by Piers Platt
“Precisely,” the avatar agreed. “And the intelligence to plan and execute your missions in such a way that no undue attention is called to them. Your combat training has prepared you for the worst case scenario in future missions. But ideally, you should never find yourself in a firefight, and you shouldn’t even be carrying a weapon on most missions. Effective mission planning is a conversation for another day, however. We’re going to focus first on the raw skill of mimicking someone.”
“I thought my cosmetic implants were just a way to ensure I could escape from the cops?” Rath asked. “Changing identifying features so they can’t track me, that kind of thing.”
“Evasion is only one aspect of a successful mission,” the avatar corrected him. “Infiltrating and closing with the target may require you to use your mimicry skills, as well. You might need to become a bodyguard, or a family member, or the targets themselves. Our clients may even stipulate that a third party be blamed for the murder, in which case you would have to mimic that person in order to frame them.”
“Where are we?” Rath asked, changing the subject. They were sitting at a simulated outdoor café, on a cobbled street in what looked to Rath like an ancient city – all of the buildings were stone and brickwork, and he saw no signs of air cars or any vehicle more advanced than a bicycle.
“A small city on the continent of Europe, mid-twentieth century, planet Earth,” the man told him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not ready for a modern city. Every inch of today’s cities is wired – security cameras, thermal sensors, microphones … you need to learn the fundamentals of fooling human beings first, then we can progress to fooling machines.”
“But we’re in a machine,” Rath pointed out.
The avatar sighed. “Yes, we are. And I am a machine. But today, I will be reacting to you as if I were a human, which means I will be imprecise and lenient in my judgment. And you’ll likely still fail.” He set his espresso down, gesturing with his hand to make a mirror appear in the air next to him, where it showed Rath his own face. “Have you experimented with your appearance-altering implants yet?”
“Some,” Rath admitted. “Just trying to figure out how they worked.”
“Good,” the avatar said. “We’re going to start with the face, as that’s the hardest element to control. To fully change identity during a mission, you will also need to alter your skin, hair, eyes, fingerprints, voice, mannerism, and clothes, often in the space of a few seconds.”
“A few seconds?” Rath said, dubiously.
The avatar nodded. “Your life may depend on it. It also depends on you being absolutely certain that when you change, no person or camera sees you do so, for obvious reasons. So today we’re going to start practicing mimicry: I will display different faces, and you will attempt to manipulate your facial implants and create a copy on your own face. These faces have been randomly generated by a computer – they are not real people. You will memorize ten or fifteen of these faces, as many as you can handle, to use as cover identities in the future. When you leave this facility, you should never use your real face again. That face has a history, a name. You don’t, 621, not anymore. Clear?”
“I think so,” Rath said.
“The objective this week is accuracy, so I want you to take your time, and use the mirror as much as necessary. Later on we will work on skin tone, hair … and speeding things up. When you’re ready for it, we’ll lose the mirror, too. Ready?”
“I guess,” Rath told him. “How do I move the plates in my face?”
“The same way you control your other onboard systems – just think it.”
Rath thought about his nose growing bigger, and winced as it increased in size in the mirror in front of him, blowing up to be comically large. “Ow,” he said.
“That was heavy-handed,” the avatar said, “but you grasp the basic concept. Try to be more specific in your thoughts and instructions. You need to realize how your face is different from the one you are mimicking, compare them in your mind, and adjust your face accordingly. The better you can recall your own face, the more accurately you can change it. Look at me,” the avatar commanded. His brow had become more prominent, his nose hooked, with laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Now do it.”
It took Rath nearly ten minutes of trial-and-error, and even then, the final result in the mirror was noticeably different from the avatar’s face.
“That took forever,” Rath said, rubbing at his sore cheeks.
“Yes. But for a first attempt, it’s more nuanced than most trainees. Did you study your own face often as a child?”
“No,” Rath said, frowning. “Just have a good memory, I guess. How long until I start to get really good at this?”
“Months,” the avatar told him. “But being merely ‘good at it’ will get you killed, Trainee. This skill needs to become completely reflexive.”
Rath took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do another one.”
* * *
“Ready for the next module?” the avatar asked him. His appearance, Rath had learned, subtly shifted each day. Yesterday he had brown hair and a slim mustache, but today his hair was raven-black and his face clean-shaven under a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Rath supposed it was a way of subconsciously reinforcing his lessons in fieldcraft.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Rath told him.
“Okay, next we’re going to talk about weaponsmithing.” With an impatient hand gesture, the avatar brushed away the city environment where they had run Rath’s final stalking exam, and called up the outdoor weapons range in its place. A field table appeared in front of him, with an olive drab backpack just like the one Rath had worn through Selection Phase.
“Recognize it?” the avatar asked.
Rath laughed, “Oh, yeah.”
“Good. There’s a reason it weighed so much, and we made you lug it everywhere you went, even through the obstacle courses. This,” he said, pointing to the pack, “is your primary weapon for every assignment.”
Rath cocked an eyebrow, and stepped over to the table. “That thing?”
The avatar patted it. “This beauty.” He unzipped the main compartment. Unlike the pack Rath had carried through Selection, this pack contained two halves of a machine that hinged at the center, so that the pack opened like a clam-shell when unzipped, and stayed open. There appeared to be no controls.
“This,” the avatar continued, “is a CreatePack A230 full-spectrum 3D print-on-demand module. That’s a mouthful; you can just call it your ‘Forge.’ It’s optimized for portability and versatility. This little device – heavy though it may be – can manufacture any weapon in your arsenal, within a matter of minutes from the time you tell it to start printing. These canisters up top contain the raw elements, and nanobots in the bottom – here – assemble them into components. The main limitation is it can’t make anything bigger than this area between the two halves, so some assembly may be required after it builds the individual components. Once you run out of supply materials, you’ll need to replace the canisters to build anything else, but you shouldn’t need to worry too much about that – one canister set is enough to outfit a standard infantry squad with their basic load from automated weapons and ammo to grenades.”
Rath gave a low whistle, touching the machine cautiously. “It’ll build ammo, too? Not just weapons?”
“Yes,” the avatar told him, “Each Forge comes pre-loaded with over a million ‘recipes’ for different weapons and ammunition. But think bigger.”
“Explosives?”
“Yes.”
“Toxins, poisons?”
“Definitely.”
“Food, clothes?”
“Now you’re getting it,” the avatar agreed. “This device is also your survival gear and disguise kit, if need be. The food is not especially palatable, but it will keep you alive.”
Rath thought for a minute. “What about weapons like nerve agents or nuclear bombs?”
; The avatar raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Rath took his hand off the device.
“Okay, we’re going to go over operation in a minute, but first I’m uploading the full recipe list to your neural interface – I’d recommend reviewing it from time to time to refresh yourself on what you could create, if needed, for a mission. Also, you can take a scan of something in the real world with your retinal implants, and send it to the pack, and it can create a near-perfect replica … in case you need to duplicate an object, like a security badge. The badge won’t be coded right – it won’t open any doors – but it will look convincing.”
Rath saw a notification in his eye interface that he had received the recipe list.
“Unless mission requirements prevent it, you should carry your Forge with you at all times, just like during Selection Phase. You never know when you will need it. Before we do operation and maintenance, why do you think we issue you one of these, Trainee?” the avatar asked.
“So we don’t have to lug around a huge trunk full of gear on every assignment?” Rath suggested.
“Ye-es …,” the avatar allowed. “But not just because that would be impractical or inconvenient. Consider: a printer like this is completely legal, though expensive. You can walk right through spaceport security with one of these and no one will bat an eye.” He held up a finger. “But the minute you use it to build a weapon, you’re looking at an interplanetary felony if they trace it back to you. Think twice about building weapons for an assignment, unless you absolutely have to. If at all possible, you should be building innocuous, everyday items that you can pass off as tools instead of weapons.”
“Like what?” Rath asked.
“Like a small knife, or common chemicals that you combine at the last minute to create a poison. I know the combat modules get you trainees all amped up, but try not to arm yourself with an auto-rifle on every mission. Remember, making a kill is not your end game: your end game is making a kill and getting away with it. Good contractors make a kill and leave no evidence tying them to the kill, better contractors make a kill and leave evidence tying someone else to the kill … and the best contractors make a kill look like an unfortunate accident, so there’s no police investigation at all.”
11
A light flickered on the edge of Rath’s peripheral vision: his internal display had an incoming message.
Rath felt a bead of sweat form at his brow – the climate control in the simulated ballroom was definitely turned up far hotter than it would have been in the real world. While he appreciated the symbolism, he could have done without the extra distraction. It was the first time he had worn a tuxedo, and though he loved the look of the suit, it was less comfortable than he had hoped. He smiled at another group of guests and offered them his tray of canapés, simultaneously advancing through screens in his heads-up display to find a photo of Sorgens in order to identify him.
Okay, got it.
“We’re all done, thanks,” one of the guests told him.
“Of course,” Rath said. “Sorry.”
Guess I lingered a little longer than a normal server would have. He stepped away from the group, spinning slowly in place as if planning which group he would approach next. There’s Sorgens – far side of the room.
Rath stopped at three other groups of party-goers, working his way around the outside of the room in a looping curve, careful to avoid heading directly for the Deputy Ambassador. As he left the third group, he rearranged the napkins on his tray, as if straightening them, and surreptitiously jabbed one of the canapés with a tiny hypodermic needle, before slipping the needle back into his sleeve. Then he turned and headed for the Deputy Ambassador, but a security guard cut in front of him. Rath changed direction smoothly and headed for a different group, but he kept Sorgens in his line of sight. The security guard was leaning in close to Sorgens, covering his mouth to whisper in his ear. Rath dialed up his audio feed.
“… credible threat. Intelligence is rated ‘High Reliability,’ so we’re taking it very seriously,” Rath heard the man say. The Deputy Ambassador blanched, his face turning nearly as white as his tuxedo shirt. “I’d like to get you out of here right now, sir.”
Sorgens turned to the other guests, and made his apologies. “I’m sorry – I’m afraid duty calls, there’s an urgent message that needs my attention.” He headed toward the room’s exit, closely followed by the guard.
Want a snack before you go? Rath thought, chagrined. He broke away from the group he was serving and walked briskly toward the kitchen, which was in the same direction Sorgens was headed.
Let’s hope the kitchen has another exit close to wherever Sorgens is headed.
Rath ducked inside – to his relief, he saw an exit at the far side of the crowded room. He dumped his tray into the first trash can he saw and elbowed through the servers and cooks, heading for the door.
“Hey, watch it, asshole!” a busboy protested, spilling several plates onto a steel countertop.
Rath ignored him and continued toward the back of the room, pushing through the swinging door. Sorgens was just disappearing through a side door halfway down the corridor, while the guard positioned himself outside the door. That looks like a restroom, Rath thought. He walked toward the guard, who was watching his approach closely, hands behind his back.
Probably got a pistol in a belt holster back there, Rath decided. So much for the frontal assault.
Instead he took a sharp right turn down a side corridor, disappearing from the guard’s view. In the space of three seconds, he shifted his face and hair, taking on the aspect of the original target. He turned on his heel, and stepped back out into the main corridor, looking both ways before appearing to notice the guard.
“You,” Rath pointed at the man, “have you seen my deputy around here?”
“Sir?” the guard asked, confused. “Oh, yes, Mr. Ambassador: Deputy Ambassador Sorgens is right in here.”
“Ah, excellent,” Rath said, walking up. He was at least two inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than the real ambassador, but people were slow to notice body type differences – if the face matched, such discrepancies were usually dismissed. As ever, hearing another man’s computer-generated voice from his own lips made Rath’s skin crawl. “Let me just have a word, and then you can get him out of here,” Rath told the guard.
“Of course, sir,” the guard said, holding the door open for him.
Rath let the door close behind him, then strode over toward Sorgens, who was standing at a urinal along the wall. Sorgens looked up and saw Rath.
“You heard about the threat?” Sorgens asked.
“I did,” Rath replied. “Glad to see you’re on your way out of here.” He called up the targeting module in his heads-up display, and slipped a pen out of his pocket. The implement was known as a ballistic pen, built out of reinforced titanium for use as a close-quarters weapon, and modified by Rath to include a nerve toxin coating, for a faster kill. As Sorgens zipped himself up, Rath’s eye implant overlaid an anatomical model on his image, matching it to fit his size and body orientation relative to Rath, highlighting his bone structure and major organs. Sorgens turned away from the wall, and Rath stepped forward, putting his full body momentum behind the thrust. The pen punched between two ribs, directly into the highlighted outline of Sorgens’ heart, while Rath covered Sorgens’ mouth with his other hand, stifling his shocked gasp of pain. Rath left the pen embedded to minimize the bleeding, and, still covering Sorgens’ mouth, he grabbed him under the arm and dragged him silently across the room into one of the toilet stalls. He propped the dying man on top of the toilet, pulled the door shut behind him, and walked over to the sink, where the ambassador’s reflection stared back at him.
Need to wash this blood off my hands. But my guess is that guard is supposed to escort Sorgens out of the building, so it’ll be an
easier exit if I pose as him.
“Everything okay, sir?” The security guard was pushing open the door.
Rath reacted instinctively, and bent over the sink, splashing his face with water as he shifted his hair and face to match Sorgens’. He stood up and reached blindly for the paper towels, and dabbed at his face as he completed the transformation. When he opened his eyes, the guard was eyeing him in the mirror.
“Ready to go, sir?” the man asked.
“Yes – let’s get going,” Rath told him. The guard glanced at the closed stall door and Rath tensed himself in readiness, but the man simply turned and walked back out into the hall, checking in both directions before motioning for Rath to follow. That was close, Rath thought, falling into step as they headed off down the hallway. He’s going to be pissed when he finds out he personally escorted the killer out of the building. Assuming avatars get pissed …
The security guard reported their progress into his throat microphone as they waited for an elevator to the parking levels, then the two rode down in silence. Rath had not been able to conduct a full reconnaissance of the building, and, indeed, had not even succeeded in obtaining the blueprints so that he could make informed guesses about the security system’s weak points. As with much of the mission, he would have to improvise.
The elevator doors opened directly into the underground parking area, where an air car was already idling, the passenger door held open by another security guard – his driver, apparently. Rath sighed in exasperation; he had hoped he would only have to deal with one guard.
“Right this way, sir,” the driver said, giving him a tight smile.
Rath smiled back and stepped out of the elevator. He saw security cameras in both near corners of the garage, and at the far end of the garage, too. Can’t get rid of the guards here, Rath thought. He turned to the first guard.
“You should stay here and enjoy the party,” Rath told him.
“No, sir,” the man shook his head. “I’ll see you home safe.”
