Target of Opportunity

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  In other words, it was owned by Jacob Bannson, one of the most powerful tycoons in The Republic.

  The office featured a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet and a man in his thirties who greeted Reo with a sneer. He motioned for Reo to close the door and he did, then took the seat opposite the desk. The man sitting across from him did not have the look of a businessman running a trade company. A long scar ran horizontally across his forehead. His red hair was neatly cut, but his complexion was pockmarked and showed signs of age and experience beyond his years. His name was Rutger Chaffee, but he insisted Reo use his nickname, Cut-Throat. Captain was the other title he wore; Captain of Chaffee’s Cut-Throats. It seemed there was something about being one of Bannson’s people that required you to have a threatening nickname.

  “So, Reo, I’d offer you a drink, but you can afford your own, especially with what our employer is paying you.” Chaffee poured himself a drink from a bottle he kept in his desk. The air stung slightly of whiskey as he took a gulp. “I take it you have information on ComStar’s timetable?”

  He nodded. “Yes. They’re going to try to fire up the new core in two days.”

  Chaffee frowned. “I take it they think it’s going to work, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that kid from Terra, the one you’ve been pumping. He’s sure that the new core will work, too?”

  Reo shrugged. “He says so. Tucker’s smart, really smart. I think they might just pull it off this time.”

  “Not good,” Chaffee said taking another gulp of his whiskey. “Mr. Bannson is not going to be happy with that. How about if I have the kid killed? Will that make a difference?”

  Reo knew he should say yes, but didn’t. “I doubt it. Why would Mr. Bannson care if the HPG is up and running or not?”

  Chaffee’s chair squeaked as he rolled it back enough to pull out the whiskey and pour himself another two or three shots worth, slopping it into his glass. “We’re one of his little hiding holes. We’ve smuggled about a company’s worth of hardware and mercenaries on-planet. He picked Wyatt as a rabbit hole because it had dropped off the star atlases and was isolated from the rest of The Republic. Once that HPG goes on-line, this planet is likely to draw a lot of attention. Worlds that get their HPGs working tend to attract—well, let’s call ’em unwanted visitors.”

  Jacob Bannson was a powerhouse in The Republic. His company had vast holdings, mostly in Prefectures IV and V. The Liao incursion into The Republic seemed to have dealt a couple of solid cards into his hand, but Bannson was the type of man who hedged his bets. He had several worlds like Wyatt set up as safehouses. He kept discreet (military) forces on his payroll on each planet to help with his “aggressive business plans,” and men like Reo to gather intelligence and assist him with specific missions.

  “So do you think we’ll have to move operations to another planet?” Reo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chaffee said. “It’s possible. But Mr. Bannson also told me to keep my eyes open for opportunities that he can exploit. Once we have HPG communications reestablished, he may have new orders for me. I do know this much: I’m not in the mood for a change of government.”

  Reo grinned. “You like The Republic of the Sphere so much?”

  “It’s weak,” Chaffee replied. “I like that. I also like the devil I know versus the devil I don’t. My forces are ready for anything. I’d be willing to go so far as to cripple the local militia if it’s to our advantage.” He was deadly serious. What little Reo had learned of him indicated that his family boasted military leaders from as far back as the FedCom Civil War, and Cut-Throat was known to be ruthless—a potent combination.

  “So,” Reo pressed, “do you or the boss have any other missions for me?”

  “Keep your eyes on what ComStar is up to,” Chaffee said. “Look for opportunities. If there’s a way to derail their start-up attempts, get in contact with me.”

  Reo rose to his feet. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  “You’ll do more than that,” Chaffee said with a grim smile. “You’ll do whatever I tell you.”

  * * *

  Tucker walked with his sister in Kinross’ small museum, one of the community’s few cultural attractions. He had hoped to hook up with Reo for dinner as usual, but his friend had other commitments.

  Occupying nearly the entire ceiling of the museum was a massive flying wing. Supported by metal struts that ran to the ground and heavy cables, the aerospace fighter was an impressive sight. Tucker stood under it gazing up, his mouth hanging open.

  “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Patricia said. “It’s a Chippewa-class fighter. The only one on the planet, I think.”

  “I’ve read about them,” Tucker said. “They carried enough missiles to take out a BattleMech in a single strafing run.”

  Patricia looked up at the flying wing with respect. “It’s sad when you think of it. That fighter is probably what brought about the destruction of so much of what was Wyatt.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Bowie plant here on Wyatt made those fighters during the Succession Wars. Naturally, the Word of Blake took out the plant in the first attack wave of the Jihad. They used three nuclear weapons, frying the plant with the first one. Then they used the other two just for good measure. The old capital city, Hartsburg, butted up against one side of the plant compound. My research says that the city burned in a wave of radioactive fire. Close to a half million people were killed in the first hours of the Jihad—all because of that fighter.”

  “I take it your research is going well?” Tucker replied, looking at the kiosk that provided information on the fighter.

  “Yes and no. So many records have been lost during the war, it makes my research quite tricky,” she replied. “I take it from what I heard today that you’re doing quite well, though.”

  “That depends,” Tucker replied with a coy smile. “What did you hear?”

  “The compound is a pretty tight little community. I heard that the new core will be ready to try in just a few days. I think congratulations are in order.” She slipped one arm around him and hugged his waist.

  “Don’t break open the champagne just yet. Like I told Reo last evening, there’s about a half-million things that can go wrong. And our beloved demi-precentor breathing down my neck doesn’t make my work any easier.”

  The mention of Reo caused Patricia to wince slightly. “Tucker, about Reo . . .”

  “Not again, Patricia,” he said, waving his hand. We’ve had this discussion before. I’m a big boy now. Out loud, the words came out better. “I choose my own friends.”

  “I’m just looking out for you,” she replied. “He has a bad history. The man’s an outcast, even among the Knights who were his friends. Hanging around with him is not going to help your career.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but Reo’s just a friend.”

  “You need to be careful what you say to him,” she warned in a tone that reminded Tucker of their mother’s voice. “He’s supposedly on the payroll of Jacob Bannson.”

  “Bannson’s on the other side of The Republic,” Tucker countered. “And even if he is, which I doubt, I’m not too worried. We have a Knight Errant practically camping out in our compound. If he really was dangerous, she’d take care of him.” He wasn’t worried. Reo didn’t have the technological background necessary to understand most of what Tucker talked about, let alone use it. Anything he told him would be of no use to anyone who was not an expert on HPG communications. In other words, it was only of use to ComStar itself.

  The mention of Alexi Holt only made his sister roll her eyes. “The last thing that ComStar needs is a Knight Errant sticking her nose into our business,” she said angrily. “I don’t trust this new direction The Republic seems intent on pursuing . . . having Knights involved with our decisions concerning the network.”

  Tucker nodded. He held a neutral position on Knight Holt. She had spoken to him several times and seemed friendly, no
t prodding or nosey, as others at the ComStar compound had painted her. Perhaps there was another side to her that he wasn’t seeing? That thought gave him pause. That was possible. Shoot, there was a side of him that even his sister didn’t know. For example, he had not told her that he was writing an algorithm to fine-tune the HPG harmonics if the core initialization started to go wrong. He knew Patricia quite well. She was like the demi-precentor, and would not approve of him working outside the standard procedures. He finally said, “Knight Holt’s always been nice to me.”

  “Of course she is,” Patricia said, tucking her hand under his elbow. “She knows the same thing that I do. You’re important here. Tucker, you’re the future of ComStar, you and people like you. ComStar is, well, like your family . . . especially for us Harwells. I’m not just saying that because I’m your sister. If anyone is going to help get the HPG net back up, it’s you.”

  He blushed and grinned. “So you don’t like Reo Jones; you don’t like Knight Holt. You know our demi is a nutcase more worried about his career than doing the job right. Is there anyone I can trust, sis?”

  Patricia smiled and squeezed his arm. “You can always trust family, Tucker.”

  8

  ComStar Compound

  Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  5 May 3135

  Tucker was sweating in the air-conditioned control room. He unbuttoned his white lab jacket and adjusted his eyeglasses on his long nose. No pressure. Just everyone on the planet and the entire ComStar organization back on Terra counting on you . . . . His attempt to mentally make light of the situation didn’t break the tension. He gripped the armrests of the hot seat and gave the main control display another careful inspection. The indicators were all in the green, across the board.

  He glanced around the room, not at the people filling it, but at the room itself. Tucker had spent a lot of time in this control room and had come to love it. Yes, it was Demi-Precentor Faulk’s domain, but at the same time it was his. Here, he had applied all that he had learned. Within these centuries-old walls, his team had massaged the new HPG core to life. It had taken long hours and countless tests and adjustments, but they were now as ready as they would ever be. The last two days had produced only minuscule improvements to the new core.

  But as he returned his gaze to the main control board, he couldn’t help but worry.

  The last HPG core also had tested out perfectly. It had fired up fine, then a cascade began and it had burned out in a matter of minutes. Am I overlooking something? It nagged him to sleep each night. They went down this same path before and the core blew. Is the same thing going to happen to me?

  No.

  Unconsciously, he patted his right lab coat pocket, feeling the tiny silver disk he had put there. It had taken all his down time, writing the program he had based loosely on the chants he had played hundreds of times. He needed to keep the autoloading program at his fingertips. It represented his fallback plan, a last-ditch tool, if he needed it. If the core began to cascade, he would have only two minutes to slot the program and use it to tune the HPG harmonics. Two minutes.

  Someone moved into his peripheral vision off to his left. It was Knight Errant Holt, who had been like a shadow the past few days in the control room. She was smiling, projecting a sense of calm that he wanted to cling to. Somewhere outside the room, watching on a monitor, was his sister Patricia, and he wished that she could be with him, too.

  “Good luck, Mr. Harwell. From what I’ve seen, you and your team have done everything you could to make this a success.” Holt smiled again and stepped away. I needed that. Though I wonder what she would say if she knew I had that program in my pocket?

  His palms were sweaty. He ran both hands through his hair, not caring that he was making his normally untidy hair look even worse. Tucker took off his glasses and pocketed them.

  He heard the footsteps of the demi-precentor approaching, and the man stopped beside Tucker and put his hand on the armrest of the hot seat. Faulk’s face was blank of all emotions except the stern anger that he seemed to always be bottling up. Tucker hoped he would say nothing, since he had offered the team zero support up to this point. But Faulk was not going to be quiet.

  “Mr. Harwell,” he began slowly. Tucker could smell the man’s morning cup of coffee on his breath as he spoke. “It appears that the board is green. In your opinion, are we ready to proceed?”

  Tucker glanced over at Adept Kursk, who gave him a single nod. He darted his eyes once again to the main control board, then looked at the demi-precentor. “Yes, sir, everything from the team indicates we’re in the green.”

  “Very well.” Then Faulk bent his head slightly forward and spoke just above a whisper. “Remember this, Mr. Harwell. That seat you’re sitting in is mine. If this core goes active as planned, fine. If not, I’ll make sure that you are hung out to dry for the failure. Do we have an understanding?”

  Tucker nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand completely.” His skin tightened at the threat. I understand that you’re more worried about your position here than the success of this project. He turned away and gritted his teeth. The last thing I needed was him trying to motivate me with a kick in the ass.

  He settled back in the chair. “All right then. We are at fifty percent power. I need a go, no-go for primary HPG initiation. Flux control?”

  “Flux is go,” Paula Kursk said from her position.

  “Tolerance?”

  “Power and flow are go,” replied Adept Fowler.

  “Transmission control?”

  Morial hesitated for a second with a last check of her board. “Test packets and pings loaded. Hot seat, transmission is a go.”

  “Buffering?”

  “Receiver array and storage is green. Good to go,” replied another technician from behind him.

  That was it. Everything showed ready to go. Tucker glanced up at the demi-precentor at his side, but Faulk did not even look down at him. Hung out to dry, then. The decision was his to make, and his alone.

  “Start sequence alpha one . . . engage.”

  There was a throbbing under his feet as the power flow from the fusion reactor pulsed through the facility. The control board in front of him seemed to come alive, bars and graphic readouts all in the green, moving and growing in front of him. It seemed to be going as planned.

  “We’re at seventy-five percent,” said Paula Kursk.

  Better than in the simulations. He found himself clenching the armrests with sticky hands. As much as he wanted to relax, he couldn’t.

  “Full power,” Kursk said a half-minute later.

  Tucker nodded. Good. He wasn’t going to need the fall-back in his pocket. “Stand by for test packet release,” he said.

  Suddenly a green bar on his display flashed to yellow. Before he could ask, Kursk spoke, this time with concern in her voice. “Flux increase in the primary coil. Seven percent and climbing.”

  “Increase beta coil power levels four megajoules.”

  He stared at the display. The yellow bar stopped growing for a moment. He started to breathe out a sigh of relief, but then he saw it start to creep forward. Paula’s voice had an even crisper tempo. “The variance in the core is growing. I’ve increased to ten megajoules.”

  “Test packet release,” said Morial from her console.

  Cascade. It was happening again. Just like the last core. Shutting down would take too long. It would fry the new core.

  “Mr. Harwell . . .” Demi-Precentor Faulk’s voice at his side actually held some concern.

  Tucker rose to his feet, and in one long stride reached the control station in front of him. He pulled the program disk from his pocket and jammed it into the drive. “Paula, watch the beta coil. When you see the variance drop, manually bring down the power flow so that we don’t fry it.”

  “On it,” she replied, her voice nervous. This was not something he had walked them through.

  “Harwell . . .” Faulk’s ten
se voice rose from behind him.

  His fingers danced on the keyboard with a speed and force that he didn’t know he could achieve. The program loaded quickly and the dialogue window popped up in front of him. The harmonic pulse that it would run would tune the core, but part of this was him manually adjusting the pulse as the program did its work.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Faulk, who was crowding his right shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” asked Alexi Holt, moving in on his left side. He ignored both of them. His program became his entire universe.

  “Variance is about to cross the red line,” Kursk called out.

  “You’ve got to shut this core down,” Faulk said, reaching for the keyboard. Tucker instinctively shifted his entire body to block his superior’s reach, while his fingers continued to attack the keyboard. “Stand by,” he said, loud enough for his team to hear. His own ears were pounding with the sound of his heart beating.

  Then he saw it on the display in front of him. Yes. It was so simple. The program had narrowed the scope of the new frequency. He watched the wave line on the display and his fingers danced through the adjustments that were required. The adepts who had written that chant were smarter than we knew. The wave line seemed to flatten slightly as his fingers continued to fly across the keys. Then suddenly, almost as if something had gone wrong, the wave became a flat string of light. Yellow became green in the background of his program.