by Drew Wagar
The radar altimeter beeped abruptly and then gave a continuous tone.
“Visibility is less than fifty metres!” the first officer said in alarm. “Still can’t see the landing site, even though we’re on top of it!”
He keyed in the retro thrusters and they slowly descended, the beams of their landing lights focusing downwards, looking like hollow, ghostly cylinders of light supporting the slowly sinking ship. The first officer was now relying solely on his instruments. Finally the exposed gantry of their landing pad showed an outline. The Adder touched down gently in the middle with a slight jolt.
The Captain nodded to himself, pretty good… considering. Not an easy landing for anyone, let alone a rookie. “Good work, I’ll put an exceptional in your file when we get back.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
“You can stop calling me ‘Cap’ right now. Let’s do the post flight and off load.”
The Captain turned towards the rear of the Cabin where their enigmatic passenger was seated.
“Sir, we should be ready in… ”
The Captain looked in surprise. The passenger was already standing up, having removed his flight harness. He was positioned against the rear hatch door, directly beside the airlock. The Captain saw him entering an access code.
“Sir! You can’t access the… !”
Alarms suddenly sounded inside the compartment as the on board computer overrode the commlink.
“Warning! Inimical atmosphere detected! Environment suits must be worn prior to airlock egress!”
How the hell was he able to access the airlock code?
“What the hell! Hey!”
The Captain fumbled with his flight harness as the airlock door suddenly opened. The interior of the Adder was flooded instantly with a thick brown miasma. He felt his eyes burn as if he’d been splashed with acid. He felt his throat spasm and his muscles start to seize up. He vaguely saw his first officer vainly trying to grasp for a remlok survival mask secured on the cabin wall before collapsing back into his chair.
The Captain’s hands went to his throat as his vision failed. At least it was swift.
No… ..!
The Agent surveyed the scene after a couple of minutes and then attached a small device to the interior bulkhead of the Adder. He’d felt no remorse over his actions, he had dispensed with remorse a long time ago.. In his view his actions were motivated by a higher plan. Casualties were… unfortunate, but necessary. Witnesses were however… unacceptable.
He walked down the exit ramp and sealed the hatch behind him. Without a backward glance he walked swiftly away from the ship along the outstretched gantry towards an adjacent airlock leading into a large building. As he walked the thick mist swirled about him, swiftly obscuring the lone Adder. Inside the onyx environment suit he felt no discomfort. Nothing hindered his progress.
He approached the airlock, typing an access code. The doors parted and he walked inside, only then turning around and look back the way he had come. The Adder was obscured by the noisome fog. He clasped a small device in his hand and squeezed it gently.
Away in the mist, there was a flash of flame and the muffled bark of an explosion. Only a faint concussion registered within his suit. A few pieces of charred and blackened debris clattered along the gantry towards him. Then silence reigned again. The Agent tucked the document holder under his arm.
The airlock closed.
Inside, the Agent moved swiftly down the corridors within. A security droid’s sensors detected his approach and moved swiftly to intercept, multiple mechanical arms raising threateningly, with two incorporated hand blasters dramatically in evidence. The Agent slowed as the machine approached, whirring on a set of antigrav plates.
“Hold your position! Identify! Any attempt to flee will be punished by immediate extermination!” the machine prompted almost laconically, overlaid on a grating metallic rasp.
The Agent held up a small crystalline identity microdrive and gave it to the machine. It took it with a small reversible tool and spun it around, analysing it with a faint beam of laser light.
The machine abruptly lowered its arms and adopted a neutral posture.
“Root access granted. Ready to receive programming.”
The Agent produced another microdrive and inserted it into the machine’s appropriate input slot. There was a faint whirring and then the machine resumed its ready posture.
“Sensor glitch logged. No lifeforms detected. Resuming patrol.”
The machine whirred off down the corridor. The Agent moved silently on, in the opposite direction. He paused at a doorway to type in another access code. The door slid open.
“You took your time.”
Inside was a large, overweight man dressed in prison garb. His countenance was severe, a man not accustomed to being imprisoned. His face had been familiar across much of the Galcop hierarchy.
“It wasn’t the most straightforward assignment you’ve ever given me,” the Agent replied. “You’ve rated a category zero. Maximum security until the trial. Quite an achievement. It took me a week to unscramble your location.”
“I never doubted your abilities, though I am surprised by your price. Are you sure this is what you want? I doubt it’s what you think it is.”
“Let us proceed.”
“As you wish.”
The Agent took the document holder out from under his arm and opened it. Inside were two more microdrives and a single manilla folder, apparently made of paper. It was labelled with baroque, old fashioned lettering, detailing a single six letter word. There were two thumb marks on the outside edge.
The Agent was still encased in his environmental suit, but even had he not been he would have handled the folder with protective gloves, and for a good reason. Had he touched the document with his bare hands it would have immediately evaporated in a puff of gas and likely poisoned him into the bargain.
The prisoner took it from the Agent. He was not wearing gloves. The document remained unaffected.
“You’re absolutely sure about this?”
“Our deal remains exactly as we agreed; this file and the names.”
“I get a ship and the microdrives as we agreed?”
The Agent handed the two microdrive cartridges to the prisoner.
“Take your pick. I think you’ll appreciate both,” the Agent said. “One is a retired civil servant from Chart Three, a few minor scrapes, plenty of money, some useful connections, some awards. The other is a honoury doctorate, a member of several out-world quangos, enough to keep you busy. I’ve arranged the surgery, only the best, of course. Instructions enclosed. There is an Ophidian Yacht waiting outside on gantry sixteen and the sentinel guards have been dealt with.”
The prisoner nodded, considering.
“So. Are you going to look for it yourself?”
“That is my business.”
“You can tell me that at least.”
“I beg to differ. From now on you’re no longer my employer. We owe each other nothing. You no longer have authority. I have taken over this assignment.”
“So, after all these years I don’t even get to see your face.”
“It’s better this way.”
“You’d have to kill me.”
“Yes.” The Agent was matter of fact.
“And what is to prevent you from killing me the moment you get what you want?”
“We entered into a contract, my word is my guarantee and my bond.”
The prisoner considered this. “Yes, you’ve proved you’re a man of your word. Your reputation means a lot to you. They refer to you as the gentleman assassin.”
“My reputation is everything.”
“With a perfect hit rate,” the prisoner continued, unable to pass up an opportunity to needle his liberator, “apart from one incident.”
The Agent drew back slightly, his voice tightening. “The SuperCobra was crippled, effectively destroyed. The assignment was completed.”
“At much perso
nal cost I understand, the damage to your ship… ”
“Inconsequential. It has been repaired.”
“Still, it was a near thing by all accounts,” the prisoner persisted. “Fortunate you were able to witch out in time. A worthy opponent it would seem.”
“Indeed.”
“My sources tell me the pilot was a lower class trader girl with delusions of grandeur. Rather embarrassing for you, to be defeated by the likes of her? She doesn’t even merit an ‘Elite’ rating apparently.”
The Agent paused, as if deciding how best to answer. The prisoner grinned inwardly at having riled his faceless interlocutor.
“Her piloting skills were my concern, and they were… considerable.”
The prisoner smiled, and turned the manilla folder around in his hands. He pressed his thumb against the outside corner edge. It glowed green momentarily.
“Galcop Military Chief of Staff, identity confirmed. Access granted,” a voice said, issuing from the folder.
“Transfer of access and ownership rights to next identity trace,” the Chief said quietly. “No acknowledgement.”
The Agent removed a glove and pressed a thumb against the folder. The Chief noted that the hand that emerged appeared human.
The folder glowed, but responded in no other fashion.
The Agent quickly took the folder, closed it and returned it to his document holder.
“Now the names.”
The Chief sighed. “A death warrant by any other name.”
“The price of freedom, in your case. You know it is necessary.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“The names,” the Agent said remorselessly.
“There are four; Mahl Triboner, Presidential aide.”
The Agent nodded. “I suspected as much.”
“My assistant, Janu Tinuviel, secretary to the military consortium on Zadies.”
Inside his suit, the agent raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You confided in her? A pity, a remarkably talented woman.”
“Make it quick, for her at least.”
“I am always quick.”
The Chief continued: “Tenim Neseva, adjunct to Galcop security.”
The Agent passed no comment.
“Last but not least, Zerz Furvel. I believe you’ve had dealings with him before.”
“Galcop’s erstwhile chief technician,” the Agent said, almost amused. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll look for the headlines.”
The Agent smiled wanly. “Indeed. I must take my leave now. A pleasure, as always.”
The Agent strode back towards the landing gantries. The ship the Adder's Captain had failed to recognise was not a wreck, though it had come close to being one in the past. Whilst repaired, the port engine apparently bore the marks of heavy laser fire. It would have been a simple job to repaint the affected sections and re-panel the exterior, but the Agent had sufficed with a functional repair only. It remained a scar on the otherwise pristine hull; a scar on his reputation.
He had taken time to identify the individual behind the damage dealt to both him and his ship. The identity of the attacker had indeed surprised him. He had expected a hired hand, an Elite combateer from one of the premier flight schools. Instead it was a young woman, a mere trader with no known military training with a rating no better than ‘Dangerous’. He had underestimated her twice, and she’d almost brought him down. He would not underestimate her again. They would meet when the time was right, and there would be retribution. She would suffer a humiliating scar by his hand this time.
The Agent climbed aboard his ship, touching the smooth flanks almost with affection. The airlock closed behind him and he gratefully removed the environmental suit he’d been wearing for almost four days.
The ship’s navigation lights illuminated and the engines began to prime for take off, the distinctive whine of the two ramjet drives echoing around the landing pad. The lights illuminated a small inconsequential name plate, just under the bow.
Falchion.
Other than that the ship was completely unadorned; a uniform pure white, save the port engine scar.
It rose, gracefully balanced and extended its engines to flight configuration. Still rare in Galcop space, there was no mistaking the predatory outline of an Imperial Courier.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
“… We interrupt our scheduled programming to bring you breaking news! Mahl Triboner, close confident, aide and friend of the Galactic Co-operative President himself, was found dead this morning inside his official state mansion on his home planet of Ontimaxe!
“Mahl was found by staff in the early hours of this morning, galactic mean time.
“Initial reports appear to indicate some kind of systemic nanobot failure, though this has been thrown into rampant speculation by contrary reports of his previous excellent health and young age. Representatives from the medical firm that supplied the nanobots – HealthExtreme – were unavailable for comment. Forensic teams have closed off the mansion and are continuing their investigation as we speak.
“It is believed that there is no evidence of a forced entry to the mansion but that this hasn’t been ruled out of question at this time, leading to speculation that the investigation may have uncovered something much more sinister.
“ What really happened to Mahl? Truth is: we don’t know. This is Anna Mereso, for the Tionisla Chronicle, wideband channel three-eight-five-point-two…”
Groove (P. A. to his mates, for reasons that were never explained fully) was one of the junior members of the forensic team investigating Mahl Triboner’s death. He was freshly out of sim training academy, recently qualified, and newly certified on communications analysis and system security.
He was tasked with digging into the surveillance systems dotted all around Mahl’s extensive mansion. He’d ended up in the drawing room, where Mahl’s desiccated corpse grinned hideously from its seated position behind a large oak desk. He’d never seen a dead body before; it was seriously kelvin!
The mansion was extremely impressive. With five floors and four wings, it was constructed almost entirely out of different varieties of marble, with enormous panelled windows, Romanesque pillars and flooring covered in expensive and exotic rugs. There were a number of virtually priceless works of art adorning the walls; statues, sculptures and paintings. They all combined to give the impression of exquisite taste combined with a stupendous credit balance.
Groove whistled. What he wouldn’t give to have just a tenth of that money! He wondered what would happen to it all now Mahl was a corpse.
Maybe some lucky niece or nephew, assuming they have a good alibi of course! Ha!
Two older men were standing over him. One was an inspector with the Galcop security service, the other, an incident investigator from some high level government bureau. Neither of them seemed enthused by the dead body.
Groove had to admit it was pretty grotesque. According to what he had overheard, somehow all the nanobots in Mahl’s body had simultaneously gone berserk.
Nanobot injection was a common treatment for the rich and super rich. It cost around a million credits or so under license, and required expensive annual top-ups. Treatments varied depending on your credit balance, but it generally involved injecting uncounted numbers of tiny robots into the bloodstream, whereupon they took up station in every part of your body, fixing damage both inside and outside almost the moment it occurred.
Life expectancy rose from the Galactic mean of about one hundred and twenty years, to a staggering two hundred – and you stayed looking young virtually throughout. Even better, you could ‘customise’ your body (within sensible parameters was recommended) subtly changing shape, increasing muscle tone and so on. You could be fantastic looking for decades. Such was the demand that only those with serious credit balances could afford it, and it was pretty much de rigueur if you wanted to be taken seriously in the top flight social circles.
The only downside
was that when you did eventually die, you pretty much disintegrated on the spot. However, this was monitored in advance, and most nanobot vendors provided an extremely comprehensive ‘after-care’ service. Groove knew a couple of the techies who worked at HealthExtreme; apparent it was called the “Dust Buster” department.
In Mahl’s case though, he was only fifty five. Something had gone wrong with the nanobots, or they’d been reprogrammed somehow. Rather than keep his internals operating at peak efficiency they’d literally consumed him from the inside out, apparently within the space of a few minutes.
Nice. What a way to go…
Groove was glad he wasn’t on the post mortem team though. No guarantee there weren’t some of the rogue nanobots still floating about. Tough break for somebody.
“What have you got?” the inspector snapped, bringing Groove’s mind back to his job.
“A video fragment sir, it’s pretty badly corrupted, somebody did a pretty good job of deleting it.”
“Where’s it from?”
“Right here in this room.”
“No prak! Let’s see it.”
Groove pressed a couple of buttons on his attached console.
The video was rolling and jumping, crashing with static and barely decipherable.
“Can’t you tidy it up a bit?”
“Give me a moment.” Groove adjusted some parameters. “I’ve got some pull on the v-sync, if I can de-interlace the file fragments… ”
The video juddered and stuttered.
“Nope, let’s go with h-sync and apply one of my pet algorithms, got to get the right decoder, hang on… ”
The inspector and the investigator exchanged a significant look.
Bloody Techies! Just because they know some new tech inside and out…
Suddenly the video cleared. The inspector and investigator exchanged a second look, impressed despite themselves, and leant in closer.
“There it is,” Groove said, smugly.
“Play it from the top.”
“It’s not complete, it’s a short section, only a few seconds. Here we go… ”
Groove hit a button. The screen crackled and hissed, and then two figures could be made out, one on either side of a desk. It was the same desk that Mahl Triboner was currently sitting behind. In the video he was still sitting behind it, somewhat more animated than he currently was capable of being.
