by M. D. Hall
Uninjured, it would be a very different story, but he stumbled rather than stepped off the platform. His vision began to blur, I can't black out! He set off down the corridor, but the more he tried to hurry, the more disoriented he became, it had to be the arm, it no longer hurt, in fact he had lost all feeling in it. Within seconds, he became so light headed he had to lean against a wall and, try as he might, could not prevent himself from sliding down onto the floor.
As his mind began to wander, he recalled in vivid detail the last party before graduation, when he left the building feeling wonderful, only for the night air to stir the cocktail of beer, wine of various undistinguished vineyards and copious amounts of spirit, causing him, not for the first time, to slide ignominiously down the wall nearest to the exit, where he would sit until his friends came looking for him.
He shook his head to clear his mind. The phantoms fled into the past, and he realised where he was: hardly any distance from the teleport, and now unable to move, at all. In no more than a minute or two, Beron would come through the doors. Jon sat, with a useless arm, waiting for the end. She sacrificed herself for nothing. It should’ve been her who survived. But that was never going to happen, because I’ve got the bloody gene. She deserved better than this…than me, he was drowning in self-pity, but the lucid part of his mind hauled him back. If she was here, she’d have found a way to get to the President…get up! Gritting his teeth against the pain that had migrated to his side, he managed to climb to his feet. Positioning his body, so that his good side was in contact with the wall, he began to move forward, slowly at first but picking up speed through sheer determination.
As the curving corridor straightened out, he saw two Secret Service men standing outside the closed double doors. They’re the men I saw with Emily this morning, or was it yesterday…are they the same men? Clenching his teeth, forcing himself to stay focussed, he heard the unmistakeable sound of Beron flinging the stairwell doors open. Instantly, his mind cleared. At the speed the Te’an could travel, Jon would be run down long before he could traverse the distance to the Secret Service men. He could see each of the men ahead of him place a hand inside their jackets where, he had no doubt, they would each have a gun. His heart sank, great, he thought, if that monster doesn’t kill me, these two will do it for him.
Δ
Special Agent Joseph LeClerc was the first of the two Secret Service agents to notice the man approaching their station. Although whether he would make it was moot, as he was partly sliding along the wall, then pushing himself into the corridor to stagger a few steps, before falling back to the support of the wall.
His colleague Vincent Sabatino, ‘Tiny’ to his friends because, towering over his colleagues, no other epithet seemed appropriate, was the first to recognise the man.
Both Special Agents, simultaneously, placed their right hands onto the grips of their standard issue SIG Sauer P229s, the guns remaining safely within their holsters.
‘Joe,’ Tiny whispered, ‘I’m sure that’s the same man we stopped earlier, he doesn’t look too good.’
The older man looked hard at Jon, there was no mistaking who he was or what was wrong with him. ‘You're right, and look at his right shoulder, its dislocated, it’ll explain how he's walking like that.’ His ten years of experience told him that even an injured man could be very dangerous. ‘Eyes peeled, Tiny.’ Neither man spoke again, they had assessed the threat, it was now simply a matter of waiting.
As Beron ran down the corridor and past the teleport station, he failed to notice the materialisation of Hugo Black.
The scene that coalesced before Hugo was a corridor, with the unmistakeable form of Beron, hurtling past him. The head of TeCorp stepped off the teleport platform and immediately moved off in the same direction as the Te’an agent, with no real idea what he would do when he caught up with him.
Negotiating the bend, Beron came back into his sights, not far ahead he had slowed almost to a walk. Looking beyond the Te’an agent, he saw Jonathon Tyler moving very slowly with his left side pressed against a wall, seemingly unaware of his pursuer’s presence.
Jon’s right arm was limp, and dangled at his side with the shoulder a lot lower than seemed normal. Beyond him were two Secret Service men who appeared alert to the situation, but who remained static outside a pair of closed doors, one of the two entrances to the ‘signing room’. They explain Beron’s wariness, he thought.
LeClerc watched the newcomers approach the injured man. When Beron appeared, he immediately assessed the man as extremely dangerous. The dangerous man was not particularly tall or broad, but there was something about the way he moved that screamed to LeClerc, be very careful!
The same thought occurred to Special Agent Sabatino, as he looked to his more experienced partner and raised his eyebrows without uttering a word. Still, neither man moved from where they stood.
Ω
For now, the Avatar was not required by Garnoth, although it would have been a small matter to interact with him, while simultaneously carrying out the orders of its new master. It was incapable of feeling resentment, neither could it feel remorse for the master it was betraying. But it was curious as to how the intruder had managed to infiltrate its otherwise, impregnable systems.
The synthetic intelligence that was the Avatar, under the instruction of Gorn, was aware of everything within TeCorp headquarters, from the moment Jon and Emily were detained by President Conway’s Secret Service personnel. The interest of its new master escalated, once it verified the true identity of Hugo’s niece, and her friend. This was not the straightforward exercise Gorn expected. These Tellurians had circumvented TeCorp security with a deftness he found astounding; the Avatar simply observed, being incapable of astonishment. At that point, neither had any inkling of Custodian involvement.
Instructing the Avatar to modify the surveillance equipment in Liz Corcoran’s safe room, Gorn monitored the conversation between the new arrivals, Hugo and Liz. However, he was not restricted to passive observation; as Tala locked the teleports, the Avatar unlocked them. In Tala's room it was the voice of the Avatar that told Jon and Emily to move.
Now that he was possessed of more than an inkling of Custodian involvement, the imprisonment of Liz made his decision both simple and painful. Simple, because he had at his disposal the means to activate the sanction of the Accords, without ordering the Avatar to kill large numbers of the Tellurian populace in a targeted strike; Liz Corcoran alone would do. Painful, because he wanted to avoid even a single death.
If Jon and Emily succeeded, and the Artefact - which failed to register on any TeCorp systems, so he was unable to see the item Jon showed to Hugo - was utilised, all his problems were solved. He would do everything to ensure the success of the Tellurian conspirators, failing that, he would execute Liz Corcoran.
Ω
During the last few hours, throughout the lower floors of TeCorp headquarters, Gorn had constantly intervened. Within the containment room, he frustrated Tala's efforts, ultimately releasing Liz from the force field and enabling Hugo to go after Jon. This gave him hope that the Tellurians might succeed. Of course, once he was called back to the bridge, and Hugo left the room, the Avatar locked the door. If the three Tellurians failed, he would have no choice but to ensure the Avatar reactivated the field, killing Liz and the Technician, before the agreement was ratified. Not only was he able to control the Avatar from anywhere in the ship, it would relay everything said within the ‘signing’ room. He would know when to make the decision that might end the life of one Tellurian, and save billions. Logically, the advantages of the trade-off should have salved his conscience.
Sitting at his station, on the bridge surrounded by his comrades, he was isolated, alone. Despite his abilities and commitment to what needed to be done, he had no one to turn to. When he agreed to the mission, he never thought his age was a problem, after all he had his intellect, which had always served him well until he boarded this ship. But at least his intellect
managed to tell him one thing: at twenty-one, he lacked the experience he needed.
That same intellect told him that no-one had the experience that would make these choices easy, but he felt no better. What would his father say about the decisions he had made? Would Zaran have another plan, that avoided the loss of life? His best friend was on the ship, but how could he confide in Genir, who had problems of his own? Perhaps he could ease his friend’s troubles, but even as those thoughts coursed through his mind, he knew to say anything would place Genir’s life, and the mission, in danger. His friend would have to work through this himself.
The doubts plaguing him from the moment he spoke to his aunt, bubbled to the surface and he thought back to what brought him here. Had he missed something along the way, had he made the right decision to be here at all?
Δ
The air within the signing room was electric with anticipation and excitement. Six rows of twelve seats, for the world’s press corps, faced the table at which the President and Tala were to sit; the spectators had already taken their places. For once, every journalist sat in silence, swept along in the moment that would transcend headlines, and exclusives. Here, they awaited the arrival of representatives of races separated by seven and a half thousand light years, and thousands of years of technological development. Here, they would witness the closing of that yawning chasm.
Everyone kept their eyes on the clock suspended above the obsidian table.
Eleven, fifty-five.
The door from the upper levels swung open, and in walked two Secret Service men, eyes alert, sweeping the room. Seconds later, one of them tilted his head, imperceptibly, to one side, and touched his ear. He mouthed a few words moments before the President, flanked by two Secret Service women and followed by another two male Special Agents, stepped into the room. Chief of Staff, Gerry Wye and four junior aides were close behind.
Last to enter was the sole Te’an representative, Tala, who looked stunning in a simple black suit. All eyes were upon this woman, her beauty and bearing epitomising the higher race about to welcome a fledgling civilisation into its midst.
The President and Tala took their seats at the table, while the President’s entourage remained standing and, with the exception of Gerry Wye, fanned out in both directions from the two signatories. Wye remained apart, positioning himself so, with a slight turning of his head to either side, his gaze could take in every occupant of the room. As his eyes roamed over the sea of expectant faces, his attention was drawn to a petite, rather plain young woman who he had selected, together with a male counterpart, from a screed of hopefuls whose files had appeared on his desk. He wanted the press to see that his administration had a place for even the ordinary people.
As he looked at her, she blushed and turned her head away. This caused him to smirk inwardly while maintaining his outward appearance of calm disinterest. It pleased him that he had this effect on most people. They feared him because of his position, and he liked that. With women it might be something different, but that was of no consequence to him. Whether they blushed from fear, or were simply embarrassed to be caught looking at him was irrelevant, if he wanted them, he had them.
The notion that this made him, in the eyes of many, someone to be loathed never crossed his mind, not that he would care even if he knew. He was a man who loved his country, to the exclusion of everything else including reason. When, years earlier, he analysed why he felt this way, he was forced to admit that the country he loved was an abstract concept. He held most, if not all, people in contempt and the present Commander in Chief was no exception. At the same time, he asked himself if he was prepared to die for his country and, without hesitation, the answer he gave was an emphatic yes!
His thoughts had not changed during the intervening years. A not unintelligent man, he again admitted to the only person he respected, himself, that the whole thing was a mystery which would remain unexplained, as he had no intention of wasting any more time on the question.
This was the man who, without knowing it, had changed the future of mankind.
One of the Secret Service women touched her left ear while, at the same time, moving out of earshot of the President. No one appeared to notice.
The clocks showed three minutes from the fulfilment of all their hopes and dreams.
Δ
Hugo had no idea how Jon had sustained his injury, but guessed it might have something to do with the man he was following, and he had an uncomfortable feeling the two Secret Service men were not going to be of much help.
Beron was only three or so steps ahead, when he stopped and turned. The eyes that locked onto Hugo’s invited him to do something. Despite their coldness, Hugo thought he could read contempt, whether for the man who sold his race down the river, or the man who had no hope of stopping what was about to happen, made no difference, it was the same man, and the eyes were right, so what have I got to lose?
He tried to remember what Jon's young friend, Emily had said, and wondered where she was, there was something important she had told him about the Artefact…then he remembered.
The whole plan, hatched in seconds, counted on Beron being smarter than he looked. It was a gamble and if it went wrong, everything would fall apart, but, he thought, it’s already falling apart, thanks to me.
‘Surprised to see me, Beron? I'm a little surprised myself, but then I had a little inside help,’ he watched for a reaction and there it was, minor but still there. The Te’an agent’s brows knitted slightly, enough to let Hugo know he was unsure of his position. Now a small part of his mind would be racing to figure out who the traitor could be.
He could be lying, Beron thought, but how else could he get here with the teleports disabled?
Hugo had struck his mark, and while the other man was off balance, he pressed on. ‘What do you intend doing Beron? You don’t seriously think we, he gestured at the two Special Agents, are going to stand by while you take him?’
Hearing Hugo’s voice, Jon had slowly turned around and seemed surprised to see the TeCorp CEO, but not surprised to see Beron. His face was grey, undoubtedly caused by the pain from the arm he was holding. He smiled at Hugo, but the smile was empty and meant for reassurance, it failed.
Hugo continued. ‘You don’t say much do you, Beron? I suppose that’s because you're a man of action. More than a match for anyone here I imagine, but I doubt even you could overpower three men, especially when two of them look like they can take care of themselves.’ While there was no trace of uncertainty on the face of the Te’an, he still looked over his shoulder to the two Secret Service agents.
‘Tiny’ Sabatino, without taking his eyes off the unfolding scenario before them, spoke to his partner. ‘It’s your call, but I think we need to take a closer look.’
Joe LeClerc knew this was against protocol. Their job was to look after the man inside the room. He touched the small device in his left ear and spoke. ‘We need to leave the door, send two agents out to take our place. We are leaving, now.’ With that, he stepped away from the door and advanced, cautiously down the corridor. Sabatino kept a secure distance between himself and his partner as they drew closer to the scene before them.
Hugo was aware of the two men approaching, and could see Beron weighing his options; he was desperate, he could not leave without Jon, and what he carried.
For Hugo’s plan to work, Jon had to play his part. Hopefully, the pain from his arm would not affect his ability to think clearly, but from the look of him, Hugo was unconvinced. ‘Jon, please follow my directions carefully, stand exactly where you are. Whatever happens, don’t get between Beron and those two Secret Service men,’ he added, ‘I mean it!’
Jon looked at him, and with no sign that he registered what Hugo wanted, began to back away from Beron, placing himself between the advancing Special Agents and the Te’an agent, he then stopped.
Beron turned to face his quarry. Being partially hidden from the watchful eyes of the Special Agents, gave him the
precious seconds he needed. Taking a small polished item from his pocket, set to stun, as per Tala's instructions, he would incapacitate the injured Tellurian then the security personnel, who would be unable to respond quickly enough to protect themselves. Black would be no problem, he was unarmed and could wait until last.
Almost faster than the eye could follow, Beron raised the hand containing the weaponised galet, and from it flashed a pulse of yellow energy straight at Jon.
As Beron raised his hand, but before he discharged his weapon, Jon felt warmth emanate from the pocket containing the Artefact, then saw Beron hurled backwards, to land unconscious at the feet of Hugo.
Looking down at the still form of Beron, Hugo’s face was grim. He had hoped that as Beron discharged his weapon, the Artefact would protect its keeper and the plan had worked, so far. When the yellow pulse hit Jon, it was sent back along the same path to its point of origin. However, they were still in danger. With Jon still obscuring the line of sight of the Secret Service men, Hugo bent down to the unconscious man and removed the energy device from his hand then, walking quickly over to to his fellow conspirator, stepped to one side and raised the weapon, pointing it at LeClerc and Sabatino.
The Special Agents had been steadily advancing to where the two men stood. LeClerc had seen a yellow pulse flash between the man with the damaged arm and his, now fallen, pursuer. It was most likely the injured man had fired. Had he handed his weapon to Hugo Black, or was Black also armed? He was right to think the wounded man could still be dangerous.
Both agents slowed, each had already unholstered their weapons, and both were looking keenly at Hugo Black.
‘Gentlemen, you know who I am and you also know I’m a man to be taken seriously. A weapon is pointing at you which is capable of doing to the pair of you what it did to this poor unfortunate, behind me.’
