“Chief,” he said, sitting down. Given the circumstances of his return he tried not to smile, but it was surprisingly difficult. Avalon, like everyone else, was the same as before. Exactly the same. Red hair the same scarlet as his suit. Piercing green eyes. Immaculate uniform. She exuded authority, thanks in no small part to her being part of a great Fleet dynasty. She carried the Avalon name, and everyone knew it.
Suddenly self-conscious, Kodiak shifted in his chair. He looked and felt like a wreck. He glanced at Braben, who was still by the door. “Sit down, for crying out loud. You make me nervous, loitering around where I can’t see you.”
As Braben pulled up a chair next to him, Kodiak turned back to the chief. “I must admit I didn’t expect to be back here so soon,” he said.
Avalon nodded. “I’m sorry we had to cut the mission.”
“That’s a lot of planning out the window.”
“We’ll get Helprin sometime,” said the chief. “Trust me. But we need you here now.”
Kodiak sighed and caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the table—he’d been right, he looked terrible. Messy, greasy hair, his face dark with stubble, bags under his eyes. His suit looked like he’d been sleeping in it, which, actually, he had been. He nodded at Braben. “Your agent here shot me with his stun gun.”
The corner of Avalon’s mouth curled up. “I’m sure he didn’t enjoy it, Von.”
Braben brushed a finger along his chinstrap beard. “No, ma’am, I did not.” A pause. “Actually, maybe a little bit.”
Kodiak pointed at the agent. “See? This is abuse of authority. Revoke his badge before he hurts somebody.”
“We had to get you out of there somehow,” said Avalon. “For the moment, Von Kodiak is going to have to stay dead.”
Kodiak raised an eyebrow. Braben leaned forward over the table. “Helprin has people in the Fleet. Word gets out that we faked your execution and brought you back—that you were an undercover agent from the Bureau, working in his little empire—he’ll send someone after you.”
As Braben spoke, Avalon’s fingers moved over the table in front of her, which lit up at her commands. On the surface in front of Kodiak appeared his own face—not a reflection, but his official ID photo. It was the same warrant Braben had shown him before stunning him with the staser, only now it was amended to indicate that the sentence had been carried out.
“Even that crazy old man won’t go chasing a corpse for revenge,” said Braben.
Kodiak rubbed his chin and sighed. He gestured to his image on the table. “How long do I stay dead for?”
Braben and Avalon exchanged a look. Kodiak saw it. He didn’t like it.
“Awhile,” said Avalon.
Kodiak screwed his eyes tight. He knew his mission had a price, but it still stung. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“How am I supposed to work when I’m dead?”
“Bureau staff will be briefed. You’ll have security clearance within the Fleet capital, but you won’t be able to leave.”
“Didn’t you just say Helprin had people in the Fleet?”
“In the Fleet, yes,” said Avalon, “but not the Bureau, as far as we’ve been able to screen.” She sighed. “Look, it’s not perfect, but it’s going to have to work. Things are bad, Von.”
Kodiak frowned. He glanced at Braben, but his partner’s expression had darkened too. “Okay,” he said, turning back to the chief. “Tell me what happened.”
Avalon nodded at Braben. Braben adjusted his tie, then took control of the table display. As he typed, Kodiak’s official picture was replaced with new data: the portrait of the Fleet Admiral, Leo Sebela; maps of New Orem; a schematic of the Fleet Capitol Complex itself, and one of the Fleet Memorial.
Kodiak furrowed his brow as he studied the images.
“Sebela”—Braben tapped the late Admiral’s picture—“was assassinated at the Fleet Memorial, as he gave his official Fleet Day speech, in front of thousands of people. As soon as he dropped, emergency protocols kicked in and the city went into lockdown.”
Kodiak looked up. “He’s killed in public, surrounded by marines, and the shooter gets away? No surveillance?”
Braben and Avalon looked at each other. “All footage cuts out just before the Admiral is shot,” said Braben. “Likewise all public media streams.”
Kodiak rubbed his chin again. “How is that possible?”
Avalon shrugged. “It’s like everything was jammed, scrambled.”
“Deliberate, then.”
“Has to be.”
Then Avalon reached forward, moving the images around on the table. She brought up a new picture, one of an officer in a black uniform, his eyes narrowed at the camera like he was angry.
“It’s not public knowledge,” said the chief, “but Sebela was deposed by Admiral Zworykin the day before his assassination.”
Kodiak stared at the new picture. He thought he recognized the officer. “Zworykin? Isn’t he in charge of the Psi-Marine Corps?”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s the Fleet Admiral?”
Avalon gave a single nod. “He is.”
Kodiak pursed his lips. “And then the guy he kicked out is murdered. Seems pretty convenient.” He leaned over the table, examining the images. “New guy stages a coup and takes over. Keeps it a secret while he moves his own people in. Then old guy is eliminated, and new guy suddenly appears to step in as the legitimate successor. Uses the situation to his advantage, strengthening his own position. Shows himself as a responsible, courageous leader in a time of turmoil.”
“Yes,” said Avalon.
“Which means,” said Kodiak, tapping the table, “new guy is behind it.”
“Seems most likely,” said Braben. “But that’s what we want you to find out.”
Kodiak shook his head, trying to piece things together. “But he knows the Bureau will investigate and rat him out, right?”
“If he’s responsible, then yes,” said Avalon. “Which is why I want you to lead the investigation.”
Kodiak shrugged. “Because?”
“Because you’re dead. I’m going to grant you personal security clearance inside this building, but even that won’t lead back to you directly. If there is a cover-up, a conspiracy, if Zworykin is responsible and is working to hide his tracks, then you’re the one to find out. Your investigation won’t leave a trace.”
Kodiak shook his head. “But he’ll be waiting for an investigation. He’ll be following it, making sure he stays ahead of us. We can’t run a covert op. If we’re not seen to do something, he’ll realize we’re onto him from the start.”
“There will be an official investigation,” said Avalon. “Braben will be the lead. You’ll have a cover ID—to Zworykin you’re a Bureau analyst assigned to the case, nothing more.”
At this, Braben reached under the conference table and extracted a black case. He placed it on the table and turned it toward Kodiak.
Kodiak glanced at Braben. “What’s this?”
Braben just nodded at it. “Open it.”
Kodiak pulled the case toward him. It was featureless, the surface matte save for the shiny Bureau logo on the top. He felt along the edges until he found the catches. The case beeped as it recognized Kodiak’s DNA and unlocked.
Inside, nestled in shaped foam packing, were two items. The first was a Bureau ID badge, a mirrored square of metal on a clip backing, the Bureau emblem etched into the front in gold.
Next to the badge was a pistol. It was small, thin, the upper half translucent, the rest brushed silver.
Now Kodiak allowed himself a smile as he slid his hand around the grip of the staser and lifted it from the case. It was very light. By his thumb were a series of simple switches.
“You’ll need to pass the Bureau training on the staser,” said Braben.
Kodiak hmmmed. “Yeah, not sure I need that.” He thumbed one of the controls, pointed the gun at Braben, and squeezed the trigger. The gun spat someth
ing white and fizzy and the agent cried out, sliding sideways off his chair.
Avalon was on her feet in a second, her hand reaching for her own staser on her belt.
“Von! What the hell?”
Kodiak flicked the safety back on and put the gun back into the case. He rolled his chair back a little and nudged Braben with his foot. The agent rolled on the floor, moaning in pain.
“I’m just returning a favor,” he said. Then, ignoring Braben’s semi-conscious form, he pulled himself back to the table. He locked the case and placed it on the floor beside his chair. Then he tapped at the table display, bringing up the image of the deceased Fleet Admiral and the maps of the city.
Avalon slowly lowered herself back down, her hand moving away from her gun, her eyes darting between Kodiak and Braben on the floor.
Kodiak looked up at her and waved his hand. “He’ll be fine. Now, let’s get to work.”
11
The farther Cait walked, the faster her pace. After a couple of hours she pulled up by a railing that circled an empty yard in front of a warehouse, hand on her chest as she caught her breath and realized she’d practically sprinted the last block. The confidence she had felt earlier had been short lived. Right now, she felt alone.
She felt afraid.
She checked her watch. She was still on time. In fact, she was ahead of schedule. She could afford a moment to stop and collect herself before continuing to the rendezvous. But not here, not in the open. She needed darkness and shadow, because while she was alone in the deserted streets, she also knew that they were watching. Surely, they were watching. Waiting.
Half a block on was a large intersection, a number of narrow, tall buildings offering myriad hiding places. She stuck to the side of the building behind her, checked that the coast was clear, then darted across the intersection and into another alley, thanking the universe that Salt City was a disorganized, organic mess of buildings and architectures.
Lost again in the dark, she sank to the ground. She closed her eyes, reaching out. Calling to him.
To Tyler.
Nothing. Nothing but the rush of blood in her ears and the cool night breeze. And the faint sounds of people, lots of people, brought to her on that wind.
Cait opened her eyes, and listened. She was on track, getting closer to her destination. The stretch of industrial warehouses and abandoned factories would soon come to an end, the streets already becoming brighter as she approached a night market. The sounds were carried on the breeze and echoed off the walls of the alley, but they were close—perhaps just on the other side of this block of warehouses.
The night markets of Salt City were famous and popular, not just among the refugees who lived and worked in the slum, but even among upstanding citizens of New Orem, the more adventurous of whom were known to venture out to see what exotic bargains could be found. Those were a different kind of night market, arrayed on the outskirts of Salt City, safe enough for New Orem tourists and with artificially raised prices to match their comparatively rich clientele.
It was sickening, the people of New Orem content to patronize the markets while turning a blind eye to the plight of Salt City itself. But tonight, of course, those markets would be closed, the citizens of the Fleet capital held under curfew.
But here, farther in, deep enough for outsiders to never reach, were the real night markets of Salt City. Here there was more on sale than overpriced knick-knacks and badly cooked street food.
In the heart of Salt City, you could buy almost anything, from art—smuggled, crumbling artifacts from the ruins of South America—to people, likewise smuggled, likewise crumbling. To passage off planet. Even to weaponry, stolen from the Fleet, serial numbers etched off and fire control CPUs hacked with a buggy, pirate OS. Like the sniper rifle in Cait’s pack, she supposed, with its glitching computer. She’d collected it from the pre-arranged hiding place, in a difficult-to-reach water conduit below one of Salt City’s main thoroughfares. She’d been impressed that they’d gotten her almost exactly the same kind of rifle she had trained with in the Academy. The weapon appeared to be new, as well. They must have hit a weapons dump to steal it.
Of course. The gun.
Cait listened to the sounds of the market as she ran an idea around her mind.
Her plan was to hit the rendezvous right on time and demand some answers, trusting her training and her talent to keep her alive. Even as she thought of the plan again, she felt the nerves return. It sounded simple—too simple. She was walking into the unknown, and she knew it, and she wasn’t even able to reach out to her brother’s mind anymore.
But he was out there. He was alive. He had to be alive. This is what she was doing it for.
And there was a chance, a slim one perhaps, that her employers weren’t behind the Admiral’s assassination. Perhaps all they knew was that the Fleet Admiral was dead—proof enough that Cait had fulfilled the task assigned to her.
Perhaps to get the answers she wanted, she needed to walk into the rendezvous like nothing was wrong. Like everything had gone according to plan.
She needed to bluff. And to bluff, she needed a little bit of evidence.
The alley was dark and smelly, the ground wet not from the recent rain but with something thick and sticky oozing from the garbage stacked high at the far end of the narrow passage. Cait headed toward it and crouched down on the other side, the fetid heap of refuse providing ample cover. Then she slid her backpack off and began taking the pieces of the sniper rifle out. In less than a minute, the gun was assembled and ready.
Hoping that the death of the Fleet Admiral was all that mattered, hoping—perhaps foolishly, perhaps not, there was no time to second-guess herself now—that her employers were just as much in the dark as she was, Cait raised the sniper on her hip, pointing it at a sharp angle toward the sky, and pulled the trigger.
There was no flash. For a sniper, detection meant death, so the gun released only a muffled crack as the invisible energy bolt flew skyward. Despite just a row of buildings separating Cait from the night market, no one would have heard the shot.
Cait lowered the weapon, relieved that the gun had worked, glitching OS and all. Shielding the display with her hand, Cait thumbed a control on the top of the weapon. The gun had been fired—and now there was the log to prove it. More than that, for once the glitching OS would be to her advantage, the log’s scrambled timestamp making it impossible to pinpoint the last time the weapon had been used. Now, if they checked the gun, they’d think she had been the one who had downed the Fleet Admiral. All according to the plan.
Cait found herself smiling as she pulled the weapon to pieces and slid them into the compartments in her backpack. She had no idea if her plan would work, but she felt good just doing something. It was better than staying hidden, or running away. And if things went south, she could fight—for herself, and for her brother.
Caitlin Smith was a warrior.
She stood, swung the pack onto her back, and walked out into the main street, turning toward the sounds of the crowds ahead. All she had to do was reach the market and cross it, enter the dark streets in the next quarter, and she would make the rendezvous.
She walked for a few minutes, to the end of the block, then turned into a wide thoroughfare. Ahead of her, the street was filled with people, the crowd increasing in density farther along as the night market proper began.
“Excuse me, Ms. Smith.”
Cait froze, eyes wide. Then she turned to face the voice behind her.
It was the man in the pale coat. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He was middle-aged and wore glasses and his hair was brown and short. His expression was flat, still.
Oh, shit. She had been followed, and now they had found her. She was still a kilometer or so away from the rendezvous. Whoever the man was, he wasn’t—couldn’t—be with her employers.
A rival organization. They were behind it all. They’d taken out the Admiral, and now they were taking out everyone e
lse.
Or … the Fleet. The Fleet Bureau. She’d been tracked from the Memorial, despite her jammed manifest tag. She’d been tracked, and now this guy, this agent, was going to take her down.
Cait felt her throat close, a shiver passing over her skin as it started to happen. She watched the man in the pale coat hesitate, his eyes widening as he looked at her.
She could fight. Or …
The night market behind her, toward the other end of the thoroughfare, was huge, a sprawling collection of stalls and tables, funneling customers, drinkers, and diners into a maze of brightly colored passageways, disgorging them into large squares and plazas, then bottlenecking them back into narrow streets packed with wares for sale. The perfect place to get lost.
Or to lose someone.
Cait turned, ready to run, then swallowed a cry of surprise. Standing in front of her was another man, this one dressed in black and wearing a hard, flat black mask, smooth except for two inset goggles.
Cait curled her fists and drew her chin up. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re going to have to get out of my—”
The man drove a fist into Cait’s stomach, the blow driving the air from her lungs. She doubled over, her arms instinctively folding over her middle before they were grabbed from behind and twisted behind her back. Cait wheezed, tears streaming down her face. She looked down at the road, watched as the puddles beneath her began to move, water streaming away from her like they were being blown by a fan. She looked up, willing the power to obey her, trying to find some way to control it, to direct it. She saw a tiny reflection of herself in the man’s goggles.
And then something sharp and cold was slipped into her neck, and a black bag was slipped over her head and her world was nothing but musty chemical darkness.
12
They’d been going for hours: Kodiak sat in the front row, beside him an empty seat left by Braben as he got up to lead the team through the next section of the briefing. On his other side, Commander Avalon, datapad on her knee, making notes.
The Machine Awakes Page 8
