by Gun Brooke
The hovercraft flew through the automatic scanning procedure, and a stark green light filled the cabin. The two-tone signal sounded, which cleared Andreia’s identity, and the vehicle jerked slightly as it docked at the door of the airlock leading into her apartment.
“Thank you. I won’t need you until tomorrow morning.” Andreia nodded briskly at the chauffeur. “Good night.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
After the door opened with a faint hiss, Andreia stepped into her airlock. The inside door slid open as the outer closed, and she entered, grateful to be home, even if it would be a while before she could relax.
“Music. Selection, Andreia-Two-Four.”
Soft music, with suggestive drums and the haunting tone of a flute made from the rare penamera trees that grew on the plains of the southern hemisphere, filled the apartment. The sound system, consisting of echo-panels installed throughout the walls, ensured that Andreia could hear her selection everywhere. It also served an additional purpose, as Andreia opened her briefcase and pulled out a small rectangular device. She walked from room to room and furtively scanned each one, pretending to examine her live plants, always careful of the OECS’s paranoid surveillance even of the Onotharat Empire’s most distinguished citizens. Andreia knew a wry smile played on her lips when a thought struck her, and she wondered if the OECS even monitored the twelve chairmen.
Thinking of the visiting chairman sent Andreia’s thoughts to her hostess for the evening. Roshan O’Landha. Once her friend, now not her enemy exactly, she was someone Andreia could never call her friend again, ever. No matter what the Gantharian people believed, Andreia loved her home planet passionately, having been born into this lush, green world forty-seven years ago. Being Onotharian in this society back then had posed no problem; on the contrary, the Gantharians had considered the Onotharians an asset, and the two races had worked and lived side by side for more than fifty years.
Her older brother by two years, Trax had grown up with a different attitude toward his home planet. Often, he’d accuse their parents of robbing him of his rightful opportunities by emigrating to Gantharat two years before he was born. As a child, he’d spoken about moving back to the overpopulated Onotharian system. Le’Tinia had assured Trax that his future would hold glorious moments and that he’d have ample opportunity to lead a successful, influential life on Gantharat. Trax hadn’t believed her but, nevertheless, decided to go into law enforcement after graduation.
Andreia heard the scanner buzz and relaxed marginally now that she knew her apartment was not bugged. She put the scanner back under the handle in her briefcase, where it merely looked like a locking mechanism.
Andreia was astonished, as always, that Roshan, despite her family history, had found it so easy to collaborate on all levels with the Onotharians. Her trading company thrived, and she traveled both globally and intergalactically, making sure her wealth increased at a steady pace every lunar year. How could she have misjudged Roshan to this extent? Certain that her friend would be filled with lust for revenge after her mother’s death and her father’s incarceration, Andreia had studied the reports from the OECS that painted a completely different picture.
At the beginning of the occupation, Roshan had taken over an abandoned company when a distant relative was killed during the first violent month of fighting and restructured the firm to fit her needs. Soon she had attained a seat in the Commercial Lobby and won the trust of many Onotharians. The Gantharians regarded her with disappointment and even open hatred at times. Still, Roshan’s connections and the power that came with her vast wealth seemed to discourage any serious attempts on her life and property.
Collaborator. The ugly word hung between Andreia and the image of a younger, more relaxed and fun-filled Roshan, sharing a desk with her during their lab sessions at medical school. Their mutual passion for healing and helping people in pain and need had bonded them. “And she was stunningly beautiful,” Andreia murmured to herself as she removed her clothes. Ten seconds later, ionic-resonance set on maximum frequency, inaudible to humanoid ears, had cleansed her body and hair. She pressed a button as she stepped out of the shower stall, and a discreet puff of her special perfume sprayed her.
When Andreia punched a command into barely visible markings on the mirror in her bathroom, it swung open, and she pulled out a case of makeup. Unlike her normal palette, which was gold, orange, and blue, these colors were black, gray, brown, and green. She began to paint her face with a brush: black circles around her eyes, brown to mask her lips, green to hide the olive tint in her cheeks. She’d be wearing her hood, where only her eyes, mouth, and lips showed. And, granted, the light would be muted, but she could afford no risks.
Her curly hair wasn’t easy to tame; it flowed around her shoulders in a shiny cloud, and she had to tie it down with a silicon ribbon to lock it securely in place.
Dressed entirely in black, she wore a long-sleeved silk shirt, snug trousers, and a weapon harness under a wind-sealed tight jacket. Andreia tugged a thin helmet over the hood, to protect her head, before donning a small oxygen mask. A night-visor would also serve to protect her eyes from the wind.
“Lights out. End music.”
The apartment became dark and quiet, and she waited exactly five minutes before she moved toward the airlock. She didn’t use the command to open the door, which would have sent a signal to her hovercraft chauffeur that she needed him. She had long ago overridden that command, and now when she manually attached a suction device and pushed, the door still registered as closed on the security detail’s monitors. At least she hoped so. When doing this, she always held her breath for a while, waiting for the alarm klaxons to blare.
Nothing announced her actions, so Andreia inhaled deeply and closed the door behind her. Now for the more tricky part, she placed the suction device on the outer door, bracing herself for the strong wind this far up.
Cold air and a fine rain hit her face like a thousand needles, and Andreia was profoundly grateful that she wore the visor. She pressed her lips together to protect them as the wind howled and tugged at her like a wild animal trying to coax its prey out of its den. Andreia reached into her jacket and found a small, semicircular fastening device. Preparing to press the button underneath it, she stepped out the half-open door, fumbled for a narrow maintenance ladder, and clung to a narrow pipe on her left as she moved the suction device to the outside of the door and pulled it shut.
She was about to loosen the suction device and place it in her pocket when a strong gust of wind snatched her and nearly ripped her from the structure. As she clung to the pipe she slammed the suction device into the wall next to it and pressed the button, the device holding her just as her feet slipped on the wet bar on which she stood.
She hung sideways in the strong wind for a few moments, trying to regain her footing. The rain made it nearly impossible, and Andreia groaned as yet another strong gust slammed her body against the door.
“For stars and skies,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I don’t have time for this!” She detested having to resort to low-tech solutions, but this was the only way to leave the building undetected, especially at night. Because Onotharian technicians were about to install biosignature-scanners everywhere, it would soon become impossible to escape even this way.
Andreia forced her body to slide to the right and pressed her forehead hard against the cold, wet surface. Her left foot found the bar again, and this time, she stood steady enough to let go with one hand and reach into her jacket. Pulling out the semicircular object, she placed it against the pipe, pressed the button underneath it, and engaged the magnetic lock. She tested its strength, and, pleased with its grip, she placed her hands loosely around the pipe. “Thank you, Gods of Gantharat. Keep me safe so I can do my duty,” she whispered and blinked rapidly three times. After the night-vision feature in the visor switched on, she placed the suction device in her pocket.
“Here we go.” As she kicked off and remov
ed her feet from the bar, her body plummeted straight down, the filament-wire enabling her to descend at a steady pace. The small object she’d attached near her door was programmed to deliver her safely on the ground, so unless more wind gusts sent her sideways, she’d land in a dark, remote corner of the building, on the opposite side of the heavily guarded entrance.
Almost at street level, Andreia bent her legs and landed softly, then disengaged the filament-wire and attached it to the wall. Unless someone knew where to look, he would never see the hair-strand thin wire.
Andreia scanned the area carefully through her night-vision visor. No one in sight. Time to go.
Chapter Four
Roshan pushed the hoverbike to the side, into the shadow of a deserted-looking warehouse. From its appearance no one would guess the technology hidden inside. Warning signs cautioned potentially curious people that the old plant surrounding the warehouse was contaminated and trespassers would meet with certain death.
The tunnel that originated at Roshan’s estate had taken her halfway to the warehouse, and at the end of it she kept a fast two-seat hoverbike. When she was out on these missions, she used mostly back alleys and small dirt roads, to attract as little attention as possible.
Now she locked her bike, pulled an old, coarsely woven blanket from a bag attached to the back of the sleek, leather-like saddle, and covered it. Roshan headed toward the rear of the structure where she pressed her palm against a sensor, hidden under a panel next to the door. A muted purple light scanned her palm print, as well as her heart rate, blood pressure, and blood-oxygen level. Nobody could mutilate a resistance fighter, then use a severed hand to gain access. Only a living, breathing, unstressed person who was in the system could get in. If a resistance member was coerced, and forced to place their hand on the sensor, the scanner would pick up on the elevated heart rate and blood pressure, and alert security to investigate. It had happened only five or six times over the years, and so far no Onotharian agent had gained access that way.
Roshan remembered when she was a rookie how an Onotharian agent had infiltrated one of the other Ganath-based cells and nearly managed to uncover not only their headquarters, but also the identity of several resistance fighters. Eight cell members died while taking the Onotharian agent out. Roshan had never forgotten the incident and was always suspicious of newcomers. An Onotharian with access to dermal regenerators could easily mask as a Gantharian, however, there was a way to ensure the true nature of fellow rebels. Though a simple blood sample wasn’t enough, since the Onotharians knew how to make their blood look blue, a scientist of the former Tamanor Laboratories had developed a way to genetically distinguish between the two races.
“Member four-four-alpha-epsilon-four,” a synthetic voice droned, and the door clicked open. Roshan entered and followed a long, dark corridor into the inner, vaultlike mission rooms. She remembered how, as a young, idealistic foot soldier, still reeling from her mother’s death and her father’s incarceration, she had entered the headquarters for the first time. It had seemed as abandoned then as it did now, but she knew surveillance equipment covered every square meter of the premises, and camouflaged guards prevented surprise visits.
The corridors, still blackened by a past fire, smelled stale and uninviting, and to an untrained eye, nobody had set foot in the old warehouse in decades. Roshan had been utterly unimpressed the first time she’d been here, more than twenty years ago.
The first sign that all might not be as it seemed came about twenty meters into the corridor when it made a ninety-degree turn and revealed a cagelike construction. Roshan stepped inside without hesitation and didn’t even blink when a gate slammed shut just behind her. A scanner flickered its shimmering green light over her, and then the gate in front of her opened, revealing an ordinary wooden door.
Roshan pushed it open and entered a room that buzzed with activity. Elaborate equipment aided the men and women who kept track of all the resistance cells planetwide. Each resistance cell worked independently, and only two or three members of the cell, which usually consisted of 50 to 120 or so rebels, knew how to contact other cells for larger missions.
The previous mission, during which many of the senior officers had been incarcerated or killed, had sent the entire organization into shock. Not once during the occupation had the Onotharians had such a success, and Roshan knew that soon people would start to point fingers and look for traitors within the organization. She shook her head as she put her gloves into her jacket pockets. It wasn’t that easy. The surgical precision of the massive attacks suggested that a traitor or two hadn’t caused this failure, especially since traitors were rare.
“Ma’am,” a young man said, “we’re glad you’re all right.”
He saluted her, and she returned the greeting and looked him over. “You all right too? Base camp took some heavy fire.”
“I’m fine. Two of my friends got singed, but they’re going to make it. They’re still in the mountain hospital.”
“I’m glad they’ll be okay. Am I late or—”
“The meeting of the resistance leaders is postponed fifteen minutes, so you’re on time, ma’am.” The young man, known to Roshan only by his call sign, looked over at a countertop located at the far wall of the room. “I think someone made new yasyam tea, if you’d like some?”
“Thanks. No, continue what you were doing. I can get it myself.” Roshan patted him on the shoulder and continued among the busy staff. She saw a couple of new, young faces and realized that several of the ones who used to man these stations were probably among the missing. Anger churned in her stomach, and she had to will her hands not to shake when she poured the tea. She stirred some sweet honey into it, thinking it might help offset her fatigue.
Sipping the hot beverage, Roshan nodded at Jubinor, who was talking emphatically with another man across the room. Roshan was grateful that Jubinor had made it from their mountain camp in time for the meeting. He hadn’t been physically injured during the Onotharian raid; instead he’d suffered a severe emotional trauma when his life-partner, Berentar, was reported missing in action. It was obvious to Roshan, who knew him well, that Jubinor was balancing on a knife’s edge at the moment.
“Paladin!” a dark female voice exclaimed from behind.
Relieved beyond words, Roshan turned around and placed her mug on the counter. “Ma’am,” she sighed. “Thank the stars you’re okay. The last I heard, you were missing.” Roshan had honestly thought she’d never see the senior officer standing before her again. Temmer O’Gavvian was an old friend of her parents, which was the only reason Roshan knew her real name. Temmer led a small cell of medical personnel that Roshan had seen save lives countless times.
“Rumor had it you’d be out of commission for a while yet. What brings you back already?” Temmer regarded Roshan under an inquisitively raised eyebrow. “Ah, don’t tell me. You’ve heard the latest from the SC.”
“They’re coming. They have to.” Roshan didn’t like how much her words sounded like a mantra, rather than words of conviction. “Ever since the Protector of the Realm returned to show the Onotharians that she’s not going to let anything happen to our prince, or to us, we’ve had new hope.”
Temmer’s look grew weary. “As much as I’d like to believe that, I can’t help being skeptical, Paladin. Guess I’ve seen too much of humanoid frailty and to what levels we can stoop…if pressured.”
“But that’s also when we rise to the occasion,” Roshan insisted. She wasn’t about to give in to doubts at this point. “I truly believe this is the beginning of the end. It has to be, because I don’t think our defenses can hold up much longer.”
“Kellen O’Dal is a remarkable woman, and I remember her, not to mention Bondar O’Dal, her father, very well.” Temmer leaned her hip against the counter and reached for a mug. “She took our prince to safety and managed to get the ear of the Supreme Constellations Council and, more importantly, their leading orator. I actually met Councilman Thorosac
during my travels before the war. He was a young man, but even then a man of vision and convincing political ambitions. I’m not surprised that he’s advanced so far within the SC, or that he managed to unite the Council after Prince Armeo’s speech. Did you see the recording?”
A majority of the resistance fighters had seen the images of and heard the prince’s speech to the Council. Roshan had stared at Kellen, her former cell member, and Commodore Rae Jacelon, of the SC, her new wife. Roshan, overwhelmed, had felt tears stream down her face, something she rarely allowed. So certain that the entire family of the O’Saral Royale had been hunted down and killed, she’d been amazed to watch this child, a handsome, dark-haired boy with his Onotharian father’s colors and his Gantharian mother’s dark blue eyes and royal poise.
For the first time, she hadn’t felt as if her mother had died in vain while carrying out her duties as a colonel of the palace guards. Two lunar months into the occupation, the Onotharians had overpowered Jin-Jin O’Landha and the guards under her command inside the palace gates. Jin-Jin had held them off until the situation became unbearable. In the cellars of the palace, Jin-Jin and a handful of rebels had tried to defend the royal family despite overwhelming odds and certain death.
After three lunar months, Roshan and her father, together with the rest of the Gantharian population, had finally learned what had happened. Roshan couldn’t remember if she cried, but she would never forget her father’s look of grief.
“Yes, I heard the speech,” Roshan answered, and pulled herself together.
“I think you’re right when it comes to the impact of Prince Armeo’s speech,” Temmer said after sipping her tea. “Judging from the number of propaganda radio broadcasts we’ve had the last few weeks, I’d say the Onotharians are very concerned.”
