officers were located against the side shields of the station wheel so they could have views. Karthage Point wasn’t intended for N-space, so windows were available and their shutters could be opened under low radiation conditions. She jogged over the curved hall, using a priority override on section air locks. Usually the wall and ceiling surfaces provided news and shift orders, interspersed with scenes of natural dawn on some planet. Today the ceiling surface glowed to provide ambient lighting and the walls were dead, all because of the weapons inspection. They offered only an institutional gray surface and she almost missed the correct hallway. She turned quickly and stumbled. This hall was dead straight, compared to the curved hall she’d left. It ended at the facility commander’s quarters.

  Icelos didn’t answer his door.

  COLONEL ERIK ICELOS IS IN THE GYM AT L8-R3. VERIFIED BY TRANSPONDER SENSORS, displayed beside the door as a result to her query.

  Now the Karthage systems only showed one location for Icelos. Her priority call to the officers’ gym went unanswered. Every minute, this was looking more and more like a trap.

  She backtracked to the last manual tube, not wasting the time to get into an elevator and strap in for a slow trip between levels. By the time she’d climbed the ladders and gone through two air locks, however, she might have spent the same amount of time.

  Level 8 was close to the outer circumference of the wheel, but was still pressurized and heated for full life support. It contained large facilities such as gyms and hydroponic farms. During third shift, level 8 was eerily quiet.

  That familiar area on her scalp still prickled—she had no other word for that uncomfortable sensation. Looking carefully about as she walked, she saw nothing to alarm her. She double-checked the environmental lights above the side hallway air lock, identified with a large marquee that said AIR LOCK 8D-A. Status displayed green.

  She stepped silently down the straight lateral hall toward the gym. The environmental systems showed green on both locker rooms she passed, as well as over the gym door. She hesitated.

  A tiny sparkle on the edges of the door caught her attention and she reached out slowly to the door. Her fingers jumped back before touching the door and getting burned. Frost. Deep space cold.

  She whirled and jogged, breathing hard, to the air lock at the end of the lateral hall. Why did the environmental status lights continue to show green? Something was seriously wrong with the sensor systems on Karthage Point. This time, she didn’t use a priority override on the air-lock doors. After she cycled safely through, she instinctively raised her hand to punch the emergency alarm that would notify the Karthage Command Post and everyone else on the habitat.

  She stopped, her hand in midair. She could also declare an emergency verbally, but she chewed her lip as she reconsidered the ramifications of notifying everyone, particularly Security Force, at this point.

  Icelos might already be dead inside the gym, but if he wasn’t, she could get to him faster than Security Force. The Karthage systems were severely impaired, possibly sabotaged, and her emergency call wouldn’t change the situation. Command Post probably couldn’t fix this malfunction any better than she could.

  Th
en she had to consider the resulting investigation. The SF, following their protocols, would keep her away from the records and physical evidence. To get access, she’d have to appeal up her chain of command, and by then, all clues to the assassins would be lost.

  Instead of initiating an alarm, as regulations demanded, she opened the emergency locker and pulled out a suit. This was a light-duty emergency suit, designed to adjust to many sizes and able to withstand extreme environments for no more than two hours.

  "Command: Visual response only. Karthage Query: List all personnel in the officers’ gym and locker rooms.” Maintaining a calm smooth tone was difficult while she struggled into the suit. She felt it squirm as it shortened and tightened to fit her legs.

  The gym and locker rooms should be the only areas currently at risk. She straightened, holding the suit shoulders and arms about her waist, as she looked at the two-line response displayed on the wall.

  OFFICER’S GYM: COLONEL ERIK ICELOS, FACILITY COMMANDER was on the top line. The second line chilled her. MALE LOCKER ROOM: ISRID PARMET, VISITOR [UNCLEARED].

  Three possibilities: Parmet had killed Icelos and was waiting for her, Parmet was in this section for some sort of skullduggery, or coincidentally, Parmet was preparing to exercise before the first baseline inspection. She discounted the last option immediately—at this point, she wouldn’t accept coincidences.

  Meanwhile, as she dithered, one or both men were dying.

  She sealed her suit and checked the fit. She had good oxygen supply to the soft hood. She grabbed two more suits and the environmental slate from the locker, and cycled back through the air lock. Using her authorization code, she put a warning lock on the air lock doors. This warning lock would display in CP on their status boards.

  The suits were uncomfortably heavy across her shoulder, but she needed her hands free to operate the slate, specialized for monitoring environmental and life support. The emergency suit was cheap and disposable, meaning it didn’t have any sensors or displays of its own. She walked back down the hallway toward the gym, noting that the oxygen percentage was low. When she first entered the hallway, she hadn’t been suspicious enough to worry about her shortness of breath.