by Piers Platt
The multi-purpose grenade rolled under one of the kitchen’s ovens and with a loud POP, began spewing acrid smoke into the kitchen. The fire alarms triggered immediately, water spraying from nozzles on the ceiling. The woman waited another few seconds, then slid the elevator doors open again and hauled herself up into the smoke-filled kitchen. She pushed her way through several line cooks who were shouting and trying to douse the smoking oven with fire extinguishers, and followed a busboy out into the main dining area, which was in the process of being evacuated by the maître d’ and several of the wait staff. She milled around outside the building with the crowd of grumbling patrons for several minutes, and then walked down the street to the nearest subway entrance.
Down in the station, she ducked into the women’s bathroom, where a quick glance told her the room was empty. She shook her head and her hair straightened and shifted from blonde to brunette, lengthening past her shoulders to hang loosely down her back. Her face changed, too: she appeared to age by several years and her skin lightened by several shades. She pulled a grey wool suit out of the bag’s cargo pocket and slipped it on, replacing her wet clothes. She reversed the bag’s cloth case, adjusting the over-the-shoulder strap into a set of handles on an oversized purse. Next she checked her heads-up display for the nearest train’s arrival time, noting it was a mere thirty seconds from entering the station. Before emerging from the bathroom, she triggered a final electro-magnetic pulse grenade and tossed it into the trash can. She boarded the train just as the doors were closing and checked her timer – the EMP grenade was still active. She changed trains twice more, and then headed for the spaceport.
* * *
“Ready?” the control room tech asked, smiling.
“I’m ready,” the supervisor said, finger resting on his watch’s timer button. “Play it back … now.”
The tech started the recording, and they watched the assassin’s visual feed as her eyes opened, and the white tablecloth slid off her face.
“That’s one … and two guards down,” the tech commented breathlessly.
“Four seconds,” the supervisor said, grinning and shaking his head.
“Target incapacitated, cameras taken out … and target’s dead,” the tech reported.
The supervisor pursed his lips. “Just a hair over ten seconds.”
“God, I admire her,” the tech admitted.
The supervisor gave her a funny look. “Don’t get attached.”
“No, I know,” the tech said, blushing. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s just … don’t you ever feel sorry for them?”
The supervisor stood up. “No. They chose this life.”
“Of course,” the tech said, quietly. She cleared her throat. “I’ll advise Finance to invoice the client once the hospital posts Kolski’s death certificate.”
“Sounds good,” the supervisor said, patting the tech on the shoulder. “And issue Contractor 339 with another credit.”
5
Rath’s first real orbital launch was even more exciting than the simulated versions he had enjoyed back in the VRcade, but he made an effort to look as bored as his fellow passengers, who all seemed to be residents of the upper levels headed out of the system on vacation or on business trips. Back in school, Rath remembered taking a field trip to a farming community outside the city, but he had never been off of his home planet of Tarkis. When he reached the transfer station in high orbit, the datascroll the technician gave him lit up, vibrating insistently. It showed him the path to a deep space vessel docked in the cargo yards, which he followed, amazed at how clean the station was, and the obvious wealth of the people traveling through it.
His path took him to a deserted loading bay, but the boarding hatch opened when Rath placed his hand on the scanner. He followed the pulsing arrows down into the ship. Rath saw no crewmembers or other passengers as he descended. The design of the arrows caught Rath’s attention: they were split down the middle length-wise, like two fish-hooks lined up shaft to shaft. The arrows stopped at a small cabin, furnished with a bunk, a toilet, and a porthole. Once Rath was inside, he couldn’t open the door again. The blast shield on the cabin’s porthole was welded shut, blocking any views outside. Rath sat down on the bunk to wait.
He soon discovered that the datascroll had no clock or calendar function, and offered him no other information at all, apart from a selection of books and the ability to order food when he chose. The food was not as good as the steakhouse, but it was hot and filling, and appeared quickly through a small dumb waiter tucked into the wall. The cabin lights never dimmed, so he slept when he felt tired, and wondered if his body was maintaining the same daily rhythm or not. Rath estimated that he waited for three days before he felt the ship undock, maneuver for a time, and then begin its faster-than-light flight. After that, he gave up trying to track the time.
Halfway into reading the eleventh book since departing, Rath felt the ship’s aspect change subtly. They were decelerating, and soon afterwards, he felt the ship maneuvering. Several hours after they stopped moving, his cabin door opened, and he saw the strange arrows illuminating his path again, retracing the route he had taken into the ship. Only this time, instead of a loading bay, the vessel’s hatch was docked directly with another ship’s hatch.
Inside the hatch, Rath found a chair with a helmet on its seat. A speaker in the wall crackled to life as he stepped through the hatch.
“Take your seat, strap yourself in, and place the helmet over your head.”
Rath complied, and after fumbling with the belt buckle for a minute, pulled the helmet on over his head. The helmet sealed his head in completely, its visor covering his entire field of vision, and muting the outside world. A second later, the visor darkened completely, effectively blinding him. Rath felt something cinch tight around his wrists and realized that his hands were now restrained. He shivered involuntarily. The chair moved backwards, sliding him smoothly into the ship’s interior, and taking several turns before coming to rest. Rath sensed there were other passengers – future guildsmen, trainees like himself – similarly seated around him, but he could neither see nor hear them. He took a deep breath and wriggled in his restraints to try to get more comfortable.
After another period of waiting, Rath felt the ship begin to move. The trip lasted no more than thirty minutes, as near as Rath could reckon in his isolated state. It ended with a brief jolt, and he waited for several more minutes until he felt his chair slide back along its rails. When it stopped, the arm restraints released. Nothing else happened, so after a few seconds, Rath pulled his helmet off. He was momentarily blinded – he was back at the ship’s hatch, but it opened now onto a sunny patch of gravel inside a high cement wall. Though it was daytime, it was far colder than Tarkis had ever been, and Rath shivered in his thin jumpsuit as a gust of wind buffeted the seat. Rath unbuckled himself and walked down the ramp, glancing back briefly to see that he had ridden down onto the planet on a shuttle not too different from the one on which he had started his journey. At the bottom of the ramp, there was only one way to go – a gap in the concrete wall that led to a narrow passageway between more high concrete walls. The now-familiar arrows appeared on the walls, and pointed down a long hall – Rath followed them. The passageway ended at a sliding metal door that opened onto a small room when he approached it.
Rath expected the door to close after he had entered, just like it had on the transport, so he gave a wry grin when it did just that. The room was bare except for a backpack on the floor, and a small drone hovering in the air in front of another door opposite the one he had entered. The drone appeared to be watching him with a large sensor lens, so Rath decided to address it.
“You guys sure like to keep it a secret who the other recruits are, huh?”
The drone was silent.
Rath shrugged, and decided to investigate the pack. He tipped it over, dumping out the contents and pushing them out across the floor. The pack contained a set of olive drab military
fatigues and a poncho-style jacket that Rath changed into, correctly guessing they would be warmer than his jumpsuit. All of the articles of clothing, and the pack as well, were stenciled with the number 621 in black ink. Aside from the uniform, Rath found a small medical kit and what he judged to be about a week’s worth of rations and water. Rath repacked the contents of the bag and hefted it onto his shoulders to check the fit. He was puzzled to find it much heavier than he expected, so he dropped it again and dug through the bag’s contents to see what he might have missed. Finally he realized he had not missed anything: the frame of the backpack itself must have been designed to be heavy, to be an extra burden for the person carrying it. Rath shook his head in disgust.
“Welcome to Selection Phase.”
Rath turned and saw that the drone was projecting an image onto one wall of the room, a large, golden 50 rotating slowly above a black background. The voice continued.
“Before you can begin your training, you will undergo an assessment period to determine if you have the necessary attributes to complete your training and succeed in your future assignments. During Selection Phase, you will be accompanied at all times by this Observer/Controller Drone. Your O/C Drone will provide you instructions at each step of Selection, and monitor your performance throughout this phase.”
The rotating 50 symbol disappeared, and was replaced with what Rath recognized as a three-dimensional topographical map, showing a mountainous atoll covered in thick vegetation. The island was crescent-shaped, with a deep lagoon at its center. Rath noted a building complex in the center of the crescent, close to the island’s shore.
“Selection will take place at this remote facility. The island is not populated, nor are there any indigenous animal species. However, you will not find it a hospitable place. This phase is meant to test your resilience, ability to think clearly under extreme duress, and above all, your determination to become a member of this organization. All tests are timed and have specific standards you must meet; however, you will not be made aware of what those minimum standards are, nor will you be told your results until the phase is complete. That means that many candidates complete the entire Selection Phase, only to find out that they failed one of the first tests. If you’re not pushing yourself up to and beyond your limits on every test, you will fail, too. You have been given an extraordinary opportunity to change your life – now you must earn it.”
The map of the island disappeared. Behind the drone, the door opened, revealing a thick green forest on an uphill slope. The drone spun on its axis, facing its sensors at Rath.
“Candidate 621.” The drone’s voice was surprisingly human. “For your first test, you will cross the interior of the island and locate the beach on the island’s lagoon.”
“That’s it? Just cross the mountains and find the beach?” Rath asked.
“That is your first test.”
Rath pulled the backpack on and jogged out the door. The drone followed, its flight engines humming quietly. As he ran, Rath pictured the topographical map in his head. He assumed he was starting at the bunker complex in the center of the island, which he decided to label the south end of the island. The peaks directly ahead – or north – of him were the highest on the island, but recalling the map, he saw that the mountain range was significantly lower to the east. Rath veered to his right, heading for the lower part of the range.
Rath had never been in a forest before, but he soon learned it was easier to detour around the thicker patches of undergrowth rather than try to force his way through them. There were no paths through the trees, but the vegetation was not so thick that it slowed him down. Rath tried to find a comfortable jogging pace but soon found that the heavy pack bit into his shoulders and tired him quickly, no matter what he did. After what he judged was nearly an hour of jogging uphill, he was forced to slow to walking pace. Soon after, he reached the crest of the ridge, and took a short rest, flopping onto his back gratefully before taking out his water and drinking deeply.
“Continue your movement, 621.”
Rath frowned at the drone. “Easy for you to say, relaxing over there on your hoverjets.” He staggered back to his feet. “Want to carry this damn backpack for a couple miles?” The drone remained motionless, watching him. Rath grunted and started down the slope.
He had a large blister on his right heel by the time he made it to the beach, and his knees were protesting mightily from the abuse he had subjected them to in descending rapidly from the crest. He knelt for a minute in the dark red sand of the beach, his ragged breaths steaming in the cold air.
“Candidate 621, for your next test, you will consider the following scenario: your mission instructions state that you must eliminate your target without causing any collateral damage. You have planted a bomb in the target’s air car, but the target is not alone – there are two other passengers on board. The target must be eliminated before he reaches his destination. What do you do?”
Rath rubbed his temple, wiping some of the sweat off. “Can I follow the air car?” he asked.
“No. The air car will be out of range of your remote detonation device in thirty seconds.”
Rath thought in silence.
“Ten seconds,” the drone said.
“I detonate the device,” Rath told it.
“Why?” the drone asked.
“I don’t know,” Rath shrugged, chagrined. “What should I have done?”
“Candidate 621,” the drone responded, “For your next test, you will dig a hole in the sand that is as deep as you are tall.”
Rath grimaced. “Did I fail the quiz? Did I just fail Selection?”
“Dig your hole, 621.”
“With what?” Rath asked.
The drone did not reply. Rath dropped his pack, knelt down, and started scooping the sand up with his hands. He was still digging when night fell and the first stars appeared overhead. When he was done, the drone made Rath do an hour-long calisthenics routine using his pack as a weight – holding it at arms-length in front of him, pressing it repeatedly over his head, wearing it on his back while he did push-ups. The drone continued to keep him moving through the entire night, never stopping for more than two or three minutes at a time. Each of those rest periods featured a mind game, as Rath came to think of them, either a mission scenario he had to think through, or a visual puzzle that the drone projected onto the sand using the lens mounted beneath its sensor array. The initial climb over the mountains had been enough to exhaust him, and Rath moved through the physical exercises on auto-pilot as the night wore on, feeling as if each movement was the last he could physically manage. He struggled to think through the right answers to the mind games, and the drone’s silence at his responses made him feel as though each answer he gave was the exact wrong one. Finally, the drone instructed Rath to crawl along the beach for several miles, bringing him back to the hole he had dug at the start of the evening.
“Candidate 621, for your next test, you will fill this hole back in.”
Rath groaned, pulled himself up to his knees, and started pushing the tall pile of sand back into the hole.
6
Detective Martin Beauceron found a thick group of onlookers clustered around the police barricades outside the restaurant, blocking his path.
“Excuse me?” He tried to make himself heard over the chatter of the crowd, but they successfully ignored him, and he finally gave up, and elbowed his way toward the barriers.
“Hey, watch it, baldy!”
Beauceron ignored the gibe and pushed through the final rank of people, then spent a moment struggling to clamber over the barricade. He was able to clear it, but nearly fell over in doing so.
Too short, too fat, too bald. He shook his head with a wry smile. Well, not too fat – but not as trim as I once was.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his collar, and he was thrown roughly to the ground. He groaned as he felt his arm twisted into an arm bar, and a heavy knee landed in the small of his back.
&n
bsp; “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” the patrolman securing him asked.
“If you’ll be so kind as to roll me over, we’ll sort out this little misunderstanding.”
“Let him go, Private,” another patrolman said, walking over from the door to the restaurant. “You’re restraining one of our detectives.”
The private turned his captive over, red-faced. On his back, Beauceron opened his jacket to show a badge and Interstellar Police ID card.
“Sorry, I just thought … you don’t look like a cop, is all,” the private told him.
“None taken,” Beauceron replied, grimacing.
“What?” the private asked.
“Nothing,” Beauceron told him, smiling to himself. He stood up, and smoothed the wrinkles on his well-worn suit. “It’s reassuring to know this crime scene is so securely guarded.”
As the private took up his station again, the detective tucked what remained of his brown hair back into place, nodded his thanks to the sergeant who had helped him, and then made his way into the restaurant.
He found two more uniformed officers inside, taking a statement from one of the chefs, while other kitchen staff sat idly at tables waiting their turn to be interviewed. Beauceron had to step aside as a pair of medics rolled a gurney toward the door – on it, a security guard wearing a tactical vest groaned in pain. Bleeding from his ears, Beauceron noted. He took out a pencil and moleskin notebook from his jacket pocket, and scribbled Explosion? on a blank page. In the kitchen, he found a crime scene tech taking DNA samples in the walk-in freezer.
