by Stephen Moss
Shadows of sighs echoed through the ether, but Sam ignored them even as he smiled. Someone had to be the taskmaster, and he knew none of them really begrudged him his role.
The team of four wreckers pushed off backward from the anchor point, spooling out the cables that kept them latched to it as they went.
They let themselves drift outward parallel to Hekaton’s surface until they were well out and could see up either side of the big engine module they had just brought to ground. Once they could see a clear line to where it was still attached to its seven brothers, they kicked off hard with their arms/legs, swimming upward on each side to grab onto the massive spars they now had to disengage.
They had attached this one engine to Hekaton, but now they had to move on, separating it from the full mass of the ship so they could maneuver to the next anchor point and start the whole process over again.
As they grabbed onto the upper spars, they sent signals to the ends of their cables still grasping the anchor below and released them, reeling in the cables even as they attached others to new points on the inside framework of the ship.
They were always anchored to something. They could not risk one of the big brutes floating off into space. Even though there were no actual people in them, the four incredible hulks were far more important to their mission than any individual crewmember, and they all knew that.
Peter: ‘latched and ready, anchor point one is prepped.’
Other confirmations came back to Sam and he waited to initiate separation, waiting for clearance from Charlie that they had a good window.
- - -
It was fifteen minutes later, and the next time the engines fired Charlie was at last allowed to fire one of them with purpose, not just as an exercise in expenditure. Now that the first engine was tethered to Hekaton, they would move the asteroid itself, not themselves, and as the moment came, Charlie kicked his heels on the rock’s flanks and suddenly it was moving beneath them. The first of an ever more pervasive set of demands they would place on their new home.
Charles: ‘we have rotation at zero point three cycles.’
Remedios: ‘i have cable spool at matching rates.’
They watched as one-eighth of their ship moved serenely away toward the stark horizon. It would not go far before Charlie fired it once more to stop Hekaton’s brief rotation, once they were over the next anchor point.
Remedios: ‘nice work, charlie.’
Charles: ‘you too, remedios.’
Chapter 8: Covered
“As the video shows, the attempt was very real, and came dangerously close to being successful.”
The room was appropriately disquieted by the sight. It was an image of the aborted attack on Neal in the corridor outside the Korean delegation’s meeting room. It had been brought in by Ayala, Neal’s head of security, at the beginning of a new session held as addendum to the main negotiations. A session to review the evidence of the attack and discuss its ramifications.
It showed, from the perspective of the hallway camera, the suddenness of the attack. It showed a South Korean guard clearly attempting to strike the leader of TASC with what could only be seen as malicious intent. And, of course, it was a fake. A beautiful fake made within Minnie’s beautiful mind.
The room eyed Minnie’s avatar, the woman that had been introduced as Neal’s personal bodyguard, with newfound respect as the video showed her lash out ferociously and bring down the attacker. Then it showed as she and the other Korean guard manhandled the assailant to the ground and restrained him, before both frog-marching the man away.
“As you can see,” said Ayala to the silent room, “the attack was unsuccessful, but only because of the bravery and quick reactions of Neal’s personal guard.” She made a show of nodding to Minnie’s avatar, and then added something to help smooth the way for the next step in the little sham. “And the help of the other Korean guard. A man who is even now helping us with our inquiry.”
Various members of the delegation seemed to react to this, and for the next few hours questions of jurisdiction would be argued with not inconsiderable zeal by both sides. But Neal and Ayala were adamant that either they were to be allowed to handle the investigation in their own way, or they would be forced to hand matters over to the International Criminal Court at The Hague.
This made it really a test of the Korean certainty that there was no true culpability on their part, a faith they could not, of course, have. So they finally acquiesced to a discreet investigation handled by Ayala and her people, rather than face a very public one judged in the light of fickle public opinion. For no matter what the world’s leaders might think of TASC’s newfound ‘independence’ in private, the Koreans had no doubt how few of their fellow world leaders would offer much in the way of public support for anyone caught crossing the people that now ruled the skies.
So Ayala got her way, but was nothing if not gracious, agreeing to release the innocent guard back to his unit once they were done, and agreeing to further talks on the fate of the guilty party once they had completed their investigation.
They parted with every semblance of friendship and allegiance. But like the video that had so neatly covered up the extent of Ayala and Minnie’s true capabilities, their proffered smiles and handshakes were all a beautiful lie.
- - -
Minnie:
Neal: ‘good, good. i think i am finished for the day. ¿any new information from madeline and john?’
Minnie:
And no one tried to kill them either, thought Neal.
Jim was a clever taskmaster. He had worked with Minnie to codify and quantify their goals for each meeting, both in terms of what they needed from their various allies in this first wave of full-scale negotiations, and what they were willing and able to give in return. It allowed them to rate each of the lengthy sessions, a job he had then diplomatically handed over to the implacable Minnie so he could play the role of participant rather than having to hold the whip himself.
But by doing all this Jim had made it a competition. Neal smiled to himself at the simple artifice.
Neal: ‘i am ready to leave now. jim is planning on staying here, i believe. he has some side meetings with some of his contacts this evening. as, i believe, does ayala.’
She did. Her investigation was already well underway. She would leave the wetter work of continuing the interrogation of their new prisoners to Saul Moskowitz back at Rolas. She had some meetings to conduct, and would maybe even head east in the morning, depending on what she discovered.
So Neal made his way to the bank of heavily armored limos that sat in a basement parking lot of the UN complex with only Minnie’s Phase Eight for company. Minnie would see him aboard his StratoJet and then return to help Ayala, should she need any assistance.
- - -
“Welcome aboard TASC Air,” said Jennifer with a smile as Neal joined her in the long, thin cabin of the plane.
While the jets remained brutally utilitarian by civilian standards, they had made a few concessions to comfort in the form of a series of thick, soft chairs that could recline into something akin to a bed.
The arms could also balloon out at alarming speeds to completely pin their occupants should the plane need to maneuver or engage a threat, but barring that eventuality, the big, plush chairs were something like luxury for the versatile military craft.
Neal smiled. Jennifer was a rare thing in his day, neither an enemy nor an employee, and not really a member of his inner-circle either. Her unfortunate induction into th
e early ugly days of their conspiracy had bought her a place of trust, but she was, in the end, just a pilot. A good one, but no more. Not a leader, not a strategist, and not a spy.
“Where are the flight attendants? Where does a man get a gin and tonic around here?” he said with a smile.
“A man gets it himself, from the cabinet in the back, just like everyone else.”
He laughed, appropriately chided, and turned to do as she had advised while her eyes glazed for a moment, her attention jumping elsewhere.
She engaged the engines with smooth professionalism, rising the black arrowhead up off the tarmac with ease and restraint. He felt the press of the rising floor under him and turned with a look of surprise to his pilot, still facing him, but her attention was obviously elsewhere as she manipulated the planes three jets and pulled up into the evening sky.
She hadn’t even waited for him to sit down. But she was skilled, and it showed as she kept his center of gravity balanced, sacrificing speed for finesse.
Watching her, he tipped his head to the side a touch, then reached for a bottle of whiskey that sat in the cabinet, and a glass. He poured, as much as a test of her skill as out of an immediate need for refreshment, and nodded appreciatively as the liquid flowed from the bottle and settled in the glass, heavier perhaps with the weight of acceleration, but not unduly shaken.
“May I sit now?” he said, and her expression returned for just a moment.
“That would probably be best.” She smiled, bashful, yet pleasantly smug at the same time.
He replaced the whiskey bottle then took his seat, and felt as the tug of the engines increased markedly as he sat down, driving him backward.
“I’ll be with you in a second.” she said, her eyes still glazed. She was flying hard now, taking off the gloves as she broke out over Long Island and accelerated out over the Atlantic. She was climbing all the time, into the plane’s rightful domain, into the stratosphere, into the thin air that was the border with TASC’s infamous fourth district. As she entered the open, clear sky, she released control to the onboard AI and came back into the cabin.
“Good takeoff, sir?”
“Very good, Captain, thank you.” He nodded, and she smiled. Few would think of Neal as a man you joked around with, but he had once been an easygoing guy, and those that knew him well knew there was a place for frivolity with him. A small place, but a place nonetheless.
“Can I get you something?” Neal said, going to stand, but she shook her head and reached for a bottle of water in the console to her right. She faced him, from the front of the plane. Unlike earlier versions, these latest StratoJets had no windows. If you wanted to see outside, you connected with the plane’s sensor suite. It was a far better view than you would get through a small plastic window anyway.
But these two had seen too much to be much bothered by staring out of a window, and as they sped away into the twilight, night rushing to meet them from the east, they relaxed.
“So, I gather you had an interesting day?” she said, knowing he would decide what he could and could not tell her. But she had seen his original jet leave with great haste a little earlier, and knew that for Neal’s own jet to be commandeered it must have been carrying important cargo indeed.
He regarded her. She had every clearance she could possibly need, gained through necessity rather than qualification perhaps, but once trust is earned, who cares how it was come by.
So he spoke to her with an uncommon openness. “They tried to kill me,” he said with more feeling than he had expected.
Her eyes went wide. Had he just said … but …“Wait, who tried to kill you?”
“A South Korean guard. But I doubt it was really the Koreans behind it, or rather Ayala does, and she is probably right. No one would be foolish enough to attempt an assassination with their own delegation nearby. It had to have been someone that didn’t mind risking South Korea’s standing with the taskforce. Which leaves …”
His voice trailed off and he stared at his drink. She waited. Eventually he looked back at her, “I’m sorry, I …”
“Not at all,” she said with evident sympathy. “I can honestly say that every time someone has tried to kill me I haven’t felt like chatting about it afterward.”
He snorted a little and then smiled. He had indirectly ordered her death once, but it had been for a good cause. Something the people behind today’s assassination attempt told themselves as well, no doubt.
“Yes, well,” Neal said, “I was so busy in the aftermath of it all I didn’t really get to think about it until now.”
“Was anybody hurt?” she asked, then added, “I mean, if you can tell me.”
“I can.”
Indeed, he could tell anyone anything he liked. After all, he was in charge.
He caught his breath at the thought, as he often did. It was a sign of the times indeed when a man like him could end up with a job as important as this, he thought, though he kept that thought to himself.
“No, no one was hurt. Though I doubt the guard in question much enjoyed the experience. Or his unfortunate colleague who was witness to the whole affair.” He made eye contact with her again, and added, “They were the ones aboard my jet, en route, no doubt, to an engaging evening of chatting with one of Ayala’s people.”
He did not mean to sound bitter, or to mock the Spezialists that had fought so valiantly in Hungary as he referred to the other ‘specialties’ Ayala’s dark team possessed. But it was an ugly side to an already ugly business.
With a surprising softness, Jennifer said, “You are an important man, now, Neal. Things like this are going to happen, and you shouldn’t feel responsible for people harmed in the process. Any blood is on the hands of people who planned this, not you.”
He looked at her anew, as she added, “You’ll just have to forgive Ayala, and the rest of us, if we don’t have a lot of sympathy for anyone that tries to hurt you. Fuck ’em, if you don’t mind me saying. You are trying to save them, whoever they are, and this is how they repay you. Mikhail and Pei had an excuse at least. But anyone fighting us now …”
He smiled again, with an affection that belied something deeper he had felt long ago, when he had first met her. They were discussing profound issues, but she had brought it back to the personal.
“Thank you, Jennifer. I needed that.”
“Anytime. And it is Jen to you.”
He fought an urge that he hadn’t felt in two years. Not that he hadn’t wanted anyone in that long. He had been busy, not dead. And maybe, in his quasi-dreamtime with Minnie, he had dabbled with some virtual scenarios he wouldn’t want his mother to know about, but he hadn’t actually found himself seriously thinking about kissing someone since before the first asteroid had come crashing to Earth three years beforehand.
Jennifer had sensed Neal looking at her through rose-colored lenses when they first met, and she saw it now, again. She liked the sensation. She did not stand up to kiss him, exactly, but she did stand to go to him, walking around behind his chair. She took him by the shoulders and starting to massage the stress from them, the ache of Atlas. It was a gesture of friendship, but the contact was charged with a baser desire neither would mention today, but which neither denied to themselves either.
Neal closed his eyes and did not speak as she pushed and pulled at the strained muscles of his back and neck, and perhaps it would have been an awkward silence, if the attraction hadn’t been mutual. But where he had been theoretically the most influential man on Earth when they first met, now he was that by any reasonable measure you could find, and she was not ashamed to admit it was very, very sexy.
Neither knew if it would go anywhere, but also neither doubted that they wanted it to, as Jennifer pressed the stress out of his shoulders. They had only a couple of hours to Rolas. Neal would sleep in safety once they got there, alone for now, then return in the morning.
Chapter 9: Clandestination
The bar was almost stereotypical in its dingi
ness. Only a heavy pall of stale cigarette smoke long since banned from such places could have made it any more predictable a place to meet, that and maybe Stacy Keach sitting on a stool looking surly. But despite the dive’s unsurprising feel, the surrounding throng of twenty-and thirty-somethings either seeking or avoiding eye contact with members of the opposite sex still made for a thick enough fog in which to conduct her business.
Some of the more daring of the men around even wondered whether they might try to talk to the dark set lady who came in through the main door, glanced around the room, and continued surveying the space and its occupants even after she had already seen the man she had come to meet.
The bouncer went as if to ask for ID from her, even though the strikingly attractive woman was clearly in the grey area between forty and sixty, a place where health and vigor hold more sway on appearance than age alone. But a look from her said something along the lines of: from one professional to another, let’s skip the bullshit, shall we, and out of an instinctual respect he nodded and let her pass without comment.
She did not go straight to her contact. She walked to the bar, the crowd parting with an ease any of the bar’s other patrons would have envied, and locked the bartender’s eyes with her own. She waved at one of the taps, though it did not really matter which it was. After a minute or so she was served, took a long gulp to lower the level of the amber draft, and turned to find her date for the evening.
“Good evening,” said the man as they hugged. He was maybe thirty, a child in her circles, perhaps, but one with whom Ayala had had the pleasure of working with before, and with whom she had established a measure of personal respect.
But that had not brought him to her side alone. He was also a believer, having seen firsthand the Ubitsyas of the fallen Russian ‘Federation,’ and having even been saved, to some degree, by Ayala’s diligence when the Steel Curtain had fallen over his posting a year ago.
Nick Huxley held her hug as they spoke quickly into each other’s ears, smiling as though exchanging pleasantries, for all the world like the oldest of friends.
