The Intruder Mandate: The Farthest Star from Home: a military sci-fi suspense novel

by William Cray

  Cole slid open a drawer of his desk and removed an identical order cell to the one Duran tossed to him earlier. “This was on Agent Hansen’s body. We couldn’t decode it but he left instructions to find the two girls in the weapons locker in an unsecured partition.” He tapped a key on his desktop info-board. A display on the far wall evolved into the split image of the two girls.

  Duran turned, taking an involuntary step towards the display, examining it. One of the girls paced back and forth frantically, her short blonde hair tousled and unkempt. Her clothes were of the style girls liked to wear when they went to a party or club, colorful, and ever changing patterns. She looked about sixteen or seventeen ICY. The other was less discernable. She lay unmoving in a fetal position in one corner of the locker. Shoulder length dark hair, five foot six or seven maybe. Wearing darker, more conservative skintight pants and shiny blouse. He couldn’t tell much more. Duran peered at the images.

  Cole’s grin faded, “The data cell said they could be an immediate danger if they were released. CVC’s possibly.”

  Cole continued. “Good cop work told us when and where to meet you, but there is a trigabyte of encrypted information on this card that we can’t decode. Its high-grade encryption, but I’m sure you already know that. We will have to hold this as evidence in Agent Hanson’s suicide investigation.”

  Duran cursed under his breath. That data cell was the record of Axe’s investigation until he died. Duran carried an identical one. Everything Hanson had done to track down the Intruder accompli was most likely imprinted on that card. Without it, he could be starting from scratch. Not having the contents of that card could set him back days. Cole’s Cheshire grin returned. He held up the card in the dim light. “All I’m asking for is a little inter-service cooperation.”

  Duran remained standing. He knew he had been had. Cole was an experienced investigator and probably and damned good one. He had spent a lifetime looking for clues, connecting the dots, and most importantly, interrogating people for information without beating it out of them. The whole meeting had been staged to deliver that one line at the right moment. And Duran knew he had taken the bait like a fish on a hook and he was no less fucked.

  Duran was new to this line of work. He was chosen for his particular talents, but not for any enduring investigative skills. Yes, he had been trained, but being trained and having the depth of experience were two different things. They had wanted an executioner, not an investigator. Duran just saw what an experienced interrogator brought to the table in this line of work. Cole could be a dangerous impediment to the investigation, or a tremendous asset. Cole waited as Duran considered his position.

  Duran shifted his eyes to the unnamed officer on his left, then to Floss. Cole caught the glance. “Captain Isley, Lieutenant Floss, could you give me and Special Agent Duran a moment.”

  Isley nodded and Floss followed him out the door, rolling it closed as they left.

  “I’m listening,” Cole said. He leaned back in his chair, resting one arm on an armrest, the other cupped under his chin.

  Duran took to his chair, letting the metal cushion mesh to his form before continuing. “I’m afraid that I cannot divulge much more than I have given you.”

  “Which is nothing,” Cole interrupted.

  “I am seeking a group of terrorists that we believe may be operating on Mars, more specifically, here in New Meridian City.

  Cole nodded, “I figured as much. Why weren’t we notified?”

  “They may have an operative in the region's law enforcement sector or other high government positions.” Duran paused, after leaking the constructed cover story. “That’s why local authorities have been kept out of the loop.”

  Again Cole nodded, “I see. Who is this terrorist group?”

  Duran shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you without further authorization.”

  Cole stiffened, the information not settling well. “What about the girls?”

  “I don’t know. I have to look at the data card.”

  Cole picked up Hansen’s data cell and held it between two fingers, light passing across the black metallic sliver. “Not good enough. My department should be running this investigation despite a possible mole. My men know the streets, the contacts, the hangouts. We have the assets to prosecute this investigation ten times faster than any off-warder just off the shuttle, special abilities aside. Agent Hansen proved that. He was here less than ten days before he got himself killed.”

  Duran stared at Cole. Got himself killed? Not killed himself?

  Cole jumped up out of his seat, coming around his desk. Duran saw he was over six-five, and looked to be in great shape. A big cat on the prowl. Cole pointed to the large command center behind Duran, through the clear-plaz. “We’ve been tearing the Rad Zone apart looking for a Max Lab that's manufacturing bad shit. The crime lab says these killings are suicide, but I’m telling you its murder.” He closed his eyes and his booming voice lowered to a strained murmur. “Did you see the man and his little girl? What he did before he killed himself is unspeakable. It has got to stop, and stop now.” He turned on Duran. “Is there a connection between your case and my investigation?”

  Duran thought back to the images on the wall. The dream could have been the terrifying result of any one of his close quarter battles, the blood, the gore, the violent dismemberment and the burnt flesh. A regression of his IRH possibly, but there was something different in the gallery outside. An unreal quality that belied his logically ordered thinking. The dream was disconnected from him now. The emotions had faded. Was there still a connection?

  “I don’t know,” Duran said.

  Cole pointed at him, “If I find out this Black Max is being manufactured by some lunatic terrorist cell and you are withholding information from me …” his teeth gritted “… I will tear you limb from limb. Cyborg or not!”

  Cole caught himself, and sighed. “I apologize Agent Duran, the stress of the case is wearing on all of us. It’s killing people outside the zone now. Not your usual overdose victims.”

  Duran nodded.

  Cole stalked back behind his desk, folding his hands behind his back staring out of the window, into the night cityscape. “I have lived here all my life. I remember as a child going outside the domes to play on the surface of Mars in the summer with the Mons visible in the distance when the dust was down. I’ve seen the glory of this planet … this city … fade. Now it reeks of its final death. I love it to much to let it die like this.”

  Duran watched him, the moment taking Cole’s strength. He knew Cole was no longer fishing for information and was struggling with problems beyond his immediate ability to influence. He may solve these murders, even eliminate the Max epidemic, but nothing would change the inevitable slide of New Meridian onto the scrap heap of promise.

  “Commissioner, if I can get access to your ICE-40, I’ll contact my superiors and find out if I can brief you in on this operation.”

  Cole turned, “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Duran stood as Cole touched the call panel on his desk. “Send Flossy in.”

  A moment later, Lieutenant Floss stepped in. “Agent Duran … I’m assigning Lieutenant Floss to you. He will be your escort until I confirm the validation of your orders.” He tapped on the order cell Duran had given him. “Our ICE-40 is out. There’s one on Phobos the Navy lets us use in emergencies. You and Lieutenant Floss can catch the military shuttle up there in the morning.” He tossed the order cell to Floss.

  “Floss will be the liaison between your investigation and this office and will be able to provide advice and experience on local conditions.” Cole added, “Try not to let him kill himself on the first day Flossy.”

  Cole turned back and slid Hansen’s black data cell towards Duran, keeping one finger on it. “That’s the deal Agent Duran.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Duran nodded and Cole released the card. Duran slid it across the desk and dropped it in his redcoat poc
ket. Cole extended his right hand across the desk, leaning forward, looking into Duran’s eyes. “I’m Elijah Cole.”

  Duran stepped forward, taking his hand and returned the firm grip.

  Duran turned to leave and Cole called out. “You never did answer my question Duran.”

  Duran stopped, and turned his head.

  “Why is the Ministry hiring cyborgs?”

  “They didn’t need us at our old job anymore.”

  Cole nodded in understanding. “The Vendetta?”

  Duran nodded once.

  “Did you see it, when they cracked the Intruder homeworld?”

  Duran responded dryly, “They tell me I had a front row seat.”

  Duran followed Floss out of the office and into the command center. Floss made sure the door was shut. Both men headed down the corridor, through the crowded command center and towards the elevator that would take them to the crime lab where Eric Hansen’s body lay.

  Floss grinned. “You have just been given ‘the E. Cole Eye.” He glanced at Duran sideways. “I think you’ll recover.”

  3

  Lunae-Tharsis Constabulary HQ Building

  Hebes Chasma Trench

  Mars

  As the doors revolved shut on the elevator, Duran reflected on the conversation with Cole. The cover story was still in tact but would unwind quickly. He had to prepare for that eventuality. Perhaps too much had been given away, made too many compromises by allowing Floss to act as a quasi partner or escort. Cole was a complication, but having Floss along could be a vulnerability. His mind unprotected against the Intruder influence. Even an accompli could manipulate an unwary mind at close range, but the alien Intruders could utterly dominate a human individual. No one had ever survived the deep mind control, either during Earth’s occupation or the Vendetta. Duran and his team were the exception. But now they were one member less. There were so many unknowns.

  Floss led the way down the white washed corridor, soft heels clicking in echo, traveling past several sturdy doors every forty feet or so. The sterile walls were replaced by a set of double doors labeled Crime Examiner and Coroner’s Office.

  After buzzing in, they walked straight past the receiving office and into the inner lab. It’s neon blue lights rebounded off the walls and examination tables, casting odd shadows like refracting light through blue crystal. Against the far wall were four rows cadaver cold storage lockers, three deep. Each had a small red or green light on the upper right side with a flyer clipped to each shelf door. One sticky flyer hung off a central support beam, flashing “No Vacancy” in bold red lettering. Gallows Humor.

  Two of the three examination tables were occupied, out for a night on the slab. A bright examination light hovered over the table, illuminating each body, which was covered by a single thin thermal sheet. The metallic foil sheets didn’t quite cover the entire body of the larger of the two victims, exposing him in an undignified pose. A Dyna-Scan unit was mounted on wheels in the corner. It’s open mouth waited to be fed another victim for multi-spectral dissection.

  A woman hunched over the government issue desk near the center of the lab studying a series of filament flyers under a lamp. Her pen twitched in the smallish hands of the middle-aged woman with unruly dirty blonde hair that coiled around her ears. Not looking up, she called out to Floss. “Over here Lieutenant.”

  Duran followed Floss as he approached the woman, passing one of the deceased, his bloated purple and blue feet exposed from under the blanket. The curly-cued blonde continued to scan up and down on her linked flyers, not allowing her intense concentration to be violated by the two newcomers as they approached.

  Floss, interrupted her intent study and made the greeting. “Agent Duran, this is Dr. Janet Janikowlis, our staff coroner and radiologist. Dr. Janikowlis, Special Agent Rory Duran, Ministry of Codes and Enforcement.”

  Doctor Janikowlis looked up at Duran, tearing herself away from the display. She gave him a quick look up and down with a detached professional curiosity before smiling.

  Floss continued, “Agent Duran is here to see and ID the body of the suicide on Telco we brought in yesterday and recover his personal effects.” Duran nodded once in silent agreement as Janikowlis continued to look him over.

  The doctor smiled, putting her filament pen behind her left ear before pulling her hair back into a bun and jamming a nearby clip into it, freezing the bundle of coils that immediately began the task of unraveling. “Of course,” she said, “this way.”

  Dr. Janikowlis slid out from behind the desk, leading Duran to the long rack of cadaver lockers, past the two deceased and to an empty examination table. She spoke as she walked, “He came in today, about 0500 hours, D.O.A., with a single perforated entry wound to the right temple from a large caliber weapon. I concurred with the initial investigators report that it was an apparent suicide. No question.”

  She walked up to left most row. The top tag read “Hansen, Eric 1903B-02212-G48.” She grimiest, the corners of her mouth curling down, “It’s an ugly wound. The projectile hit one of the implants and tore out the lower left cheek on exit.” She tapped a black palm sized circular button that corresponded to the marked locker, which hissed open as the thermatic seal released and the table started to roll out.

  A crooked grin came over her face, crinkling the flesh beneath her eyes, “I am sorry.” Then a wince, “Did you know him?”

  Duran met Axe back in their Grenadier days, far out on the rim. Hansen kept their equipment running, but most importantly, provided levelheaded experience in the field when Duran was just a frocked up Captain of knuckle draggers doing his tour for the Empire. They were complete opposites, personality wise, but they bonded well, forming a natural cohesion under fire. During the years of service together in the Emperor’s Demi-Brigades, they became a steady team that translated well with their men. But something had changed in their relationship after the Vendetta. Duran couldn’t attribute the alteration in their relationship to anything tangible, but the two no longer spent off duty time together or even discussed old times in passing. Perhaps in a way, they held each other responsible for the terrible things they had done and seen over the years. Maybe just being in proximity to one another served as a painful reminder of things best left buried in the depths of time and space.

  The body of Special Agent Eric Hansen, and before that Chief Warrant Officer Eric Hansen, came out to full length on the mechanism, then lowered down to waist level on the rectangular stainless steel table. Unlike the others, the single, transparent thin thermal bag sealed his body inside. Janikowlis thumbed the tag near the feet and pulled up along the length of Hansen’s naked form. The bag shifted to a thicker opaque, concealing the damaged form inside it. A small pool of dried blood collected in a reservoir near where his head rested. She apologized again, “I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to process his remains properly.”

  A poor coffin for a decorated warrior, Duran thought. Dr. Janikowlis rolled back the head of the bag carefully, using her index finger and thumb, pulling it back, as if she were trying not to wake the sleeping. As the covering rolled back from Hansen’s head, the damage was apparent. The top of Hansen’s skull showed fissures, like giant cracks in three broad purple streaked sections. Nothing was missing from those parts, just a severely fractured skull containing the terrible damage done from within. The sheet continued back and the entry wound emerged from under it on the side nearest to Duran, a small hole, ten-millimeter to be exact, directly in the right temple. No burn scaring around the entry wound, only a smooth circular depression where the barrel of the gun would have been. The 10mm micro-round hadn’t gone far enough to arm its micro explosive warhead. Had it armed, Hansen’s head wouldn’t be in this bag at all.

  With the fatal wound exposed, Janikowlis pulled the rest of the covering down to Hansen’s middle chest, unafraid of waking the dead. The wound was horrific, yet Duran looked at his friend like he had stared at so many mutilated forms on the battlefield.

 
“I know it’s bad, but it’s tame compared to the others I’ve been getting in here the last few weeks.” Janikowlis commented. She pointed to the damaged left side of Eric’s head where an empty eye socked looked up at them. “I had to remove it. The micro-connectors were loose and it was just hanging there. The eye and the left side jaw are in the organ pouches at the base of his feet. They were just hanging.” She repeated.

  Duran examined the entry wound, subconsciously drawing a line between the point of entry and the center mass of its exit, painting the ballistic picture in his mind and evaluating its trajectory. There was no doubt about what caused the damage, but minute inconsistencies existed that should not have been present for a person with the weapons and ballistics training Hansen possessed. It was a sloppy death. Duran said nothing, keeping everything close. As he further examined his friend’s corpse he noticed several incisions made on Hanson's shoulders and middle torso.

  Janikowlis saw his glance at the incisions and interrupted. “I’m sorry, we don’t get people like you this way very often. I did some minor exploration. I hope you don’t mind.” Duran shook his head, but inside he felt like a lab experiment. A curiosity.

  “The hyper-scan showed major scar tissue and what looked like fusing on the modifications just below the shoulder on his left arm.” Janokowlis said.

  Duran nodded. “He lost the arm about five years ago. The tissue had to be re-gen’d … it was giving him problems.”

  Duran looked again to the smashed face of his comrade, the mesh of flesh and metal composites seemed surreal. To the undamaged left side, only discoloration and the small entry wound were apparent. He looked there to find his friend. For an instant he was there, smiling back with that cockeyed grin that he thought wooed the ladies. Then he was gone. Duran looked away.

  Janikowlis, quickly pulled the cover back over the body of Agent Hanson. She paused. “I’m sorry, did you know him?” she asked again.