by Alma Boykin
“Blackie One, Command One. Priority one is the transmitter. Manx One, give them the location. We’ll deal with the organizer.” Manx One’s body language left no doubt as to her opinion, but she did as ordered, showing the two SAS men the exact spot in the first basement where Chips One had pinpointed the transmitter’s power signature. The commandos doubled back to the closest basement entrance, leaving the troopers on their own. Rachel undid the safety strap on her personal weapon, and Lee thumbed the safety off of his rifle. She also raised the shield on her helmet, puzzling both Lee and Rahoul.
The lack of resistance also puzzled Lee, until they reached the second floor. A bullet whizzed past Rat Three as he tried to open the door from the stairwell. He pulled something off his belt and as Intercept Three slowly pulled the door open again, Rat Three tossed the item, then fired a three-round burst as a blinding flash filled the hallway. The Interceptors slid out of the door and past a dead man dressed in black. Boer One felt a tug, and Manx One handed him her satchel. “Hold this,” she mouthed. He reached out to grab her collar but she’d slid past him, around Rat and Command One, and dropped to one knee, firing around the corner under Intercept Three’s own shots.
“Target in sight,” Rahoul heard Manx One saying. “Target just ducked into an office.”
Rahoul ran through his options and made a decision. “Intercept Three, Rat Three, watch the hallway. Boer and Manx, with me.” He drew his service pistol and darted ahead, leaving the other two no choice but to follow him. Rachel grabbed her satchel back from Lee as they skirted two more dead bodies, keeping her pistol at the ready.
This was not supposed to be happening! Winston heard echoing bangs of what had to be gunfire, and fled into his office. Bill had promised that any violence would stay well away from Winston’s person, had said that his own people would guard the Secretary! But someone had just shot one of the two men watching the building, leaving the Secretary helpless and alone. He had to get down to the basement, had to meet Bill and get away from the City of London. He couldn’t organize things from his current position. He needed the electronics that someone had shut off. Had the riots spread beyond Bill’s control? The agent swore that his people could control and aim the hordes, but what if something had gone wrong? He grabbed files and flash drives and stacked them in his briefcase.
“I am rather disappointed, Secretary Winston,” said a voice behind him. “Most people demand more in exchange when they sell out their planet to would be invaders.” The harried human turned to see a small woman standing in the doorway, leaning on a cane. “A pair of islands is all you asked for? If we translated the contract correctly, that will go down in the annals as the lowest price ever demanded for an inhabited world.” She frowned, “Or did I miss something?”
“I don’t know who you are, but you have no business here,” the Home Secretary huffed. “And I have no idea about this foolishness you’re spouting. I am calling security to have you removed, so don’t try anything foolish.” He’d never carried or wanted to have a firearm, but for some reason the small woman made him wish for a pistol.
She tipped her head to the side and studied him. “Whither goest thou, stay warder?”
He replied without thinking. “Not warder but seeker of . . .” and stopped himself. She’d spoken in Yylsavi and he had replied in the same alien language.
“Interesting. I should be the only creature on this planet who knows those phrases. And your accent is terrible. Quit using English emphases,” the grey-clad brunette said in almost the same cadence as Bill used. “Yylsavi flows without stress,” she added. “Like water in a sandy stream.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” Winston demanded, wondering where on Earth security was and how much longer he could bluff. Bill should be arriving within minutes, and Winston couldn’t be found here with this madwoman.
A tall, lean soldier appeared at the woman’s left shoulder. “Command One, security has been delayed by a disturbance outside,” he informed someone.
A shorter man stepped into position on the woman’s right side. “Thank you, Boer One. Oh, and Commander, you were right. The assassination attempt failed rather dramatically.”
She turned her head almost over her shoulder to look at the speaker. “Good. And I think Mr. Winston does not recognize us.”
“No, ma’am. He seems a little distracted,” the lean sergeant observed from her other side.
“Remind him, Commander Na Gael,” the oldest of the strange trio ordered and the woman removed her helmet, revealing her face. One grey eye and one sickening white orb stared at the Home Secretary. He had seen that before, in the face of a dead woman. “Four failed murders, Secretary Winston,” the shorter man said quietly. “You betrayed us for nothing. You are under arrest for . . .”
Winston grabbed Bill’s emergency defense device off the desk and threw it to the ground at the general’s feet. The tall soldier moved as fast as a snake, grabbing the small woman and pulling her back and to the side, shielding her from whatever might be coming. The general dove behind the wall as the grenade struck the floor and exploded into a shower of needles. Before Winston could take advantage of the distraction, something struck his chest and the world went black.
“Commander . . !” Rahoul warned as Lee peered over the woman’s extended arm.
“He won’t be dead, sir,” she panted—Lee had knocked the wind out of her when he hauled her to safety. “I set it on stun as soon as we got past his escort. And we’ve got to grab his computers!”
“Do it, Commander,” Rahoul ordered. He and Lee secured Winston who, indeed, remained alive but unconscious. Rachel hurriedly unplugged two computers, then popped the lock on the desk and removed four portable hard drives and memory sticks, tossing them into her satchel along with the contents of the briefcase. “When is his accomplice due?”
Lee glanced at his watch and took up a position beside the door. “Any moment now, sir. Assuming he didn’t get some sort of warning.” He looked a quick question at Rachel, who had just finished putting her helmet back on. She shook her head, then jerked up and turned this way and that much like an animal sniffing something. “No. No, not a-bloody-gain.” The female pulled her PDA off her belt and began tapping the screen, mouthing something as she did so.
“God damn it, the . . .” she lapsed into Trader and then something else, her angry tone leaving no doubt as to the general meaning of her words. “Son of a n’geedak—someone from da Peerlan just departed the building and the planet. Right, I have their trace, and when I get my hands on that mixed-breed abortion I’m going to,” an inarticulate snarl concluded Rachel’s outburst.
“What about his other accomplices, Manx One?”
Her head tipped slightly to the left and her eyebrow rose. “I believe that the Metropolitan and the Army are going to have to take care of them, Command One.” As they should have years ago, she continued silently, behind her shields. But I’m not supposed to say that and you couldn’t permit yourself to think that until now, could you, Rahoul?
The trio heard angry voices, followed by a yell and gunshots, and pivoted as one. “Ours?” Lee mouthed.
Rahoul leaned out a little and listened. He shook his head, then ducked out of the way as Rat Three dove in. “I lost Interceptor Three,” the soldier managed, “they overwhelmed us.” Rahoul quickly shut the door, locking it.
“Help,” the general pointed to the desk. Lee and Rahoul pushed the desk in front of the door, forming a barricade, and Rachel overturned a long table to use as cover before checking Rat to make sure he was functional and not bleeding to death.
She also pulled a syringe and a small bottle out of her satchel, frowning as she did. “How much does our little friend here weigh?”
Rahoul left his work long enough to squeeze the under-secretary’s arm. “Eighty kilos? He’s got a layer of fat on him.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rachel drew a measured amount of clear fluid out of the bottle, then injected it into the
unconscious man. “Keeping him in dreamland for a little longer, sir,” she explained.
“Good thought,” the officer agreed. Rachel searched Wilson with professional speed and thoroughness, riffling through his wallet and then making interesting sounds as she emptied his jacket pockets.
Rachel also removed the sleeping man’s belt, unzipped the interior and smiled broadly despite the rising voices outside the locked door. “Does Panpit like jewelry?”
“What on Earth are you . . .” Rahoul stopped as Lee whistled in appreciation. “That’s rather pretty.”
“And it is rather more than just jewelry. Secretary Wilson was prepared for anything, I must say. And I have thirty shots on stun, twenty on kill,” she advised. “Plus my conventional pistol in the satchel.”
“Manx, can you contact anyone outside, or the gents in the basement?”
She started trying to establish contact with Chips or Command Two, or even a civilian emergency service, while the men listened to the yells of “Allahu Akbar!” ringing in the hall outside the barricaded door.
“Can you tell what they want?” Rat dropped an empty receiver as he reloaded, then picked up the empty and tucked it into his off-side ammo pouch.
Rahoul triple-checked his pistol and wished he had a rifle again. “They want the secretary. Manx, can you get us out?”
She shook her head. “No remote on the ’Hart, I’m afraid, sir. And despite what those movies shouw, we won’t fit through the duct work, even without sleeping beauty here.” Rachel listened as the roar outside built, then faded a little. Probably off searching for a battering ram, or combustibles. She chose her words carefully. “Is it possible to negotiate, say, clear passage in exchange for . . .” she pointed towards the bureaucrat.
The humans gave her a disgusted look and she shrugged. Well, someone had to say it. Rachel went back to trying to get through to someone outside the building. After a fourth fruitless attempt, she stopped. Instead, she called up Ahkai’s map of the building and studied potential escape routes. Rahoul left his position by the door and peered over her shoulder at the screen. “Show me the shortest way out.” She took the stylus and traced it for him. “What about the roof?”
“This says that we’re in just about the only building in London that doesn’t have roof access from inside.” She called up a different diagram. “We’d have to get to the external stairs and then up. And send someone down to tell the second team that we’re egressing via helo. Unless you want us to divide? You, Rat, and Intercept take the prisoner out by air, and Boer and I fight our way down to the transmitter and out from there.” Her mask slipped enough for him to see her eagerness for the hunt.
“Hmm, no. Can you wake the secretary up?”
“No, but he should be coming ‘round in a few minutes on his own. I didn’t want to overdose him.”
Rahoul leaned closer and whispered in Trader. “Can you override his mind long enough for us to get to the stairwell?”
She clenched her teeth. “No, because someone would have to carry me or I’d have to maintain physical contact with him. Either way I can’t defend myself or anyone else.”
“Command One, what if we just let them in?” Boer One asked. “After he wakes up, when they rush the door, we let them in and run out behind them.” He concentrated on Rahoul, trying not to see Commander Na Gael’s wide, bloody-minded smile.
The lights flickered off again, and the noise in the corridor faded. Rahoul went back to the door, straining to hear what their attackers were saying. Muttering voices started rising again, but from farther away, and an acrid whiff burned Rahoul’s nose. Behind him, Rachel sneezed and swore under her breath. The mob had made Rahoul’s decision for him.
“Rat, help me move these. As soon as the prisoner can walk, we’re evacuating the building. Manx, show Boer the two closest escape-routes. Rat, you and Boer will lead, Manx will control the prisoner, and I have tail.”
Manx and Boer held a hasty, whispered conversation while studying her maps. “What about . . .” Manx shook her head, pointing to the Secretary. “Right. So that means . . .” Rahoul turned his attention back to the door. The two enlisted men shifted the barricade away and Rahoul eased the door open just a crack. He saw nothing, but more smoke trickled in around the door and he shut it again. Rat Three shook his head. “Too bad the Secretary didn’t rate a window office, sir.”
“It is strange, isn’t it,” Intercept agreed. “Be nice at least to know which way not to go once we get out.”
Boer returned from his conversation as Arnold Winston gave a groan and tried to move. Rachel rolled him onto his chest and secured his hands behind him, then hissed something into the groggy man’s ear. He protested and she repeated the flowing phrase, adding in English, “or would you like us to leave you to your Islamist friends? They seem very intent on speaking with you.” He blanched. Manx heaved him to his feet. She fastened her satchel to her back, jammed a conventional pistol and ammunition into her coat pocket, then tossed chemical light sticks to Boer and Rat.
“Ready?” Nods answered Rahoul’s question, and he gestured for Boer to open the door. Smoke stung his eyes and nose as the chief scout and the sergeant from the London office hurried out, followed by Rachel and the still-dizzy bureaucrat. Rahoul followed behind as Boer eased along the wall, leading them away from the office and toward a different part of the building. The voices faded, but Rahoul kept his guard up as the smoke grew thicker. Rachel pulled the eye-screen down on her helmet, and Rahoul followed suit. He lacked the others’ infrared vision equipment, but the shield helped keep some of the thickening miasma out of his eyes. Boer stopped and consulted Manx’s map, then kicked open a door into a stairwell. Dim red emergency lights showed in the gloom, and the group clattered faster, charging down the stairs. Winston tripped, and Manx snarled at him in the same flowing language she’d used before.
«Commander Ni Drako, do not abuse the prisoner,» Rahoul ordered silently.
She twisted her head to look back, somehow not tripping as she did. «I’m not. He’s been conditioned and I’m using that, sir.»
They continued down to the basement. Boer opened the door, and a voice called “Halt!”
Manx called over Boer’s shoulder, in German. “It’s the black cat, and I’ve got another rat.”
A man in urban camouflage appeared out of the darkness and confirmed their identity. “Good. We’ve been trying to contact you, but something is jamming all communications, military and civilian. We’ve got your spare trooper, too.”
“Have you found the transmitter?” Rahoul demanded.
“Affirmative, and we’re about to eliminate it, but we need to clear the building first.”
“The second floor is on fire,” Rahoul told him. “Multiple hostiles may be following us.”
The commando nodded. “Follow me.” He stopped a few meters later and conferred with the other SAS man, who vanished. The second man reappeared a short while later at Rahoul’s shoulder, scaring the life out of the South Asian officer. The reinforced group, including a wounded but mobile Intercept Four, trotted along a concrete utility passageway that led to an underground car park. As they reached the steel door, a dull boompf sound rolled from behind them. Manx flashed a thumbs-up sign, and the commando returned it. She started speaking quietly to someone, and Rahoul’s own radio crackled.
“Calling Command One, come in command One,” a voice pled in his ear. “Command One if you hear this, acknowledge.”
“This is Command One, confirmation mike alpha India silver.”
“Command One, Radio Three, unable air extraction due to fighting in your area. Advise proceed south to Churchill Park for land extraction, over.”
Rahoul found Boer One and began planning their route. As they did, Rachel saw a hint of motion at the edge of her vision. She pulled her hood over her helmet and signaled to Intercept to guard the prisoner, then eased silently away from the group. One of the SAS men caught sight of her and followed. Their prey tr
ied to cut between two pillars, but Rachel fired on the run. She missed, hitting his leg instead of his back, and she cursed as he staggered and turned, firing. She and Blackie Two dove for the floor as energy bolts flashed over their heads.
“Stop!” Rachel called in Yylsavi. “You’re under arrest for violation of a known time stream and importation of—” She rolled as more shots crackled just past her helmet.
Blackie Two’s rifle thundered, sending their attacker to the floor. Rachel crawled on hands and knees as fast as she could to reach the injured alien. “Who are you working for?” she demanded, reaching for his mind. “Tell me the truth and I’ll see that you get a fair trial.”
He spat black blood at her from a twisted mouth with too many teeth. “Arnold Winston is what I work for, and Chaos is what I serve.” He choked on blood, gagging and spitting. Automatically, Rachel started to heal him, then stopped. Instead she stripped the surface thoughts from his mind, barely disengaging before death swallowed him. She took a few tissue samples and stowed them in her satchel as Blackie watched.
“You have a camera?”
“Affirmative.” Blackie Two snapped several pictures to go, using his IR helmet cam. “He’s not one of ours.”
“Affirmative. Don’t know what species yet, but not human.”
Their radios crackled, “Manx One, Blackie Two, rejoin the Interceptors. Egress in progress, repeat.” The pair scurried back to the others.
Even with a fear-paralyzed Arnold Winston in tow, the seven soldiers made good time reaching the park, dodging through alleys to avoid the swirling chaos of the riots in progress behind them. Smoke billowed out of the ground floor shops in the office blocks around the Home Office building, while dull red and flashes of yellow and white lit the northern sky. Twice, Rachel and Blackie Two warned off overly-curious civilians. After that, no one bothered the group, and they reached the park just as two transports rolled up. Boer One rejoined Manx One, and they clambered into an Athelstan. “Coming?” she asked Blackie Two.
