Silent Order_Image Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I forgot how fast you move,” she said.

  March grunted. “Speaking of that, we need to go.”

  “Why did you break their right hands?” said Cassandra.

  “Left hand controls the throttle on that model of scooter,” said March, watching the men. All the fight had gone out of them, and they were staggering to their feet and getting to their scooters. “This way they escape, so we hopefully avoid police entanglement.”

  “I see,” said Cassandra as they walked down the sidewalk. “Does…”

  The door to the pawnshop hissed open, and a man ran into the street, a plasma pistol in hand. He looked ready for a fight, but he came to a stunned halt when he saw the criminals limping away on their scooters, and his eyes swung to March and Cassandra.

  His mismatched eyes. One of them was glowing.

  The man was in early middle age, but still fit and trim, and wore clothes similar to March’s. He had sharp features and thick black hair that was going to gray, a gray mustache and goatee encircling his mouth. There was a nasty scar on the left side of his face, and his left eye was a cybernetic replacement, the lens glowing a soft red. That kind of scarring was either caused by alloy poisoning or particle beam damage and given the position of the scar, the man was lucky to be alive. He sort of looked like a dashing fighter pilot, and come to think of it, March was sure he had seen someone who looked just like this man on the billboard of clones.

  The man with the cybernetic eye looked at March, at the fleeing thugs, and back at March.

  “Good God, son,” said the man. He had a faint drawl in his voice. “You do all that by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” said March, watching the gun.

  The man holstered the pistol. “I was watching for you. Thought I’d have to shoot them off you and take you to the hospital.” He grinned and shook his head. “Didn’t kill any of them, did you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good,” said the man. “No one cares about a brawl around here, but a body in the streets means someone calls the police, and that’s not good.” He walked forward and held out his right hand. “Name’s Eighty, and unless I miss my guess, you’re Mr. Norther, and that young lady is Dr. Yarrow.”

  “That’s right,” said March. “The temperature is fifteen Kelvin in the nebula.”

  Eighty answered at once with the appropriate counterphrase. “But the turtles never go through the overpass. Well, now that the formalities are out of the way, suppose we had better go meet the boss. She sent me to meet you and keep you out of trouble.” He snorted. “Seems like you would do a better job of keeping me out of trouble.”

  They walked towards the pawn shop’s doors. Behind the windows was a display of a variety of merchandise – clothes and phones and tools and personal electronics. The windows, March noticed, had been fashioned of ballistic glass with a laser-refractive coating, and there was a metal cage behind the glass.

  “Mr. Eighty,” said Cassandra. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure thing,” said Eighty, unlocking the door. He grinned back at her as the door slid open. “Is it about the clone thing, or about my eye?”

  “Uh, well,” said Cassandra, flushing. “Both. If you don’t mind. I don’t want to be rude.”

  They stepped into the pawnshop, and Eighty closed and locked the door. Only a third of the shop’s lights were on, and March saw an impressive array of merchandise, though Eighty did not carry any weaponry. Many of the clothes were sorted by name instead of by size, and March realized that the names were those of the templates used for the Falcons’ clone soldiers. He supposed that made standardizing clothing sizes rather easier.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it,” said Eighty, double-checking the door lock and rearming the security system. “It’s only natural, right? You’re an off-worlder, and off-world breeders are always curious about clones. No offense about the breeder thing, though. It’s just that in the Falcon Republic, we have clones, and we have breeders. Clones get born in vats, and breeders get born the old-fashioned way.”

  “Okay,” said Cassandra. The security system beeped, and Eighty nodded in satisfaction. “You’re a clone, then?”

  “Yup.” Eighty stepped back from the door and grinned. “I’m a Stryker.”

  March glanced at the clothing rack and saw an entire section labeled STYRKER SIZES.

  “What’s a Stryker?” said Cassandra. She had the intent look she got when curious about something scientific.

  “Colonel Jacob Stryker,” said Eighty, beckoning. They followed him across the pawnshop to the back door behind the counter. “My illustrious ancestor. A hundred and fifty years ago, he was a breeder who joined the Falcons, and he became the greatest starfighter pilot in the history of the Republic. He had two hundred and thirty-seven confirmed kills during one of our wars with the Sultanate of Al-Mhabat. He was so good the high command made him the new template for our starfighter pilots, and all interceptor and heavy fighter pilots have been Strykers ever since.”

  “If you were a starfighter pilot,” said Cassandra, “then what happened to your eye?”

  Eighty unlocked a door behind the counter, taking them into the shop’s back room. Metal cages lined the walls to store the more valuable merchandise, which seemed to be jewelry, various sports apparel, and high-end personal electronics.

  “After my first eight-year tour,” said Eighty, “I signed up for another one, got a promotion to Major.” He snorted. “My first patrol, we get jumped by some Al-Mhabati corsairs. My fighter took a hit. Particle beam breached the flight cabin. Another half-inch, and it would have made my head explode like a dropped melon. Shot down the fighter that got me, but you can’t regenerate nerve damage from a particle beam. You need two good eyes to fly, so the government paid for my fancy metal eyeball, and I got an honorable discharge.”

  “And you went into pawnbroking?” said March.

  Eighty grinned at him. “It’s a people business, and I like people. This way.”

  He unlocked a door in the metal cages, revealing a concrete stairwell that climbed upward. March took their bags and followed Eighty and Cassandra to the top floor of the building. They stepped into a corridor that looked like an office hallway – blue carpeting, gray walls, wooden doors every few feet. Eighty unlocked a door that opened into a conference room with a long table. Windows overlooked the street below, the flash of the neon signs and holograms illuminating the darkened room.

  A striking blond woman stood near the table, arms folded across her chest. She was taller than Cassandra and shorter than March, with sharp blue eyes in a strong-featured face. The woman had broad shoulders, but her curves of hip and chest compensated for that. She wore a knee-length black skirt, a snug black jacket, and high heels that showed her calves to good effect. Had she been wearing a tank top and exercise shorts, March thought she would have looked like a fitness model selling exercise equipment.

  “Eighty,” said the woman, her voice low and compelling. “You found them. I was getting concerned.”

  “Hey, babe, don’t worry,” said Eighty, and he gave the woman a quick kiss. “They took care of themselves.”

  March assumed the woman was Elizabeth Winter, the Sigma Operative and chief of the local branch of the Silent Order. And she was almost certainly Eighty’s lover. It wasn’t common for a Sigma Operative to have a Delta Operative as a lover, though it did happen from time to time depending on local circumstances. Though March was an Alpha Operative in a long-term relationship with a Beta Operative, so he supposed he couldn’t complain.

  “You must be Mr. Norther and Dr. Yarrow,” said the woman.

  They exchanged the coded signs and countersigns.

  “Good,” said the woman. “My name is Elizabeth Winter, and I’m the local branch chief for Northgate City.” She considered them both. “And you’re the ones Censor sent to figure out our little mystery.”

  “Doesn’t seem like corpses would be all that uncommon around here,” said March, cur
ious to see how she would react.

  Winter offered a tight smile. “Outside the arcologies, anyway. But when a dozen members of a prestigious accounting firm turn up dead from an exotic form of radiation…well, that draws notice, doesn’t it? Especially at the tail of a string of mysterious deaths linked to our troublesome Mr. Slovell.” She gestured at the chairs. “Would you like to be seated? I imagine we have many questions for each other, Mr. Norther.”

  “Yes,” said March. “Is this room secure?”

  “It is,” said Winter. “As Censor might have mentioned to you, I am a lawyer, specializing in intellectual property and entertainment contract law. As you can imagine, the entertainment industries on Raetia are extraordinarily corrupt and often dominated by the local organized crime syndicate. It is a ruthless and cutthroat business, and naturally we all spy on each other.” She turned a fond smile in Eighty’s direction, and then her cool mask returned. “Mr. Eighty is kind enough to let me use his facility for clandestine meetings since my main offices in Arcology Twelve are under more or less constant surveillance.”

  They sat, but Eighty remained standing.

  “I should play the proper host,” he said. “Drinks, anyone?”

  “Coffee, please,” said March, and Cassandra echoed his request.

  Eighty grinned and disappeared through a side door.

  “If you’ll forgive the question,” said Cassandra, “are you and Mr. Eighty…”

  Winter blinked and then smiled. “Yes, for six years now.” Her smile turned brittle. “I was married twice before, and both times it didn’t end well. Eighty was the one who recruited me into the Silent Order, as it happens. Saved my life when one of my rivals hired the syndicate to have me shot.” The smile turned fond again. “I’m a breeder, so I never thought I would be in a relationship with a clone. But I wish I had met him years before I actually did. He’s a good man, and a hell of a good shot, even with a cybernetic eye.”

  The door opened again, and Eighty returned with a tray of coffee cups.

  “Now, to business,” said Winter, taking a cup of coffee as Eighty sat next to her.

  “What can you tell me about the deaths here?” said March.

  “Damned strange business,” said Eighty. “It was at Gavin & Temper, one of the biggest accounting firms in Northgate City. Specialize in doing accounting for the film studios, so naturally, they’re crooked as a corkscrew. Then one day – boom! Twelve of their employees found dead, looking like they were simultaneously mummified and burned alive.” Eighty helped himself to a cup of coffee. “That kind of thing, you’d think the building would have burned down around them. But the building was fine. The only possible explanation is that weird dark energy radiation…”

  “Triple-theta band,” supplied Cassandra.

  “Yeah, that,” said Eighty.

  “We thought it was a fluke,” said Winter, “but we reported it anyway. Then Censor contacted us with the reports of similar deaths in the Kingdom of Calaskar, and asked if there was a connection between Gavin & Temper and Roger Slovell.” A tight smile went over her face. “As it happened, one of the studios had hired Gavin & Temper to audit its contracts with Slovell’s production companies.”

  “And then the employees working on the audit died mysteriously?” said March.

  “Just so,” said Winter.

  “What can you tell me about Slovell?” said March.

  “He’s powerful, wealthy, and corrupt,” said Winter. “You probably know his background – Calaskaran exile who would have been arrested and imprisoned for sexual assault had he stayed in the Kingdom.” She gave a thin, cold smile. “Though he chooses to overlook that part of his past, and instead likes to portray himself as a noble martyr for free speech. Most of the elites of the Republic’s entertainment industry have similar skeletons in their closets, so he fits in well with them. What makes Slovell dangerous is his Machinist connections.”

  “The Republic is officially hostile to the Final Consciousness,” said March.

  “Oh, yes,” said Winter. “You have to understand the dynamic of our society, Mr. Norther. Our civilian leadership is thoroughly and totally corrupt…but the military leadership is not. The nature of the clone soldiers makes it difficult.”

  “I am at times inappropriately honest,” said Eighty with a cheerful smile.

  “Yes.” Winter patted his hand. “The Falcons let the civilian elites do what they want, but if they step too far over the line, the military will just have them shot without warning and without trial. And with his Machinist sympathies, Slovell is edging closer to that line, and he’s drawing the attention of the government. That’s why the Silent Order is allowed to operate on Raetia, incidentally. Falcon Intelligence knows all about us and could have us killed any time they want. So long as we focus on dealing with Machinist subversion, the Falcons let us alone. Since the Final Consciousness is the chief enemy of the Silent Order anyway, it works well.”

  “And since Slovell is a Machinist sympathizer,” said March, “and probably a Machinist agent, the Falcons will give us a free hand in dealing with him?”

  “Yes,” said Winter. “So long as we don’t cause them any troubles.” She paused. “And if Slovell has to be terminated, it should look like an accident.”

  March nodded. “That might be necessary, but our main task is to discover the source of the radiation weapon he used to kill those people.”

  “Yes, this triple-theta radiation weapon,” said Winter. “It seems…improbable.”

  “It does,” said March. “But those men and women at Gavin & Temper are still dead.” As were the crew of the Outer Vanguard Station and the two ships.

  “And they were killed by triple theta-band dark energy radiation, Ms. Winter,” said Cassandra. “There can be no doubt. Triple theta radiation is the only thing that inflicts that kind of cellular damage.”

  “That’s the main reason Dr. Yarrow and I are here,” said March. “Slovell is a problem, but not a major one. A secret Machinist weapon is a much greater threat. Dr. Yarrow is an expert in dark energy physics, and she can help us track down the weapon.”

  “And I suppose you have the usual skill set of an Alpha Operative?” said Winter.

  “Something like that,” said March.

  Eighty snorted. “My dear, you should have seen how he dealt with the scooter gang. If he had wanted, he could have killed them all.”

  “That would have been no loss,” muttered Winter. “This neighborhood is long overdue for a serious crackdown.” She met March’s gaze. “But that’s not your problem. How would you like to proceed?”

  “We should begin by surveilling Slovell and tracking his movements,” said March. “Is he based in Arcology Twelve?”

  “He is,” said Winter. “He has a production studio not far from my offices, actually. He also has a satellite studio at Northgate City's branch of the University of Raetia, which is also located in Arcology Twelve. He spends a great deal of time there. The ostensible purpose of the satellite studio is to provide a learning experience for interns and to train students in free-speech activism. The actual purpose is to provide Slovell with a constant pool of college-aged women he can seduce or coerce into bed.”

  “Charming,” muttered Cassandra.

  “By Calaskaran standards, the Falcon Republic is rather libertine,” said Winter.

  “That’s the civilians,” said Eighty. “The clones have better self-control.”

  Winter gave him a fond smile and then turned her attention back to Cassandra. “But even by Raetian standards, Slovell’s behavior is extreme. He’s spent a great deal of money on bribes to keep allegations of assault quiet.”

  “We’ll start at the University,” said March. “His security will be lighter there, and it will be easier to break in and have a look around.”

  “As you wish, then,” said Winter. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4: Surveillance

  Winter and Eighty maintained a set of guest rooms
on the top floor of Eighty’s building. Winter explained that sometimes she needed to hide witnesses until the police and the magistrates could interview them, or that on occasion someone working with the Silent Order had to lay low.

  The guest rooms were pleasant enough, and March slept well.

  Early the next morning, March and Cassandra joined Eighty in the back room of the pawn shop. Winter had departed to deal with matters at her office.

  “Good morning, Dr. Yarrow, Mr. Norther,” said Eighty. His perpetual cheerfulness seemed undimmed by the early hour. “Sleep well, I hope?”

  “Just fine,” said March. Cassandra yawned and covered her mouth. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and she wore mostly the same outfit as yesterday, though with a green T-shirt instead of red and a black skirt instead of gray. “I suppose you have some equipment for us?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Eighty, crossing to one of the metal cages. He unlocked it and drew out a pair of printed pistols fashioned from dull gray plastic. “Nine millimeters, semiautomatic, eighteen-round magazines. You can’t take plasma weapons into the arcologies since the police get annoyed when you start blasting holes in the walls.”

  “But kinetic firearms are just fine?” said March, taking the gun and holster Eighty offered him.

  “Yep,” said Eighty as March donned the shoulder holster and concealed it beneath his coat. “It’s cheaper to remove dead bodies than to repair damage to the arcologies.” Cassandra looked at the pistol, shrugged and tucked it into her laptop bag. “Also, stun pistols are illegal, but hand stunners are just fine.” He passed March and Cassandra a pair of hand stunners, their emitters polished to a bright chrome. “If someone’s coming at you and you give him a zap of this, he’s not getting back up again for a while.”

  “Hopefully we won’t need any weapons,” said March, tucking the stunner into his right coat pocket. “I just want to have a look around Slovell’s University building.”

  “That’s the plan,” said Eighty, equipping himself with his own weapons. “But I think all three of us have been in the business long enough to know that plans turn to shit at the worst possible time.”