The Scorpion Jar mda-13

by Jason M. Hardy

  “I realize that.”

  “I can’t do anything subtle. It’s going to be direct. Probably quite violent.”

  Mallowes held up a hand. “I have no need to hear any details. The job must be done. If it is, you will receive fifty times your normal payment. If it’s not, our relationship is terminated.”

  “A real all-or-nothing guy. I’ve never liked that about you—except when I get the ‘all,’ of course.”

  Mallowes was in no mood to tolerate her jesting tone. “Get it done,” he barked. Just then his disc beeped three times.

  With remarkable speed and agility for a man of his years, Mallowes bent and scooped the disc into his pocket in one quick motion. He recovered his normal firm bearing before the intruder could round the corner and see them.

  “At least it has brown hair,” Agnes said. “I’m pretty sure she had brown hair. Wasn’t it curly, though?”

  “That’s hardly the point, my dear girl. When discussing one of the great scientists of history, is appearance really relevant?”

  A brown-haired man in a courier’s jacket came around the corner. Both his hands were jammed in his pockets. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in the exhibit, not sparing it a single look.

  “Impressive,” the man said. He stood with his legs slightly apart, and Mallowes sensed the tension running through the newcomer’s body. He jerked his head at Agnes, and she slowly stood.

  “Yes,” Mallowes said, “they are. Some very capable scientists.”

  “Not them,” the newcomer said. “You two.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that you didn’t miss a beat. You picked up that conversation like all that stuff in the middle didn’t happen. The trouble is,” he said, looking slowly back and forth between Mallowes and Agnes, “it did.”

  “I’m not quite sure…”

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good device,” the man said. “The problem is, the people who made it knew how to break it. So they put your disc on the general market, and then put a way to break the shield in some back channels, pricing it for ten times what your device costs. Selling both the disease and the cure—nice little racket. You’ve gotten by for a while, you see, because barely anyone has the cure. But a few of us do.”

  Mallowes didn’t need to hear anymore. He feinted forward, just enough to make the man flinch, then darted into the corridor behind him. The man tried to draw the weapon Mallowes knew was in his pocket, but Agnes was quicker. She was on him instantly, and they tussled on the museum floor.

  The fight wouldn’t last long, Mallowes knew. Agnes might have fared well in an even fight, but museum security would detect the scuffle and arrive too quickly for her to make her escape. She’d be tied up for a while. For too long. He cursed silently. He’d have to move down to the next name on his list.

  But first he had to get out.

  He emerged from the exhibit’s exit at a brisk walk. He disliked it, but he was forced to take the catwalk to the stairs—there was no time to wait for an elevator.

  The catwalk seemed to sway beneath his feet. The light breeze from the heating system suddenly seemed to grow stronger. Mallowes’ legs became wobbly.

  He was almost to the staircase when thudding footsteps made him jump backward. The catwalk’s low railing caught him at his thighs, and, for a brief moment, he mentally saw himself pitching over and falling five stories. But he caught himself as two security guards ran past him, and he proceeded down the staircase.

  He walked as quickly as he could without running. The guards would be with Agnes very shortly and the courier, if he were still alive, would start talking.

  Agnes had better not fail him.

  He wound down the increasingly narrow stairway, the final twists making him slightly dizzy. But then his feet hit the carpeted floor of the entry hall.

  The entrance was just ahead. No one stood between him and freedom except for the attendant. The guards must have gone to investigate the disturbance.

  He pushed forward, one hand in his pocket, preparing to grab his phone and make the next call. Just as soon as he was out.

  To his right, his mind registered the soft chime announcing an elevator’s arrival. A voice followed the chime.

  “That’s enough, Senator.”

  Had it just been the voice of a security guard, Mallowes would have hurried on. But the shock of recognition, the surprise of hearing that voice here, stopped him in his tracks. He turned, and saw the wrong end of a revolver held by Heather GioAvanti.

  His shoulders slumped. A vision of a million humiliations that would now be his swamped his mind. But that vision could not push away the sight of the gun staring him down.

  In her other hand, GioAvanti held a small parabolic dish. A long needle extended from the center of it like a stiletto. He knew it immediately for what it is.

  GioAvanti followed his glance. “A handy device,” she said. “Cuts through static fields like sunlight through a window.” She smiled, and Mallowes didn’t find it the least bit charming. “You just have to know where to point it.”

  The second elevator chimed. The courier, bleeding from a cut under his eye but otherwise functional, walked out first. Two guards, carrying a shackled and unconscious Agnes, followed.

  GioAvanti glanced at her. “I hope she wakes up soon. We have a lot to talk about.” Then she turned to Mallowes. “In the meantime, though, I’m sure you’ll be interesting enough.”

  52

  St. Croix Warehouse, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  20 December 3134

  The day of the election dawned gray. Heather wished she knew what Mallowes and his companion were saying, but she’d been forced to leave them soon after bringing them in. Jonah promised he’d notify her immediately if anything relevant to her side of the investigation came up, and she returned to her makeshift headquarters.

  Duncan’s eyes lit up immediately as soon as she entered.

  “Paladin GioAvanti! Where have you been? I have information on eight groups, all of whose name starts with the word ‘Stone,’ a leadership change in the Brothers of the Blood, rumors of Stormhammers approaching Terra…”

  She turned rapidly and was stunned to feel her knees creak beneath her. She was forty-six years old and hadn’t slept in two days—she felt like age was asserting itself.

  “I have very limited time and even less patience,” she said as kindly as possible. “I only want to hear about things pertaining to the Kittery Renaissance. Everything else—and I mean everything —will wait.”

  “Yes, Paladin.”

  “Do you have anything on the KR?”

  “No, Paladin.”

  “Then find something!”

  Watching Duncan scurry away was almost as gratifying as the expression on Mallowes’ face when the elevator opened.

  She hurried into the conference room, where Rick Santangelo held a noteputer in one hand, a phone in the other, and was attempting to press a few keys on a desktop computer with his elbow.

  “What do you mean there’s a warehouse you didn’t know about? How do you lose track of your own warehouses?” He waited for the other party to speak. “I don’t care if you own them or rent them! I don’t care if you’re stealing the space! You should keep track of where you store your goods!”

  Heather extended her arms, palms down, trying to signal to Santangelo to calm down. He noticed her gesture and his voice became a bit less intense.

  While he talked, she slipped the noteputer out of his hand and reviewed his notes. Troop availability for the next morning. It was sparse, but would have to do.

  After a few moments, he finished his conversation, disconnected the call and took a deep breath.

  “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

  Looking at his bloodshot eyes and fevered air, she replied “I think I have some idea. How much time do we have?”

  “Just over twelve hours.”

  “And how much time do we ne
ed?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five hours maybe.”

  “Just the way I like it.”

  The time seemed to move slowly as Heather pushed through the weariness, but when the moment came for her to ascend to the cockpit of her Spider she found herself alert, tense and wishing she could have another hour to prepare.

  She powered up the cockpit communications links and checked in. Altogether Santangelo had come up with two squads of hastily borrowed militia infantry—twenty-four troopers, not counting herself and her two Knights—all mounted on hoverbikes and armed with pulse rifles, plus a Shandra scout vehicle and a Fox armored car. Every other police and militia unit was involved with security, crowd control or the pursuit of other rumors.

  She patched in to the Geneva law enforcement net—she could eavesdrop, but not talk—and flipped down a police-fire-and-emergency map of the city on her cockpit’s heads-up display. Pinpoints of light on the map showed the location of the Hall of Government, the Senatorial office building, and the Hotel Duquesne, where everyone who was anyone was staying.

  Heather and her troopers weren’t the only people up early in Geneva this morning. The map already showed the first spots of political demonstrations. Pink lines swirled on the map, marking their locations. Back at her headquarters, Duncan was probably going out of his head, but these weren’t her concern, except possibly as obstacles to be avoided.

  “Paladin, we’ve confirmed an arms cache on the northwest side,” came the voice of Santangelo in the Fox armored car. “Kittery Renaissance material.”

  “Well, let’s go,” she said. The location of the cache came up on her display as a pulsing red dot. “Follow my lead.”

  She set the Spider into motion, turning from the ’Mech bay out into the street. The sky outside wasn’t yet fully light. They made a strange procession, the thirty-ton ’Mech, a wheeled light vehicle behind and a hover darting ahead.

  Thirty tons is thirty tons, and the centuries-old street vibrated with each heavy footfall. Running ’Mechs in Terra’s ancient cities was always a risky business. There was so much buried infrastructure, you never knew when some government’s generations-old poor maintenance might result in the pavement caving in beneath you today. Heather kept the Spider’s steps slow, carefully gauging the path ahead, working carefully through streets designed for lighter, narrower vehicles.

  Law enforcement woke up to her presence; she heard chatter on the net, then reports of her movement. Some confusion amid the police, then a voice from higher up: “That’s a Paladin. Let it go. They’re doing what they do.”

  “Five minutes to contact,” Santangelo said over the command net. “Rules of engagement?”

  “Here are your rules,” Heather said. “Pass the word to the militia: We do not shoot at people, even if they’re shooting at us. We destroy materiel only, and that only if we know it’s Kittery Renaissance stuff.”

  “And how will we know that?”

  “If a place is on our list, consider the stuff in it KR by definition. Anything else—we’ll know it belongs to the bad guys when people start shooting at us. And repeat, no shooting back; I want to see property damage only. Be careful not to start any fires. I don’t want today to be remembered as the day we burned down Geneva.”

  “Lousy terrain for us,” piped up Koss, the junior Knight, who was riding the Shandra. She’d chosen to wear light battle armor for this mission—it would do something to protect her from small-arms fire at least, though it wouldn’t help much against the heavy stuff. “We can get ambushed from on top, from below, or on the sides and back—and we can’t run or hide.”

  “Keep thinking cheerful thoughts,” Heather advised. “Foot troops, off your bikes. That’s our target ahead. Koss and Santangelo, take station on the two far corners, keep reinforcements from coming in. Foot troops, in the doors ahead.”

  “What are the chances that we have surprise?” Santangelo asked.

  “Depends on whether they’re deaf, blind and stupid, I suppose.”

  “You mean, ‘nil.’”

  “That’s about the shape of it,” Heather said. “The only question is whether they expected a ’Mech to join the party this early.”

  “If they were listening to the police bands earlier,” Santangelo said, “then they certainly expect it now.”

  “So let’s not wait.” She scorched a marker on the building with a laser set to low power. “Let’s go.”

  53

  Warehouse District, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  20 December 3134

  “Squad, by sections, overwatch advance!”

  In response to their squad leader’s orders, Heather GioAvanti’s borrowed militia troopers moved into action. Those on the right and the left advanced, while the ones facing the center of the building remained still, their eyes surveying the facade for movement or any sign of resistance. They saw nothing, and heard no sounds other than the normal ones of a city waking up. With a rush of booted feet over ancient streets, the flankers reached the walls and stood still, eyes scanning, weapons high.

  Then it was the center’s turn to advance, rushing, waiting for the sound of gunfire. Nothing. They reached the doors.

  “Screw subtle,” said the squad leader. “Breaching charges.”

  The charges were set, then detonated. The large doors came off their hinges, falling inward. The men at the center dashed inside, rushing into eerie quiet, followed by the flankers from the front corners.

  Through it all, Heather GioAvanti watched over the action from the cockpit of her Spider, ready to provide supporting fire if needed. So far, it hadn’t been. For a panicky moment she wondered if perhaps they’d hit the wrong warehouse. She rechecked the coordinates—no, this was the one.

  Then Koss in the Shandra and Santangelo in the Fox reported all secure in the rear of the building. A signal from inside the warehouse, from the militia corporal leading section two: “Ma’am. We have a large amount of military materiel here. Pistols, rifles, charge canisters, gas masks and”—he dropped synch, came back a moment later—“missiles. In launch racks. Instructions?”

  “Destroy it all,” Heather said. “Render it inoperable. Speed is important. Make it good.”

  She keyed off the circuit. A moment later, the squad reappeared, trotting out from between the blast-broken doors of the warehouse.

  “Fire in the hole!” the corporal shouted.

  A cloud of dust rolled out of the warehouse doors; up above, a skylight blew out in a rainbow of glass fragments. The shockwave vibrated through the limbs of Heather’s Spider, and the glass in the windows of the building behind her shattered and fell to the street.

  “Right,” Heather said. “Next on the list.” She read them the coordinates. “Mount up and move out, people.”

  “Next one may not be so easy,” Santangelo commented over the command circuit. “That one wasn’t guarded and we had surprise on our side. Next one, if they aren’t awake by now, they’re dead.”

  “We’ll take them. Hopefully without trashing large sections of the city.”

  “I won’t if you won’t,” Santangelo replied. “But I can’t give any guarantees about the KR.”

  “How long until contact?” she asked.

  “Under three.”

  “Hit it. Same plan.”

  The Fox and the Shandra peeled out ahead of Heather’s skittering ’Mech, the bike-mounted troopers of the militia infantry squad following at speed.

  “They did what?” Cullen Roi stared at the foot messenger. The man had found him at his Spartan west-side apartment, finishing the last of a hasty breakfast before going to the temporary command center he had established specifically for the day’s activities.

  “Destroyed our supply cache at the Grundewald warehouse,” repeated the messenger breathlessly. “And they’re—”

  A second foot messenger hurried in.

  “Reported attack on our warehouse at Lundquist Street. Several vehicles, at least one ’Mech. C
ommander Hansel believes that it’s Paladin GioAvanti’s people.”

  “What are the police and the militia doing about this?” Cullen demanded. He didn’t get an answer; he didn’t expect one. Not from these two. He put down his coffee and said, “I’ll be at the command center. Bring any other messages there. Here are your orders: To all cache commanders. Empty your warehouses. Distribute your arms and armor as best you can. If attacked, resist.”

  The two messengers saluted awkwardly. Part of the problem with running the paramilitary wing of a political movement, Cullen had found, was that the volunteers one got were often more “para” than military as far as their background and training were concerned. But one had to work with the materials at hand. He put the problem out of his mind for the moment and headed for Kittery Renaissance’s command center—in normal life, the back room at the data shop where Norah’s current lover had his day job—as quickly as a man could go without attracting unwanted attention.

  Hansel and Norah were already busy when he arrived. The shop’s owner was a sympathizer with the cause; he’d never asked Norah exactly what her “political group” intended to do that required the use of his back room and its data facilities. He was also a prudent man, who had departed yesterday on a visit to his daughter in Nova Scotia without making any awkward inquiries into what might be going on at the shop during his absence.

  “Commander,” said Hansel as Cullen entered. “We are under attack.”

  “I know,” said Cullen. “What I want to know is who and where.”

  “Who is Heather GioAvanti, and where is here.” Hansel pointed to a map of the city. All of the supply caches for the coming street battles were circled in red. Two of the sites had black X’s drawn on them in grease pencil.

  “That was the first one, at 0608. Then they hit this one at 0622.”

  “That would put her about”—Cullen traced his finger over the map, drawing a line from the second of the destroyed warehouses to its nearest untouched neighbor—“here. Nothing we can do for the next bunch but warn them. You have warned them?”