by Piers Platt
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
The man and woman finished installing the security scanner a scant ten minutes before the ship exited FTL travel. The spaceline gate crew had watched them with interest at first, but soon tired of the distraction, and became preoccupied as passengers for the next flight arrived in the gate area. The pair put their tools away, stashing them next to two mid-sized duffle bags bearing the security corporation’s logo.
The man walked through the gate once, experimentally, and the woman checked her heads-up display – a list of his implants appeared a second later. She nodded at him.
“Checkpoint’s ready,” the woman reported, seemingly speaking to herself.
The man made a slight adjustment to his uniform, and each surreptitiously checked their weapons, before taking up positions next to the gate, out of the view of exiting passengers. Then they waited.
Several minutes passed, and then one of the gate agents made an announcement over the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience – the arriving craft is dealing with a maintenance issue, so we’ll be a few minutes late in starting the boarding process. Again, we apologize for the delay.”
The man and woman traded a look. She walked briskly over to the service counter. “What’s the maintenance issue?”
The gate agent covered the microphone on her headset and leaned forward conspiratorially. “They’re telling me the ship ejected an escape pod shortly after it arrived in orbit.”
“Was anyone on board the pod?”
The agent shrugged. “That’s all they’re telling me, sorry.”
The woman in the security uniform swore, and moved back over to the gate. “HQ, you monitor that?”
“Roger,” the supervisor responded.
“Pods don’t move too fast,” the woman noted. “A shuttle might beat it down, if we hurry.”
“Go,” the supervisor ordered. “We’ll monitor the security gate – you two get planetside and find that pod. We’ll send you location info as soon as we get it from law enforcement sources.”
“Grab your gear: we need to catch a shuttle,” she told the other contractor.
They were on the ground less than twenty minutes later.
“You want me to do what?” the woman asked, listening to instructions from Headquarters on her internal audio. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“IP is already tracking the pod,” the supervisor told her, annoyed. “And we have an agent at the airport – it’s the fastest way to get there.”
“This is fucked,” she observed. She led the way outside, to find a police cruiser idling by the curb, lights spinning. An IP officer was leaning against the hood.
“You two looking for a runaway pod?”
“Seems that way,” the woman replied, hesitating.
“Look, I don’t like playing taxi for you two, any more than you’ll like sitting in the back of my cruiser, I’m sure. So let’s get it over with, and then we can all forget this ever happened.”
When they had taken their seats, the policeman turned the sirens on full blast, and jumped his car straight up, pouring on power as they rose over the spaceport.
“Pod’s in the lower atmosphere now, touchdown in about three minutes,” he told them. “We’ll get there about the same time, but there are other first responders on scene already – an ambulance and two other police cars. Do not try to pull anything at the scene – I will shoot you myself. Just let them take the guy into custody. Chances are he’ll be let out on a misdemeanor a day or two from now, so just bide your time, we’ll all keep a close eye on him, and you can nab him when he gets out.”
“Thanks,” the woman said.
“Don’t fucking thank me,” the cop spat. “This is way outside of what I agreed to do for your bosses. Just tell them there better be some real money in my account when this is over.”
They saw the pod a minute later, drifting down on three large parachutes, looking strangely out of place amidst the skyscrapers of the city center. Ahead, the waiting police cars and ambulance had cordoned off a wide section of the street, creating a makeshift landing zone. They parked just as the pod touched down, tilting onto one side, the parachutes collapsing gracefully around it.
The man and woman got out of the car, watching as their driver ducked under a section of police tape and joined three other police.
“Headquarters: guidance, please,” the woman requested.
“What’s the update on the security gate?” the man in the security guard uniform asked.
“Good question,” the woman told him. “Headquarters?”
“All passengers and crew are off, no one matched the implants or body type profile of 621.”
“Must be in the pod,” the man noted.
The police working on the hatch found the release lever. Two of them stood back, hands resting on their holstered pistols. The third yanked on the lever and the hatch swung free on its hinge.
The pod was empty.
“Son of a bitch,” the woman said. She traded a look with the other contractor, and then both turned and disappeared into the crowd.
* * *
Director Nkosi tapped a key embedded on her desk’s glass surface. “Send in Supervisor Altaras.”
“One moment,” the receptionist replied. Siya Nkosi’s office was spacious, but decorations were sparse: a conferencing table with chairs under a viewscreen, her large desk, and an abstract painting on one wall. Her predecessor had been lavish in his furnishings, but she preferred a more focused environment. Her attire was similarly businesslike – a conservative grey wool pants suit, and a silk shirt. The only jewelry she wore was a golden clasp holding her long black hair up in a tight bun, and her makeup was minimal. The outer doors slid open, admitting Altaras.
“Ma’am,” he said, by way of greeting.
“I haven’t seen your report on the rogue asset,” Nkosi stated. “And my call with the senate committee begins in twenty minutes. I’d like to be prepared for their questions.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry for the delay, we’re still piecing things together … I didn’t want to bring you conjectures.”
“So tell me what you know,” she said. Her voice was calm, but Altaras found it hard to meet her steely gaze.
“The … the team was set up and ready to intercept 621 at the orbital transfer station,” he said. “But before the ship docked, an escape pod was jettisoned. We directed the contractors to intercept the pod, but it was found empty upon landing. We were also monitoring the scanner at the gate, ready to detonate it, as you directed … but no one with contractor-type implants went through the gate.”
“Did he exit the pod sometime prior to landing?”
“It’s possible,” Altaras hedged. “But the pod was under surveillance from the moment it was jettisoned, and there’s no sign in the footage of someone exiting.”
“Well, he didn’t take out all of his implants on his own …,” Nkosi said.
“Not on that short of a flight, no. We’re evaluating whether or not he could have fooled the scanner … or he might have simply stayed hidden somewhere on the ship, as well. Our team returned to the orbital transfer station and managed to gain access to the ship, they’ve been searching all passenger areas, but it’s been nearly eight hours, and dozens of flights have left the planet in that time. I was about to send them back to their original assignments.”
Nkosi’s eyes narrowed. “No. Keep them searching. That team’s sole purpose from now on is tracking 621. Every lead, no matter how small. Put the word out to all channels – our contacts within Interstellar Police, clients, Territorial military recruiters, everyone. I’m putting a twenty
million dollar bounty on him, dead or alive.”
“Yes, ma’am. I think there’s a good chance he’s going to try to find 339, given she’s likely still alive, and we believe she warned him about … retirement.”
Nkosi frowned. “True. It’s a risk, but ultimately a minor one. They would certainly be more dangerous together, but neither of them has any usable intelligence about Group operations. We compartmentalize too well.”
Altaras nodded, and turned to leave.
“And if they do join forces,” Nkosi noted. “It will be easier to find them.”
* * *
The baggage train lurched to a stop, and Rath floated across the inside of the container, bumping gently against the wall with several of the loose bags. Zero-gravity always made him feel slightly out-of-sorts, and being locked inside a dark, half-full cargo container didn’t help. Gaining access to the cargo hold had taken some planning, but impersonating the captain of the ship had ultimately allowed him to borrow a keycard from an unsuspecting steward. Once he had launched the empty escape pod, it had taken him just a few minutes to make his way down to the hold, find the right baggage container, cut the lock, and then stow himself inside. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting while the baggage handler drones moved him and his container from the ship to the transfer station, and then over onto the outbound ship.
The hardest part was finding a baggage container scheduled to be transferred directly to another flight.
His new ship launched from the dock several minutes later, and Rath cracked open the cargo container as he felt the ship’s engines rumble to life. The hold was empty – he floated across to a ladder set in the wall, and pulled himself hand over hand up to the hatch. He shut the hatch behind him, then hurried down the access-way, but ran into a maintenance worker before he could exit into one of the passenger areas.
“Woah,” the worker said, “You’re not allowed back here, my friend.”
“I know!” Rath said, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “I must have taken a wrong turn – where’s the cafeteria?”
The man gave him a funny look, but walked him to another hatch, and pointed the way to the cafeteria.
“Thanks,” Rath told him. He passed through the cafeteria, walking on to a passenger entertainment center. There, he found an information booth with a holographic avatar wearing the uniform of a spaceline representative. The avatar smiled as Rath approached.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah,” Rath told her. “I need to book a connecting flight when this one docks.”
“Of course, I can help you with that. Where will you be traveling to?”
“Lakeworld,” Rath said.
“Business or pleasure?” she asked.
Rath frowned, at a loss. “Meeting a friend.”
3
Beauceron looked up when an aide stuck her head through the doors.
“They’re ready for you,” the woman reported.
Beauceron took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then stood up from the bench. Beside him, Rozhkov stood, too. The older man opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged, and just squeezed Beauceron’s shoulder reassuringly. Beauceron pushed through the double doors.
The conference room was large, but nearly empty of people. It had been rearranged so that a single table stood at the front of the room, along which sat five senior officers. Two empty chairs sat facing the table.
“Detective Beauceron,” the man in the middle of the table intoned. “Please take a seat.”
Beauceron and Rozhkov walked up to the table, and sat facing the five committee members. They wore a range of ranks, but none more junior than lieutenant colonel. The committee chair was a major general, a planetary division commander. Beauceron swallowed.
I should have had a drink of water before coming in. Or perhaps something stronger.
“This disciplinary committee has been reviewing testimony of other officers – and what hard evidence we have – surrounding the apparent assassination of Senator Reid. You played an unfortunate role in those events.” He fixed Beauceron with a cold stare. “This is the second professional misconduct hearing of your career, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Beauceron said.
“I fear it may be your last. Recount for us, if you will, the events of last Thursday.”
Beauceron cleared his throat. “I was assigned to augment security at Senator Reid’s motorcade. I reported to my position, and began patrolling the area. A few minutes after I arrived, I noticed a civilian having an argument with one of our uniformed patrolmen.”
“Corporal Friedman was the patrolman?”
“Yes, that’s correct. The civilian had parked his air truck in an alley near the parade route, and Corporal Friedman was trying to prevent him from entering the alley. I noted some similarities between the civilian and a Guild assassin I helped apprehend some years ago.”
“And what happened to the guildsman you apprehended, Detective?” a stern-looking colonel interrupted.
“I allowed him to escape, and he murdered six officers before disappearing, sir.”
As well you know.
Rozhkov leaned forward, addressing the committee. “That matter has already been resolved, gentlemen. We’re here to discuss recent events.”
“It has a bearing on recent events, Rozhkov,” the colonel argued.
“It will certainly be taken into consideration,” the general agreed. “Continue, Detective.”
“I noted some similarities,” Beauceron resumed. “So I decided to investigate more closely.”
“And what were those similarities?” the committee chair asked.
“A backpack, sir – and a grey ornamental bracelet. I believe they use the bracelet to track their progress against their contractual obligation of fifty kills. I imagine the backpack holds certain weapons and equipment, though we’ve never recovered one, to my knowledge.”
“What were your actions after recognizing the threat?”
“I hurried over to the alley, but Corporal Friedman and the man had disappeared behind the truck by the time I got there.”
“Did you run?” the surly colonel asked.
“I did,” Beauceron said.
“How did you score on your last physical fitness test, Detective?” the colonel persisted.
“He passed,” Rozhkov growled.
“You ran to the truck …?” the committee chair prompted.
“Yes, sir. I drew my pistol, but the assassin anticipated my arrival – he stunned me as soon as I came around the front of the truck. I woke up several minutes later, chained inside the truck. The assassin had stripped Corporal Friedman of his uniform and equipment, and was preparing to impersonate him.”
A general at the end of the table, a woman, spoke up. “Did you see him shift personalities?”
Beauceron turned to face the general. “I did, yes, ma’am.”
“Describe it, please.”
“It was fast. Very fast, like slipping on a mask. He mimicked me, and the result was nearly flawless – he even had a cut I gave myself shaving that morning. I found it … unnerving.”
“Why did he mimic you?” she persisted.
“We were arguing – he threatened to use my identity, to make me take the fall for the senator’s death, rather than mimicking Corporal Friedman. But he went back to Friedman’s face right away, and sealed the truck soon after. That was my last direct contact with him.”
“I think we’re aware of the events that followed,” the committee chair said. “Detective Beauceron, in hindsight, how would you handle the situation, given a second chance?”
Beauceron sighed. “I would have been more cautious in coming around the front of the truck.”
“You might have called for backup,” the colonel interjected.
Beauceron bit his lip. The committee chair looked at the colonel briefly, then studied Beauceron. “Why didn’t you radio it in?” he asked.
“I wasn’t sur
e,” Beauceron said simply. “I didn’t want to get everyone worked up over a hunch.”
“You didn’t want to look like a fool again,” the colonel corrected.
Rozhkov stirred. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s not forget that at least four other officers came into contact with the assassin during this time period, and none of them – including Corporal Friedman, who spoke face-to-face with him – suspected what he was. Detective Beauceron not only correctly identified him, he did it from a distance, no less. He might have handled the situation differently, true, but he was the only man at the scene who recognized the threat.”
“But he failed to neutralize that threat, or warn his fellow officers,” the colonel argued. “And a senator paid for it with his life.”
Rozhkov held up a hand. “I can assure you, Detective Beauceron regrets that more than any of us. Let me also say that he is the most productive member of my Homicide Division, with more arrests and convictions than the next two detectives, combined.”
“Your loyalty to your subordinate does you credit,” the committee chair said. “Does anyone else have questions for Detective Beauceron?” He looked along the table. “Seeing none, I think we’re ready to deliberate. Detective, you’re dismissed. Colonel Rozhkov, please stay.”
* * *
Beauceron’s phone buzzed in his pocket again. He pulled it out instinctively, saw that it was Rozhkov calling, again, and hung up. He had not been deeply drunk in a long time, and he had forgotten the lethargy that accompanied it. He turned to the bartender.
“Another drink,” he ordered.
The bartender shook his head, indicating the viewscreen at his monitoring station. “Sorry, your blood alcohol needs to drop a few points. Maybe in a half hour or so.”
