by Various
Ash-G099 and Mark-G313 were seated in the back of the crowded club, a half-empty pitcher of lemon pels resting on a high-top table between them. At only fourteen, they continued to show hints of adolescence in their soft-featured faces, but their size and musculature were those of twenty-year-old junior lieutenants fresh out of ODST school—which happened to be their cover legend.
Still, they really didn’t look like young officers on leave. Both were sitting bolt upright, constantly scanning their designated surveillance arcs and paying no attention to the gravball match on the screens above the bar in the center of the room. The empty cocktail glasses scattered across their table resembled exactly what they were—props designed to make it appear as if the pair had been drinking for hours. Most telling of all was their reaction to the young women who sauntered past and glanced in their direction, clearly attempting to catch the eye of one or the other. Mark returned their smiles with complete indifference, while Ash merely looked sheepish and shy.
It would take a trained observer about two minutes to penetrate their covers—which was the whole idea, of course—but Veta thought the pair might be overdoing their “incompetent operatives” act just a little. The opposition in today’s training exercise was a top ONI espionage unit, and, if her Ferret Team hoped to prevail, they couldn’t allow their foes to smell a trap.
“Guys . . . you need to loosen up a bit, or Oscar Squad won’t buy it.” Veta pretended she was speaking into the commpad strapped to her wrist. “Down some of that pels.”
Ash and Mark’s only response was to raise their mugs and drink. Like everyone on the team, they had a thread-style microphone sewn into their clothing and a miniaturized reception-dot concealed near one eardrum, but field protocol dictated that subordinate operatives remain comm-silent unless reporting a development to the team leader.
Veta could not quite believe she was ordering a pair of fourteen-year-olds to guzzle alcohol, but they were being trained for undercover work. They were bound to face times when their lives depended on their ability to imbibe all manner of spirits, and ONI had taught them how to do it without losing their edge.
Still, fourteen. Sometimes, Veta wondered if letting ONI recruit her had been smart . . . not that there had been much choice. Her career as Gao’s top homicide investigator was over. In fact, so was her entire life on Gao, period. After helping Blue Team escape with a powerful Forerunner artifact—one coveted by the planet’s unscrupulous president—it would have been a death sentence to stay behind.
A few gulps later, Ash stopped drinking and belched, and Mark put his mug down and wiped his mouth. Neither looked relaxed. Veta sighed and feigned speaking into her commpad again.
“Try to look like you’re having fun.” She shifted in her seat and began to watch the pair in her peripheral vision. “Smile at the ladies.”
Ash spotted three women approaching, probably on their way to the exit, and signaled Mark. The pair waited until their targets were adjacent to the table, then executed simultaneous stool-pivots and flashed broad, toothy smiles.
The women rolled their eyes and hurried out the door.
“Oh man, you guys,” Veta said. “When we get back to the Mill, remind me to request a flirting course for the entire team.”
Ash dropped his chin and stared into his pels. Mark shrugged and went back to watching the entrance. Veta told herself not to worry. Her Ferrets had a lot to learn before they were ready for a real field assignment, but they were good students and tireless workers. They had accomplished in a hundred days what most ONI trainees needed a year to achieve, and she had no doubt they would soon master the necessary social skills.
Veta was more concerned about what they needed to unlearn. Her subordinates were all Spartan-IIIs with superhuman reflexes and nearly a decade of military training, and they remained soldiers at heart. When pressured or surprised, they had a tendency to revert to lethal action . . . and starting a firefight was seldom the best solution for a spy in a tight spot. In fact, Serin Osman—the ONI admiral in charge of the Ferret program—was so concerned about the situation that she had warned Veta they might need to rethink building the team around Spartans.
And that Veta could not allow.
Like all Spartan-IIIs, her people had been recruited as war orphans and molded into supersoldiers through a rigorous program of training, discipline, and biological augmentations. But they also came from Gamma Company, which meant they had undergone a special round of enhancements that resulted in an unstable brain chemistry—a liability that ONI now deemed an unacceptable public-relations hazard with the potential to damage the entire Spartan branch.
Veta had no idea what had become of the rest of the Gammas, but she had agreed to lead a four-person Ferret Team for the sake of the three she had met on Gao, and she had no intention of letting Osman remove them.
They were just kids. They deserved someone who thought of them as something more than weapons.
Her third trainee, Olivia-G291, was at the near end of the bar. Wearing a formfitting sheath dress and carefully applied makeup, she appeared older than her two fellow Gammas and could easily pass for a first lieutenant—or even a captain. She was being chatted up by a pudgy guy in wrinkled trousers and a collarless four-pocket jacket, and she was leaning toward him and smiling, listening intently and maintaining steady eye contact. Like dozens of women in the club, she looked like she was enjoying the company of her companion and was interested in spending more time with him.
There was only one flaw in Olivia’s cover. Her suitor appeared to be distinctly civilian and at least three times her age, and the disparity was drawing puzzled glances from younger men and raised brows from disapproving women. Even the servers were scowling as they passed, eyeing the fellow as though they could not understand how such a lecher had made it past the door guards.
And that was a good question. Located in an ambiguous zone between the Inner and Outer Colonies, Neos Atlantis was a high-security world surrounded by orbital maintenance docks that serviced only UNSC war vessels. The installations employed close to a hundred thousand civilian technicians, but a security-conscious UNSC maintained segregated recreational facilities for the sole use of fleet personnel. So it was hard to believe this civilian had simply wandered into the club on his own.
Hoping to get a closer look at the subject, Veta faced the central bar and raised her glass as though signaling for a fresh drink. She saw no sign that the fellow’s girth and flabby jowls were a disguise, and it seemed unlikely that any member of an elite espionage unit would lapse into such poor fighting trim. The guy was probably just a former officer who had been hitting the bottle too hard since retirement, but Veta knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions. During her time on Gao, she had taken down half a dozen vicious murderers who passed as happy family men and pillars of their community.
A blond woman in the khaki pants and white blouse of a server stopped next to Olivia and her companion with an open bottle of sparkling zantelle and two flutes. Olivia’s eyes widened, but the companion merely smiled and handed her a flute, then took the tray and turned to find a table. The server immediately began to look for thirsty customers and spotted Veta’s upraised glass. She smiled and came over.
“Another whiskey?” The server was tall and fit, with pale blue eyes and laugh lines at the edge of her mouth. “The Titan Smoke is smooth and silky, if you haven’t tried it yet.”
“Actually, I’m not a whiskey drinker,” Veta said. She found it odd that a server didn’t know the difference between a rocks glass and a doffer, but it was probably hard to find experienced bar personnel who could pass a rigorous security check. “But I’d love another two-tailed comet.”
The woman flashed a sheepish grin, then said, “You don’t know what you’re missing, ma’am.” She took Veta’s doffer and turned to leave. “But a two-tail it is.”
Once the server was gone, Veta glanced back toward the bar—and saw no sign of Olivia and her companion. All of the
tables in the area were occupied by groups of bantering customers. Veta faced the window again and searched the interior reflections for some sign of the missing pair.
When she found none, she pretended to speak into her commpad again. “Who has eyes on Olivia?”
Mark took a swallow from his mug and shot a glance across the far end of the bar, then Ash propped his elbows on the table and cast a more leisurely look in the same direction. The corner they were indicating was hidden behind the club’s huge central bar, but Veta knew from her initial reconnaissance that it contained a handful of cozy booths. There was also an emergency exit and a kitchen entrance, which meant it would be a good spot for a capture attempt.
Veta was tempted to move closer so she would be ready to offer support if Oscar Squad tried something, but changing seats would only confirm to their observers that she and Olivia were both operatives.
“Okay, keep her in view.” Veta paused and smiled to misdirect any Oscar Squad observers, then added, “And, ’Livi, don’t let that guy move you anywhere else. There’s something off about him.”
The order went unacknowledged, of course, and Veta used her commpad to bring up the feed from Olivia’s microphone. The sound quality was dull and scratchy, and the only thing she could hear was the murmuring of the civilian’s deep voice punctuated by the occasional jingle of polite laughter from Olivia.
The server returned with a rocks glass filled with a dark, coppery liquid that was definitely not a two-tailed comet. Veta found the poor service annoying, but the last thing she wanted to do was make herself memorable by pointing out an inexperienced server’s mistake. Besides, she had more important things to worry about—Olivia’s laughter was lapsing into a cackle that suggested the zantelle was having more of an impact than it should. Veta thanked the server and paid by pressing her thumb to a tabpad. She picked up the glass and sniffed. Whiskey. She pretended to sip the lip-blistering stuff.
The voice of Olivia’s companion grew more distinct, as though he were leaning closer, and Veta heard him asking, “. . . were you posted before the Rochester?”
“The Academy at Mare Nubium, of course.” Olivia was drawing on her cover legend, but her tone was mocking, as though even she didn’t believe what she was saying. “I graduated seventeenth in my class.”
“Really?” the civilian asked. “I didn’t know Spartan-IIIs were trained at the Luna OCS.”
Veta’s gut knotted, and she had to resist the urge to rise and start toward Olivia. According to Admiral Osman, the opposition hadn’t been briefed on the composition of Veta’s team. But Oscar Squad was an espionage unit, with the capacity to do its own research.
Olivia remained quiet for a moment, then finally giggled and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Go on,” he said. “You can tell Uncle Spencer. You’re from Gamma Company, aren’t you?”
Olivia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Spencer, I . . . can’t tell you that.” Her voice was halting and her speech slow. “How do you know?”
Veta stood and turned toward the bar. “ ’Livi’s been dosed.” She was so alarmed that she did not even bother to lift her wrist and pretend she was speaking into her commpad. “Extract now. I have ’Livi. Mark, secure the subject for interrogation. Ash, take distraction and cover.”
By the time she finished speaking, Mark was already heading for the far end of the bar and Ash was gathering glasses from the table. Veta had no idea whether the reference to Gamma Company was another of Osman’s tests or a genuine security breach. But she did know that any leak regarding the identity of her Gammas was a threat to the team’s existence and perhaps even their lives—which made this the kind of high-pressure situation likely to bring out their lethal instincts.
So, another test.
“And don’t kill anyone,” Veta added. “Don’t even bust them up. This is a training exercise.”
She circled around the near end of the bar. Mark was just stepping past the far end, moving briskly toward Olivia’s booth. He was smiling broadly, as though he were on his way to greet a friend, but his torso was tilted forward and his gaze locked on the back of the subject’s head. Because of the Smoothers necessary to keep their unique brain chemistries in balance, Gammas had a special fear of psychoactive drugs—and a burning hatred of anyone who used one on a fellow team member.
Veta began to have second thoughts about sending Mark in first. In many ways, he was the team’s coolest head, someone who always maintained focus and could not be rattled. But he was also protective of his teammates and utterly ruthless, with a bitter streak so dark that Veta had not too long ago suspected him of being a serial killer. If he thought Olivia had been harmed by the dose . . . well, training exercise or not, it might be bad to let Mark reach the subject first.
“Mark, let’s—”
The command was cut short when a tremendous shattering of glass sounded from the opposite side of the bar. Ash was creating the distraction as ordered. Veta ignored the reflex to glance over and continued toward Mark, watching as a server with a tray full of drinks whirled into his path. It was the same blonde who had served Veta earlier, the one who had brought her a whiskey instead of a two-tailed comet and hadn’t known a rocks glass from a doffer—and the same woman who had brought the zantelle to Olivia and her companion.
Mark didn’t even slow down. He simply grabbed the server’s tray and shoved it into her chest, then used a foot-sweep to kick her feet from beneath her. She landed flat on her back, slapping her arms out to break her fall and tucking her chin to avoid banging her head.
Both actions suggested training in hand-to-hand combat. The server rolled onto her side to counterattack with a scissor kick, but Mark was already two steps past her, still holding the tray and just approaching Olivia’s booth.
Taking the server for a member of Oscar Squad, Veta angled toward her—and began to wonder what had been in the whiskey the woman had been pushing. Had she been trying to dose Veta too? A large man stepped away from the bar. He was a little older than Veta, perhaps thirty-five or so, with a square jaw and wary eyes that did not match his smile.
Veta tilted her head as though she thought he was coming on to her, then flashed a sly grin herself. The operative’s smile grew more natural, and he offered a hand as though to introduce himself. At the same time, he was slipping into position between Veta and the action at Olivia’s booth. Veta allowed him to herd her toward the bar, but extended her hand past his and grabbed hold of his wrist.
“Nice to meet you.” Veta propped a foot against his ankle and drew him forward. “Never dose one of my people again.”
The operative’s brow shot up, but he was already off-balance and in danger of falling. His fingers closed around Veta’s forearm as he struggled to stay upright. She popped her free hand against his elbow just hard enough to hyperextend the joint, then pulled loose, spun around behind him, and delivered a vicious knuckle-punch to the kidney.
The operative staggered forward and dropped to a knee, in too much pain to do more than gasp. He would be pissing blood for a day, but he’d be back on his feet in ten minutes—which was no doubt less time than it would take for Olivia to recover.
When Veta looked up, she found a lot of curious eyes watching her. She covered by shaking her head and scowling, trying to suggest the guy had said something inappropriate, then continued on her way.
A few paces from Olivia’s booth, the blond server who had tried to stall Mark was being helped to her feet by a couple of young men. Judging by their confused expressions—and the dirty looks they were shooting at Mark—it seemed clear they were just bystanders who had seen the woman go down.
Mark had already reached the booth and was using a wrist-lock to walk the older “civilian” toward the emergency exit. Olivia was sitting on the edge of the seat, eyes glassy and dilated as she stared after Mark. Veta grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the club’s main entrance.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Olivia stumbled and grabbed Veta’s arm for support. “Okay . . . maybe not. There’s a helmet fire inside my skull.”
“I imagine there is,” Veta said. “That had to be some kind of Babble Juice in your zantelle.”
“You . . . think?” Olivia released Veta’s arm and began to lurch forward on her own. “I’m gonna crush that fat fart’s tiny little . . . ears.”
“His ears, huh?” Veta was relieved to hear the anger in Olivia’s voice; she was still in touch with her emotions, so the dose had probably been light. “Really?”
“Okay, not really,” Olivia said. “But whatever I crush, it’s going to hurt him. A lot.”
Veta smiled—she couldn’t help it. “As long as you don’t kill him,” she said. “Remember, this is still a training exercise.”
They reached the blond server. Noting that the bystanders who had helped her to her feet were continuing to scowl after Mark, Veta stopped to address the two men.
“We’re from FLEETCOM, Criminal Investigation Division.” Veta took Olivia’s arm again, then continued, “I need to get this officer to an infirmary, but the server you’re helping is a witness.”
An alarm bell rang briefly as Mark hustled the “civilian” out the emergency exit, but the two bystanders merely looked over and immediately returned their attention to Veta.
“Hold her here until one of my people comes for her,” Veta said. “Is that clear?”
Both men came to attention. “Affirmative, ma’am.”
Unable to protest without breaking her own cover, the server glared at Veta, then said, “No problem. I can use the break.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Veta thanked the bystanders for their help and steered Olivia toward the main entrance.
They had barely taken three steps before Olivia leaned in close. “But we’re not CID,” she said. “We’re—”
“Whoever we want to be. We’re Ferrets, remember?”
Olivia hesitated. “Right,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”
