Project Starfighter

by Stephen J Sweeney

  “Fake IDs,” he said, holding them up for Sid to see.

  “Some of these are men,” Sid said, sifting through them.

  “I suspected they might be,” Chris said. He made his way over to a wardrobe, opening it and starting to rifle through the contents. He had originally thought that the woman might keep much of her career-related paraphernalia behind fake walls, under the floor and in other concealed places. Most of it turned out to be easily accessible, a couple of her guns actually hanging on a wall for all to see. She clearly didn’t have guests over all that often.

  He leafed through the clothes that were hanging up, dumping on the bed anything that might fit him or Sid. He spotted a box at the bottom of the wardrobe, and, bending down to open it, extracted the one-piece outfit that was neatly folded within. Chris’ eyes grew wide as he lifted it, and, turning to Sid, saw the man just as stunned as he.

  “Is this ...?” Chris began.

  “Yes,” Sid confirmed. “It’s a Chameleon Suit. One size fits all, by the looks of it; one of the newer ones.”

  Chris ran his hand over the suit, feeling the silky smooth, elastic texture. “Lucky she didn’t wear this when she came to visit you,” he remarked.

  “I wonder why not?” Sid mused, taking it from Chris. A short examination revealed the activation switch on one of the cuffs. He pressed it. Nothing happened. He tried again, holding it down this time. The suit remained opaque, not reflecting its environment and creating the illusion of transparency as expected.

  “Maybe you have to be wearing it?” Chris offered.

  “No, it’s broken,” Sid said. “That’s why she didn’t bother to put it on.” He looked at the clothes on the bed. “Put it aside; there will be something more useful in here.”

  But Chris was reluctant. “I’m going to hang on to it. It might come in handy, even if we don’t use it ourselves.” He folded the suit neatly, ready to take along with them, then continued to search the wardrobes.

  “Bingo,” Chris announced, having pulled a case out and opened it.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “The most important part of our disguise,” Chris said, pulling out wigs, fake noses, and contact lenses. “Wow, your neighbour certainly missed her calling as a pantomime actress, didn’t she?” he added, finding beards, skull caps, and other body-shape-altering items in the case.

  “Do we really have time for all this?” Sid asked. “Drones could arrive at any moment.”

  “I think we've got about an hour,” Chris said. “If her true identity isn’t on file, then perhaps a bit longer. I doubt the drones will recognise her straight off, so won’t be coming to search her flat immediately.”

  “Okay,” Sid said, putting the ID cards aside and picking up a set of fake coloured contact lenses. “Let’s get started.”

  ~

  They left just over an hour later, well-disguised with beards, fake noses, and coloured contact lenses. Chris had disposed of his Resistance uniform and Sid’s gun under a loose floorboard he had discovered in the dead woman’s flat. This hiding place had also revealed a case full of money. A few thousand, in both paper and credit chips. Emergency cash, no doubt. Chris had pocketed the lot.

  Though, briefly, Chris felt bad, he reminded himself that this woman had been quite willing to turn Sid in for the reward, without caring what happened to him. Thankfully, no one else seemed to have come looking for Sid since the two had left his flat. Rain came on and Chris hoped that his and Sid’s disguises were waterproof. The city was as busy as it had been when he had arrived earlier, perhaps even more so. The square the two men presently crossed would likely fill up even more later on. Many of the bars and clubs did not open their doors until late at night, and so a good number of the revellers – those that could afford it at any rate – did not venture out until close to midnight.

  “Flag down a taxi as soon as you see one,” Chris said, hobbling along as quickly as he could. “This stuff could start to wash off if we’re out in the rain too long.”

  “Calling a taxi would be quicker,” Sid suggested, taking his phone out and starting to dial.

  “And remember, if we’re stopped by a drone, don’t talk; just act like we’ve lost our voices, got it?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, may I have a word, please?” The voice, polite but robotic in nature, came from behind Chris before Sid could answer. Chris tried not to panic as he wondered just how long the drone had been following them.

  He turned around to meet it, keeping his expression as deadpan as possible, something that wasn’t all that easy to do when confronted with the very thing you were attempting to avoid. Harder still when you realised it was the exact same one that had shot you off the road earlier that day. ‘XS-0017811’ read the identifier along the top, the words ‘Wade-Ellen Asset Protection Corporation’ written just beneath. Chris swallowed hard, but said nothing.

  With both men facing it, a series of red and yellow lights began twinkling on the drone’s body. It was scanning them, attempting to determine their identities. Chris felt his heart rate increase, his brow become wet, sweat mingling in with the rain. If this thing became even slightly suspicious of their disguises, there was no way either of them were going to escape. He only hoped it wasn’t sophisticated enough to read into a person’s display of nerves.

  “Good evening, Mr Jenson, Mr Albright,” the drone then said. “I am currently attempting to locate the following people ...” A holographic projection of those it was seeking appeared above its head. “If you know of their whereabouts, I would be very grateful if you could share it with me. The Wade-Ellen Asset Protection Corporation is offering a substantial reward for any information that may lead me to them.”

  Chris exhaled as strongly as he dared. The drone hadn’t recognised them. Quite who Mr Jenson and Mr Albright were, he didn’t know. Nor, right now, did he care. At least the thing hadn’t said “Mr Bainfield”.

  Chris glanced at Sid, seeing him holding his poise admirably well. Chris wondered how the man might have felt if he had been aware of what Chris had noticed. In the short time that had elapsed since Chris had arrived at Sid’s residence, two of the names had been scrubbed from the drone’s wanted list. Farley Ross and Wesley London, it seemed, had been caught and eliminated. Sid himself was still listed, though.

  Chris returned his attention to the drone, making a show of peering closely at the display, before shaking his head. Sid did likewise. For a time, the drone did nothing, leaving Chris to wonder if he was going to have to answer verbally.

  “Thank you, Mr Jenson, Mr Albright,” the thing eventually said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Chris and Sid turned immediately and, without speaking, headed off.

  “Sir, excuse me? Sir? Please remove your mask, immediately.”

  Chris’ breath caught in his throat. Sid swore, and the two exchanged worried looks. They were going to have to make a run for it.

  “Sir, please could ... No, sir! Do not run!”

  Chris saw that Sid was still walking at a steady pace, as was he. The drone wasn’t after them. He cast about until he spotted the man the machine was addressing, seeing him running through the crowds, pushing people aside as he went, some being taken off their feet completely as he collided with them in his haste to escape. The man was tall and somewhat overweight, charging along like a bull. The drone was in pursuit, continuing to broadcast instructions to the escaping man to halt and cooperate, but the man was paying the thing no attention.

  Just then, a second drone put in an appearance. “Sir, stop now, or we will be forced to fire,” it warned. A few seconds later, the two machines did just that. Screams of panic erupted from people nearby as the flare of the drones’ cannon discharge brightly lit the immediate area.

  The bolts hit the man square in the back, fired with clinical accuracy, successfully avoiding everyone else. The man stumbled, went down, pulled himself back up, and tried to continue running. He staggered along, suddenly out of bre
ath and no longer able to move as fast as before. The two drones slowed, continuing their pursuit at a more casual pace.

  A stun bolt, Chris realised. It had contained just the right amount of energy to burn its way through the man’s clothes, partly into his skin and deliver its payload from there. The man lurched on for a while longer before crashing down on the wet pavement like a sack of potatoes. His breathing slowed and he lay there in the rain, his eyes closed.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Is he a terrorist?”

  “Keep on walking,” Chris urged Sid as those standing nearby began to question what had just happened.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm,” one of the drones was broadcasting. “This man is believed to be a member of the death cult known as the Immortal League, connected with attacks against the Wade-Ellen Asset Protection Corporation. He has been stunned while we carry out our investigation. For your own safety, please stand back. Local police and security services have been notified.”

  Chris saw that the man was wearing the same garb as the two others he had spotted earlier, in the slums. Drones and bots were the reason why the members of the Immortal League tended to avoid open spaces – it was too easy to get spotted and hunted down. Why the man had decided to walk around in full view of everyone, Chris didn’t know. Maybe he had just gotten careless. In fact, why wear that distinctive clothing at all, if it attracted such attention? Was it pride, or part of the requirement of being a member of that illustrious faith?

  Chris had little time to ponder. Sid had spotted a taxi hover parked near the square, the driver observing the drones’ chase. The two men jumped in, asking the driver to take them to the starport, and soon left the inner city behind.

  ~

  “Is it broken or fractured?” Chris asked the doctor who was examining his foot.

  “Fractures and breaks are the same thing,” the doctor said.

  “Ow!” Chris cried, as the doctor gripped his foot harder than before.

  “You’re suffering from an acute metatarsal fracture,” the doctor concluded. “A fairly common injury, I might add.”

  “So, it’s simple for you to fix, then?”

  “Standard surgery can have this fixed in a week,” the doctor said, releasing Chris’ foot and standing up. “Advanced surgery in about two or three days. Neither procedure is cheap.”

  “How much?” Chris asked.

  “Eight thousand, and twenty thousand, respectively.”

  “Bloody hell,” Chris said, unable to help himself. Eight was extortionate, and twenty thousand was well above the average annual income for most of the working class inhabitants of the Spirit system. He glanced at Sid, who was shaking his head.

  “We can’t raise that now,” Sid said. “Not in our position.”

  “We’re starting up a business and it’s taking up all our cash,” Chris explained as the doctor looked on curiously.

  The doctor nodded. “In that case, the best I can do is prescribe you some drugs to take away the pain and reduce the swelling, and outfit you with a special shoe to minimise pressure on the bone and keep it in place. You’ll be able to walk on it, but I suggest you do so as little as possible and keep your foot elevated as often as you can until it’s healed.”

  “How long until I can walk on it normally again?” Chris asked.

  “Eight to twelve weeks with the normal course of drugs, four to six with the newer ones. The newer ones cost double and aren’t guaranteed to work any better, or even at all. It all depends on you, everyone responds differently.”

  Chris sighed. He needed to get back to walking – and running! – as soon as possible. He could probably just about pay for the more expensive of the drug doses. He gave the doctor the go-ahead to fit the shoe and prescribe him the drugs, sending Sid off to reserve them seats on the next transport off the planet heading for Hail.

  When Sid returned an hour later, Chris was just about sorted. They had exhausted almost all of Sid’s neighbour’s money now, Chris blowing most of it on his treatment. They had enough left for little more than food and life essentials. At least Chris still had his savings to draw upon.

  He took out his phone to check exactly what was left in his savings account. Twelve or thirteen thousand, he was certain.

  “What’s wrong?” Sid asked, as Chris swore.

  “My bank account’s been frozen,” Chris said, lowering his phone.

  “Chris, you didn’t ...?!” Sid breathed, looking horrified.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Log into your bank account?”

  “Why? What’s the big ... oh,” Chris suddenly realised.

  “WEAPCO’ll be monitoring it,” Sid said. “They’ll see that someone tried to access it and will also know exactly from where the attempt was made,” he added, pointing to the phone.

  Chris swore again. “Sorry. I’ll switch it off for now.”

  “Too late,” Sid shook his head. “You’ll have to get rid of it.”

  “Why?” Chris wanted to know.

  “It’s as good as a beacon. WEAPCO might be able to pin point us using its broadcast signal when it’s on. Any time, anywhere.” Sid looked around, as if expecting a host of drones and bots to be coming rushing at them. “I suggest you either flush it down a toilet or plant it on someone else.”

  “Sid, we can’t implicate anyone else in this,” Chris started.

  “Don’t worry. WEAPCO won’t do anything bad to the person we plant it on,” Sid said. “We pick the right person, and they’ll just assume it’s stolen. They’ll be too interested in trying to find us to bother to punish the thief.”

  Chris nodded and glanced back the way they had come, in the direction of a recreation room where a number of children and teenagers were playing holographic video games and enjoying other table-top activities. A few gambling machines were dotted about, some of the older youths striking them in an attempt to exploit any physical faults that might result in a payout.

  “Them,” Chris said, nodding at the group.

  “Them,” Sid agreed.

  The two made their way over, their aged appearance drawing some sneers from the youths as they sat down at a car racing simulator and made a show of attempting to play the game. Having finished, Chris left, deliberately leaving his phone where he had deposited it on the side of the machine for the duration of the game. He glanced back as he and Sid headed for a restaurant to get some food. As expected, both the phone and the youths were gone.

  “What time’s our flight?” Chris asked Sid, as the two settled into a corner booth of the restaurant where they could talk with a little more privacy.

  “In three hours,” Sid said, handing him the flight ticket. “Boarding under the names of Gregory Jenson and Samson Albright. Given these tickets are non-refundable, maybe we shouldn’t miss our flight.”

  Chris appreciated the grim humour. But they had time enough to eat and maybe get a drink. He was starving. He had barely eaten since that morning, the offerings at the diner being nothing more than light snacks. He could do with a good filling meal.

  A waitress presently stopped by and took their order. Chris, deciding not to risk consuming any alcohol in case it should interfere with his course of drugs, settled for orange juice. He didn’t begrudge Sid his order of a pint of lager, half of which he downed in under ten seconds.

  A television was broadcasting the news, though it was drowned out by music playing over the restaurant’s speakers. Usefully replacing the audio, subtitles appeared on screen as the reporter spoke. The report was focusing on the hunt for two wanted criminals – Sid Wilson and Tyrone Vin.

  Only two, now? Chris thought. Had all the others been eliminated already? Hell, that was quick. WEAPCO wasn’t messing around. He saw that Sid was staring at the display, looking agitated as his profile came up, displaying an image of his face, as well as giving his age, height, and last known location – the Watergardens. WEAPCO had clearly already fou
nd the body of Sid’s neighbour.

  “It’s okay,” Chris said, reassuringly. “You don’t look a thing like that right now.”

  ‘Shooting at the Watergardens’ the news subtitle then read, over an image of the residence. Chris focused on the food menu. Sid focused on his beer.

  “You know what I always wanted in life?” Sid muttered. “Just to meet a nice girl. I always thought I had a lot of skills – working with computers and electronics and that. It got me by, paying enough to live on. Well, as much as any of us are able to make after the tax is grabbed. Before my mum and dad died, I thought that if I could find myself a nice girl, I would be set up for life; I would have everything that I wanted. I never imagined something like this would ever happen.”

  Sid was babbling, clearly still very nervous. Chris could hardly think of what to say in response. But right now, Sid clearly needed his support.

  “You can still have it all, Sid,” Chris said. “This will all settle down eventually, and we’ll be free to do as we wish. Don’t worry, the right girl’s out there. We just have to find her.”

  Sid nodded, and took another drink of beer. The news topic on the TV soon changed, turning to yet another subject that both Chris and Sid were also familiar with – the Immortal League, the mercenary group turned cult, their leader, Mal. The man had apparently broadcast another message to his followers, speaking about how the doors to Heaven would only open once they had finished destroying the great evils of the universe. When the time came, he would be leading them forward to do so.

  “He means WEAPCO, right?” Sid said.

  Chris nodded. “More or less. But I think he stands against the usual suspects as well – greed, adultery, lust, gluttony, that sort of thing. It’s meant to have been written down on some ancient stone tablets he found, or something. Supposed to be of divine origin. He claims he’s the only one who can read them.”