Silent Order: Axiom Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “None of the Administrators take it?” said March.

  Tolox smirked. “That’s one of the many dirty little secrets of the Republic. Sugar is freely available to all Citizens of the Republic, whether or not they’re Administrators. But to get ahead in the government, you need to be off the Sugar. You can’t think clearly while you’re on it, and it’s hard to backstab properly without thinking clearly.”

  “Backstab?” said March.

  Tolox’s eyes glinted. “The primary skill of an Administrator. They’re not good for much else.”

  March remembered Censor’s story of what had happened to Tolox’s father.

  “Reimer,” he said instead. “He was a Sugar user?”

  “Lifelong,” said Tolox. “Another dirty secret of the Republic is that the Administrators hold the Citizenry in condescending contempt, and in the case of a man like Reimer, I’m afraid that contempt might have been warranted. He never left Rykov City, and after he quit his job, he spent all his time ingesting Sugar, watching videos, playing games, and amusing himself with his Companion.” Her smirk returned. “A model Citizen of the Renarchist Republic.”

  “So why does a man like that,” said March, “suddenly leave Rustaril, travel to Constantinople II, and become a Machinist drone on a murder spree against Calaskaran naval officers?”

  “A good question,” said Tolox. “I don’t have an answer yet.”

  “Seems the best way to start,” said March, “is by backtracking Reimer’s movements before he left Rustaril.”

  “Agreed,” said Tolox. “I’ve put together a file from our sources. Everything we know about him.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, the data is not particularly helpful. Reimer led a singularly uninteresting life before he crossed your path. He rarely left his apartment, and when he did, he frequented the same clubs and stores.”

  “Clubs?” said March.

  “Fast food restaurants and gaming houses, mostly,” said Tolox.

  “Do any criminal organizations have influence at those gaming houses?” said March.

  “Some,” said Tolox. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s common for the Machinists to suborn criminal organizations,” said March. “To use them as sort of mercenary auxiliaries.”

  “It is possible,” said Tolox. She sighed and spread her hands. “I’m afraid I have only so many resources, Captain March. Most of my efforts have been focused on Machinist sympathizers among the Administrators. But, to answer your question, there are any number of local criminal organizations on Rustaril, some of them with links off-world. Most of them control the gaming houses and sell drugs other than Sugar, but they only have a certain amount of influence.” That cynical smirk returned. “Between the Sugar and the Companions, most of the Citizenry have all the vice they need until they die of heart failure.”

  “My theory is that this happened involuntarily to Reimer,” said March. “As you said, he shows no prior involvement in anything even remotely political. It’s possible for a man of his age and habits to undergo a drastic change of heart and join the Machinists, but it’s unlikely. I think your idea of backtracking his movements is the best course. At some point in the last year, he was likely kidnapped and had his implants installed, and if we can find where that happened, then we’ll solve the mystery.”

  Tolox nodded. “Then you think Reimer wasn’t aware of what happened to him?”

  “Probably not,” said March. “Censor said that Reimer’s implants were in a quantum state. Likely he could transform between the form of a standard human and the battle-form that I fought on Constantinople II. He might not have even realized what was going on. He didn’t seem lucid when I encountered him.”

  “God,” said Tolox, leaning back in her chair. “That’s a disturbing thought, March. Dealing with Machinist agents is bad enough. But the Machinists don’t usually send their drones to make a mess. Too obvious.” Her eyes flicked to his gloved left hand. “Except for the Iron Hands. But transforming someone into a drone without their knowledge…it’s like something out of a bad video drama, isn’t it?” She raked a hand through her ragged hair. “It’s something the Republic would do if it was competent enough to manage it.”

  “It would,” said March. “The Machinists think Renarchism is just an earlier, less evolved form of their ideology. Maybe every government like the Republic either collapses or turns into something like the Final Consciousness.”

  Her smile was bitter. “I think Rustaril will collapse and end up conquered by the Final Consciousness. The only thing that keeps the government afloat is the algae harvests from the moons of Rustaril VII. That pays for everything – the Sugar, the government, what’s left of the military, the Securitate. But they’ve been over farming the oceans for decades. The nitrogen level is rising by a tenth of a percent every year. When it gets high enough, it will kill off the algae, the harvests will stop, and the government will collapse. Forty years? Fifty? That’s how long Rustaril has.”

  “That’s beyond my pay grade,” said March. “I’m here to find out what happened to Reimer.”

  “Right,” said Tolox. “I’ll send Dredger with you. He’s a steady man. Good in a fight and keeps his mouth shut. His day job is doing maintenance on my vending machines, so he already has an excellent cover story for driving around Rykov City. He’ll set you up with whatever equipment you need.” She got to her feet. “Good luck, Captain March.”

  “Hopefully I won’t need it,” said March, and they left her office and went to join Dredger.

  Chapter 3: Gambling Debts

  To judge from his van, Niles Dredger was used to this kind of thing.

  His vehicle looked like a typical windowless repair van, long and painted gray with the Tolox Vending logo on the side. Within the van was a small portable workshop containing tools and a collection of spare parts for vending machines.

  Behind the cabinets holding spare parts and tools were hidden compartments containing the various items an operative of the Silent Order might find useful.

  “No plasma weaponry, I’m afraid,” said Dredger. March stood with him inside the warehouse’s truck dock. Dredger had opened one of his van’s hidden storage compartments and was sifting through the gear inside. “The Securitate doesn’t care about locally-manufactured kinetic firearms, but if you get caught with a plasma weapon, you go to prison for a long time.”

  “Those don’t look locally manufactured,” said March, considering the selection of chunky black guns Dredger had produced.

  “Hell, no,” said Dredger. “Anything manufactured on Rustaril is worth less than its raw materials. I made all these myself with an assembly printer. So I suppose they’re still locally made, technically speaking.” March selected a heavy plastic pistol with an eleven-round magazine, nodded, and tucked it and some spare magazines into his coat. He also took some other tools – a lockpicking gun, a sensor detector, and a few other useful items. “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” said March.

  He climbed into the van and Dredger started the engine. The vehicle gave off a grating mechanical whine, perhaps from poor maintenance, or more likely from maintenance done with low-quality Rustari parts. Dredger backed the van out of the truck dock, turned around, took them to the street.

  March watched traffic as Dredger drove from the warehouses near the spaceport towards the grim monoliths of the city’s residential towers. Most of the vehicles on the roads were service vans or trucks hauling goods. Buses drove past, wider than usual to accommodate the Citizens’ electric carts and their android Companions. The sidewalks were full of Citizens and their Companions. The Citizens all wore the same drab, tent-like coveralls, while their Companions wore a variety of colorful, tight-fitting, and usually skimpy outfits.

  “Yeah,” said Dredger, “the Rusties are a hell of a sight, aren’t they? Like looking at horses that have never run a minute in their lives.”

  “You’re not Rustari?” said March.

  “Nah,” said Dredger. “Cam
e from a farm colony way out near Mercator. Dad wanted me to marry the neighbor’s daughter to get her father’s land. Course, the daughter made the typical female Citizen of Rustaril look like a beauty, and she had a temper to match. Got off-world at the first chance I could get, and I’ve been bouncing around ever since.”

  “Right,” said March. Based on some of those tattoos on his arms, some of Dredger’s work experience had been with pirate gangs. March wondered how he had wound up on Rustaril. But local branch chiefs had wide latitude to choose their own Delta Operatives, and a man who had been part of a pirate gang would know how to handle himself in a fight.

  “But I like it here.” Dredger grinned as he passed a bus. “By local standards, I’m downright handsome. Especially to the Administrator women – rough men are rare here, so they’ve got a taste for a fellow like me. Forbidden fruit and all that. All the women I want, so long as I’m not too picky. Of course, you have to handle them carefully, else they’ll complain to the Securitate that you’re politically regressive and showing counter-Renarchist tendencies.” He snorted. “Course, if they take a hit or two of the Sugar, not much bothers them at all. Though most Administrators stay away from the Sugar. But they drink like fish, let me tell you.”

  “You don’t use the Sugar?” said March.

  “Hell, no,” said Dredger. “Stuff rots your brains. A man in our line of work needs to keep his wits sharp.” He slowed down and made a right turn, driving down a street lined with massive apartment towers on either side. March checked the address and saw Philip Reimer’s apartment tower on the left. According to Tolox’s information, Reimer had lived on the nineteenth floor of the building.

  Dredger stopped in front of the NO PARKING signs along the curb.

  “Wait a moment,” said Dredger. “I need to bribe the building manager not to make trouble for us.” He reached behind his seat and picked up a bottle of liquor. “Also, to switch off the cameras on the nineteenth floor due to a technical malfunction.”

  March frowned. “That will leave a trail. Wouldn’t it be better to sneak in?”

  Dredger grinned again. “It is the Rustari way, my friend. The building manager is a low-level Administrator and bored out of his skull. If we don’t pay him his bribe, he’ll report us to the Securitate for whatever nonsense he can think up. If we pay him his bribe, we can do whatever we want so long as we don’t get him in trouble with his superiors.”

  “And he’ll shut off the cameras on the nineteenth floor,” said March.

  “Now you’re getting it,” said Dredger. He also picked up a package of beef jerky. Evidently, the building’s manager had specific tastes in bribes. “Pity equipment malfunctions are so common here.”

  He disappeared into the tower’s lobby. Five minutes later he returned with a disgusted expression on his face.

  “It didn’t go well?” said March, getting out of the van.

  “I paid too much,” said Dredger. “The security camera system in this building has been down for the last three years. They’re waiting on parts. Come on.”

  They walked into the lobby. When the building had first been constructed the lobby had been a fine example of Rustaril’s industrial aesthetic. A mural filled one wall, showing Rustari workers laboring in their factories and Rustari farmers in their fields, all of them looking joyful and focused while Paul Renarch looked on with approval.

  Things had gone downhill since then. Half the lobby’s lights were out, and the mural was cracked and peeling. Bags of garbage sat piled up against the walls, and the air smelled of rot and wet carpets. A Rustari woman sat in her electric cart near the manager’s office, the tube of a Sugar canister in her mouth as she hummed to herself. There was no graffiti, though March suspected that most of the Citizens could not work up the energy for active destruction.

  “Elevator?” said Dredger, gesturing at the row of dented metal doors on the far wall.

  March considered the general maintenance standards of Rustaril. “Stairs.”

  Dredger grunted in annoyance. “Bet you’re one of those irritating fellows who exercises for fun.”

  “Beats taking Sugar,” said March, pushing open the stairwell door.

  “No argument there.”

  They climbed to the nineteenth floor. The stairs were far cleaner than the lobby, likely because so few of the Citizens ever used them. On every landing windows looked over the street and the surrounding apartment towers. Dredger was wheezing a bit by the time they reached the nineteenth floor, though he didn’t complain.

  The corridor was deserted. From behind apartment doors came music or the sound of loud voices, likely entertainment videos streamed over the network. March came to Reimer’s apartment door and listened.

  There was nothing but silence on the other side.

  “I’ll go first,” said March, removing the lockpicking gun from the interior pocket of his coat. “If anything’s waiting for us, I’ll have a better chance of dealing with it.”

  “Won’t argue with that,” said Dredger. “I’ll keep lookout.”

  March went to work on the lock. Like nearly everything else on Rustaril, the quality was shoddy, and it only took the lockpicking gun three tries to undo the tumblers. March put away the lock gun, drew the printed plastic pistol, and pushed open the door, raising the gun to cover the door.

  Nothing moved, and no one raised the alarm.

  They both took a moment to don gloves and pull ski masks over their faces, which would prevent them from leaving fingerprints and hair. March stepped into the apartment, and Dredger followed him, closing the door behind them. It would have been useful for Dredger to keep watch outside, but an apartment door standing open would likely draw unwanted attention, even here.

  March scanned the apartment, and the first thing that caught his notice was the smell. It wasn’t pleasant, and it was a mixture of rotting garbage, cheap microwaved food, and body odor. March wondered if Reimer had ever cleaned once during his years here. Admittedly, that did not seem like the behavior of a man who would travel thousands of light years to murder Calaskaran junior officers.

  “Guess our boy Reimer never bothered to clean up,” said Dredger, his disgust plain. The ski mask made him look even more thuggish than usual.

  “No,” said March, and he walked into the living room.

  Moldering chaos dominated the room. The only light came from a pair of grimy windows overlooking the street below. The three main pieces of furniture were a couch, a massive wall-mounted monitor, and a cheap plastic desk holding a computer that looked as if it had been optimized for gaming. Both end tables next to the couch overflowed with empty plastic food containers, no doubt the source of the rotting smell. Dozens of empty cans of beer and energy drinks littered the desk and had fallen to the floor in small piles.

  A naked, headless corpse stood in the corner.

  March’s gun shifted in its direction before his brain caught up with his hand.

  “Reimer’s Companion,” said Dredger.

  “Yeah,” said March. “I was wondering what had happened to it.”

  The Companion was female, its artificial body shaped like an exaggerated female form. The designers had gone into great detail on various portions of its anatomy. Someone had ripped off the Companion’s head, and it lay at the android’s feet, eyes gazing at the ceiling. A tangled nest of wires and plastic cables dangled from the stump of the neck, along with the glistening synthetic muscles. A score of slashes marked the simulated flesh as if the Companion had been whipped with steel cables.

  Or metal legs like those that March had seen jutting from Reimer’s sides.

  “God,” muttered Dredger. “Looks like our boy had some anger issues.”

  “How hard would it be to rip off a Companion’s head?” said March.

  “Really hard,” said Dredger. “They’ve got a metal and carbon fiber skeleton. Normal human strength shouldn’t be able to do it.”

  “Reimer must have transformed here at least once,”
said March. Had there been witnesses? “Let’s check the bedroom.”

  Reimer’s bedroom was as much of a stinking mess as his living room. Discarded clothes carpeted the floor. March wondered if Reimer had ever done laundry, though no doubt the building’s laundry machines had been down for maintenance for years. More empty food containers and beverage cans stood clustered on the dresser and the nightstand, and next to the bed stood half a hundred empty metal canisters, some of them with a dried grayish-white sludge still coating the interior.

  Empty Sugar canisters.

  “Good God,” said Dredger. “What did he get up to with his Companion in here?”

  The bed had been shredded. The blankets had been torn to tatters, and something had carved deep slashes into the mattress. March stepped around a pile of dirty laundry and looked at the wall over the bed. The paint had been slashed and scratched as well.

  “It wasn’t his Companion,” said March. “And he ripped off his Companion’s head as well. When I killed Reimer, he had cybernetic limbs that looked like metal spider legs coming out of his sides.” March pointed at the bed. “He must have transformed here.”

  “Transformed?” said Dredger.

  “The scientists think his cybernetic implants were in a quantum state,” said March. “That meant he could shift between a cybernetic form and a more normal human appearance. The implants wouldn’t even show up on a security scan.”

  “Never heard of technology that can do that,” said Dredger.

  “Not many people have,” said March, thinking of the Great Elder Ones and their relics.

  “So,” said Dredger. “Where does a fine upstanding Rustari Citizen like Reimer get technology like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said March. “But none of his behavior matched that of a trained covert operative. I think he was just a dupe and had the implants installed without his knowledge.”

  Dredger snorted. “That’s major surgery. How does someone get cybernetic implants installed without realizing it?”

  “With a lot of drugs,” said March.