Exodus: Empires at War: Book 9: Second Front

by Doug Dandridge

  Might as well wait and see what they want, he thought with a cruel smile on his face, his eyes set on the door, which had a more complicated locking system than they would have believed. First, he raised his helmet and engaged the invisibility field of his suit. A pair of probes shot from the back and impacted the wall, digging in and contacting the cooling duct he had known was there. Now ninety-five percent of his generated heat was being shuffled into the duct. As long as he made sure the intruders didn’t get a good look at those wires or the back of his suit, there was a very good chance they would not detect him on infrared either.

  With a thought through his implant he disengaged the higher functions of the lock, turning the mechanism into a normal lock of Imperial tech level, such as would be found on any ordinary apartment. Moments later the door buzzed open, and a man with a large particle beam rifle rushed in, followed by three others with what appeared to be magrail pistols.

  “Fan out and check the apartment,” said one of the men, waving a pistol that was almost the size of a carbine. “Franz, you stay by the door. I want your firepower close in case he tries something stupid.”

  Angel didn’t know these people, but he was sure they were not police or Imperial military. The low grade armor they were carrying, along with the weapons, screamed hood in his mind. Not common criminals, no, more like mob hitmen. And he was pretty sure they had not come here to talk to him about completing his mission. Someone wanted him gone, and they thought this was sufficient force to do the job. More fools they.

  Two of the men walked past in crouches, weapons at the ready, both going into the hallway that led to the single bedroom and bathroom. The leader moved toward the kitchen, while the man with the particle beam pushed the door closed and put his back against it. That man was the greatest threat, with a weapon that could burn through Angel’s armor in a moment. Not meaning that he wanted to be hit by the magrail weapons, which could, with luck, still put a projectile into his body.

  “He’s not here,” yelled one of the men from the hallway, followed by the same from the other thug.

  “He’s got to be here,” called back the leader. “We have vid of him coming into the building, and nothing on sensors of him leaving.”

  The man closed his eyes, the sign of a link, and shook his head a moment later. “The boys outside didn’t see him leave, even in that fancy stealth package of his.”

  That’s because I didn’t fly out of here, you moron, thought Angel. Even with a low heat signature, his grabbers would still give off enough heat to be picked up at close range. Standing here he didn’t have that problem, with only his body heat and the invisibility field to deal with, and a convenient heat sink behind him.

  Taking a quiet step to the rear he put his own back against the wall, his eyes locked on the mobster by the door. With a thought he powered up his own particle beam, hoping that the man with the similar weapon didn’t notice the vibration or heat signature of the rifle as it spun its proton pack up. The noise was not much, not with the other men stomping around the apartment, and he doubted the other man heard it, even if he was listening with his suit pickups. The heat would be another matter.

  “The Countess isn’t going to like this,” said one of the men from down the hall.

  “You dolt,” hissed the leader. “You know better that to use her name.”

  “And that’s all I need to know,” said Angel as he pulled the trigger on his rifle, sending an angry red beam that filled the room with the vibrations of a thousand angry insects. The beam seemed to instantaneously link the barrel of his rifle with the torso of the thug. The vapor from the suit spewed into the air, followed a microsecond later by the reddish mist of a vaporizing human chest region.

  The gunman was dead in an instant, the heat from the blast rising up through his body to fry his brain before he even realized what had happened. The particle beam fell with a clatter to the ground, followed by the body.

  “He’s in here,” yelled out the leader, firing some shots from his magrail on random vectors. One round cracked by Angel’s head, and he quickly brought his rifle up to his shoulder and snapped off a quick burst. He wanted this one alive, for the moment, and hit the gun hand with pinpoint accuracy, vaporizing the pistol and the hand up to mere centimeters below the elbow. The leader screamed out in agony and dropped to his knees.

  There was no guarantee that the leader would survive his wound, though the suit he was wearing would help with survival.

  The other two men came running from the hall yelling, waving their weapons, but otherwise in an uncoordinated a fashion as they could, both coming on with no cover or concealment. A quick burst of protons and both of those men would trouble him no more.

  “If you want to live, tell me,” he said to the leader, looking down at him, “who sent you after me?”

  “I, don’t know,” groaned the man, grimacing in pain. “You took off my hand, you son of a bitch.”

  “You can grow back a hand. If you don’t answer me with something I want to know, you’ll get to see if you can grow a new head.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment. They sprung open in wide alarm.

  “All of your coms are being blocked,” said Angel, looking down on the man like he was some kind of slug smashed onto the floor. “That’s what you get for using such outdated electronics. Next time, you might want to invest in some upgrades before you try to take on someone like myself. Now answer my question.”

  “All I know is that she’s called the Countess,” said the man through agony gritted teeth. “I don’t know what she’s the countess of, only that she’s some big shot in the government. And that she paid the boss well for his services.”

  “To come and kill me,” said Angel, glaring down at the man, his hands tight on his weapon.

  The man cringed, closing his eyes, sure that he was dead. Angel was tempted, but the man had told him what he knew, and he had promised him his life

  “If I ever see you again, you’re dead,” said Angel, starting to turn on his heel, stopping in mid-motion. “Remember the pain you are in. I will make sure that when you die this will pale in comparison.”

  The hallway was clear, which surprised the Assassin. He would have stationed some men outside the apartment to catch the target if it tried to escape. Which meant they didn’t have a lot of manpower along. He knew they had people outside, but if he had to bet, they would be stationed near his apartment, on the hundredth floor of the two hundred story building. There wouldn’t be any near the top. He would take that bet. And if he lost it, he thought he could still fight his way through two or three people equipped with what they had.

  His next hideout was already chosen by the time he had reached the rooftop of the building. It would only be a temporary refuge, of course. He had a com to make, and even with his tech he would trust the people he was going to contact to be able to track him down, in time.

  * * *

  “We have received a message from the assassin, your Majesty,” reported Director Ekaterina Sergiov, her serious face looking out from the holo.

  “Were you able to locate him from his com?” asked Sean. The IIA had the best in cutting edge com tech, including the ability to track signals through numerous cutouts. Of course, this guy has tech beyond what we’re used to dealing with, probably as good as anything we have in R and D. How he had that tech was a question in and of itself.

  “We did, your majesty, but he was already gone by that time,” said the Director. “But our electronic intelligence experts think that the only reason we found the point of origin of his transmission was because he wanted us to find it, and quickly. He only went through a score of cutouts, when he was capable of sending the signal through thousands.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Because he left some information that verified he was who he said he was, where we could find it. Then took off to another hideout.”

  “So you were able to verify that this was in fact the man w
e are after?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” said Sergiov with a grimace. “It definitely was our man, though he didn’t admit to being Sergio Martinez. And he promised to not make another attempt.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I tend to believe him, since he didn’t have to contact us at all,” said Sergiov. “Does that mean I think we should stop looking for him, or take the chance that there will be no more attempts on yours or the Empress’ lives? No. We will continue the manhunt, and I promise that if it is humanly possible, we will apprehend him.”

  “And why did he contact you, Director? Just to promise that he would be a good boy from now on?”

  “No, your Majesty. To give us information about the person who employed him. Someone he called the Countess. And that, according to our boy, is basically all that he knows.”

  “The Countess,” said Sean, his mind immediately going to the one person with that title he knew meant him harm.

  “That title fits almost ten thousand people in the Empire, your Majesty,” cautioned Sergiov. “We can’t jump to conclusions here.”

  “No,” said Sean, nodding. “What we can do is put some of your best people on Zhee, and make sure that she isn’t the person we are looking for. I will contact the Chief Justice and get a surveillance warrant of her office and house.”

  Sean thought about it for a moment. It was horrible that a member of his government, even if they were a member of the opposition party of Parliament, would resort to assassination to gain position. And to do what? Raise another puppet to the throne that they could control. Even in time of peace that was considered high treason. In time of war, such as now, it rose to another level entirely.

  “Get your people in place, and have them set surveillance, at my order. I will see to it that we have the legal decrees in place before you start your surveillance.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  What connects two thousand years of genocide? Too much power in too few hands.

  Simon Wiesenthal.

  NEW EARTH MAY 20TH, 1002.

  The capital city was on the smallish side to those who were used to Capitulum. There were said to be over six billion beings on this moon, so it was expected that the capital, which was normally the largest city on any world, would be of at least a hundred million people. Instead, it was a sprawling complex of parks and low buildings which could accommodate a little over ten million at most. And there were very few of the Klavarta, the engineered humans, among the inhabitants.

  “And I’m betting that large metropolis to the north is the home of almost exclusively Klavarta,” said Commander Gauroi Laaksonen, the leader of this grouping of twenty crew who were availing themselves to the hospitality of the city, while hopefully gathering some intelligence.

  “That thing could house what, a couple of hundred million?” asked Major Briggs, who was also along with this party. “And almost none of the subspecies in this city, with the exception of those Police.”

  Laaksonen grunted as he looked over at a couple of warrior subspecies of the Klavarta. They were dressed in black uniforms, with truncheons and stunners on their belts. They seemed to be everywhere, in pairs or greater. Wherever the Imperials turned. Or they were shadowing the Imperials, so that it only appeared that they were everywhere? No, thought the Executive Officer of the Nina as he looked over at a rooftop garden a couple of hundred meters away, where a number of Pure humans were lounging, and a pair of the Klavarta policemen stood watch. It’s like they’re afraid of their own creations, and have a special force of them to protect them from the creatures whom they built to fight their war.

  “It reminds me of something I read about in a class on old Earth history,” said Gunnery Sergeant Marta Janowitz, one of Brigg’s platoon sergeants. “I think the word was Apartheid.”

  “That’s an ugly sounding word,” said Petty Officer First Bjorn Nordstrom. “What’s it mean”

  “I read some texts about that period in Earth’s history, Sergeant,” said Laaksonen, grimacing. “About South Africa, and how they segregated their society by skin color.”

  “Sounds barbaric,” said Nordstrom, shaking his head. “Why the hell would they do something like that?”

  “One group thought they were superior to the other, the Europeans who moved in and displaced the native Africans as the dominant culture,” said Janowitz, her face a scowl. “They had superior tech, which gave them an initial advantage they didn’t give up for centuries, when the rest of the world started calling for the end of the system.”

  “So, while Johannesburg, the all white city, was well known around the world, most people had no idea that Soweto, the more or less ghetto city for black workers, was many times larger.” Laaksonen shook his head again. “At least we don’t have to deal with those kind of prejudices anymore. But these people seem to have created their own subclass to look down on.”

  “And why would any intelligent creature put up with being treated as a subclass?” asked Briggs, turning to look at one of the superscrapers that rose in the distance from the edge of that ghetto.

  “They were raised to believe in the system,” said Laaksonen, following the Major’s gaze. “And they are most probably under constant surveillance, from above and below. Any questioning of authority will bring down the iron boot of that authority. And, of course, they have the threat of the Cacas to keep them focused. Nothing like a bogeyman to take the pressure off.”

  “But, the Cacas are a very real threat, aren’t they” asked Janowitz.

  “And that doesn’t mean they can’t use a real threat,” said the Exec. “So much the better.”

  “And we’re looking to make an alliance with these people?” asked Janowitz.

  “We really don’t need to be talking about this out in the open,” cautioned Laaksonen, looking around for a moment, then back at the Gunnery Sergeant. “We are here to observe. This discussion can wait until we get back to the ship. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” came back the acknowledgements.

  “Why don’t we see if we can get something to eat?” asked Major Briggs. “I know you navy pukes don’t do any real work, so you don’t really get hungry, but this Marine is starving.”

  “All you grunts do is hitch a ride on the ships we work,” said Laaksonen with a laugh. “But I know this spacehead is hungry as well.” He looked up the street that was empty of the blinking signs one would normally see on a street in one of the many commercial districts. There were, however, many more subdued wooden signs, announcing shops, and, in a few cases, bars, pubs or restaurants. “How about that place?” The Exec pointed at a sign that stated it was the Wandering Earthling.

  There was some argument, with a few wishing to go to one with the name of the Fatted Calf. Laaksonen was not willing to let the party split up, so he made a command decision. “By my order we will go to the Wandering Earthling. And every man and woman jack is ordered to enjoy their meal.”

  The Exec looked in the shop windows as they walked toward the bar and grill. The shops were full of goods, clothing, jewelry, electronic devices. The people shopping looked much like those on the streets of Capitulum. There were all the ethnic groups of Earth, along with all of their mixtures. It was funny how a little thing like an alien species trying to wipe out the human race brought everyone together, while they completely forgot all of the old hatreds that seemed to have kept the different groups at each other’s throats. Everyone thought the human race would eventually outgrow it, but when it became counterproductive to survival, prejudice was left behind. Though it seems that these people didn’t get rid of all prejudice, he thought, recalling the rumors that these humans had engaged in genocide.

  Yep, the people looked the same, more or less, except for the different fashions, clothing and jewelry. And the expressions on their faces, which had much more of a flat affect than would be seen in an Imperial crowd out on their off time.

  “Is our shadow still with us” the Exec asked Briggs, who was thei
r designated tail watcher.

  “Sims and Cagney are still on the case,” said Briggs with a smile, using a reference that most citizens of the Empire would recognize, a famous detective pair that tracked fugitives throughout the frontier, at least on vid. This pair was like a cartoon version of some secret police from Earth’s past. They were dressed completely in black, and were obviously armed under their baggy jackets.

  You would think they would just use some unobtrusive microdrones to follow us, thought Laaksonen. Those devices were in evidence as well. The small electronics the Imperials carried for communication with their ships could also be used for tracking devices like that, and they were aware of half a dozen in the air overhead. There were fifty-seven other groups on the moon for shore leave, and all appeared to have the interest of the secret police.

  The people in the bar also had the same flat affect for the most part as they sat over their drinks or the remains of their meals. Many of those expressions changed to suspicion as the Imperials walked into the bar and waited to be seated. Despite the apparent prosperity of the city, there was an undercurrent of, something. Depression, despondency. Whatever it was, it was the sign that this society was not so healthy.

  The food was good, with most of the Imperials ordering the local seafood, while Laaksonen decided to try the steak and lobster. The local beer was also superb. What was not so superb was the atmosphere. It was obvious that everyone in the establishment was paying attention to everything they said and did. Even though the pair of secret police did not come in, there were probably informants in the room, transmitting everything they observed.

  “Have you toured the southern city?” asked the waitress, coming back to check on their drinks. She spoke in a hushed voice, and before she did the bartender put some music on the sound system that made it difficult to hear anything not spoken in a loud voice from near range.