by Richard Fox
Gage shot him in the chest, the bullets shattering the windshield into fragments. Through the spider-web-cracked glass, the pilot lay dead over the controls, blood dripping down the back of his seat and off the console.
As the active engine wound down slowly, Gage turned his attention to the crushed crow’s nest. The red smears against the glass spoke of what happened to the two men inside.
Kamala, his clothes torn and covered in leaves, limped over to the back of the shuttle. The Siam man pointed a bloody hand at Gage and shouted.
“Untranslatable,” came through Gage’s earpiece in a woman’s voice.
“What? Are you hurt?” Gage looked over the man, who was bleeding from many small cuts.
“With your mother—untranslatable—and both dogs!” Kamala pointed to the other side of the cargo ramp. “Go trip the emergency release when I say so. Curse you and that cross-eyed diseased foreigner of yours that can’t shoot.”
Gage unsnapped a panel on the other side of the ramp and grabbed the orange handle within. Kamala nodded and they pulled at the same time. The ramp slammed to the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust.
Kamala jumped onto the ramp, screaming in his own language. Several female voices answered him. Four young women were chained to the bulkhead, all in nighttime clothes and crying almost hysterically. Gage’s earpiece couldn’t keep up with the rapid-fire Siam-ese as Kamala spoke with them.
“Kamala? Kamala! How many pirates were there? We can account for six,”
Gage said.
“One more,” the scout said. “He left when that first went to check on the alarm.”
“Probably on his way back.” Gage went back down the ramp and was met by Bertram and Clyde, neither of whom looked the worse for wear.
“Sir! Did you see the giant bloody tree that tried to kill us?” Bertram asked. “I never knew I could run that fast. Are you well, sir? You look like a ghost.”
“There’s one more pirate out there,” Gage said. “Form a perimeter and keep an eye out.”
“There he is.” Clyde pointed over Gage’s shoulder and sidestepped around the commodore with his weapon raised. Bertram, who barely came up to Gage’s sternum, spread his arms wide and jumped between his officer and danger.
A tall pirate stood at the edge of the clearing, his arms held wide, a rifle dangling from one hand.
“Albion military!” Clyde shouted. “Drop your weapon or I’ll—”
The pirate tossed his rifle aside and ran off into the jungle.
“Oh, all right then.” Clyde half-raised his weapon to aim, then looked at Gage. “Shoot him, sir? Seems hardly fair what with him being unarmed.”
“Forget him,” Gage said, watching the pirate flee. “We’ll get his weapon. He’ll either make his way back to the village and surrender or…what is that? Up in the trees?”
A dark shape fell from the jungle canopy and landed on top of the pirate. A terrified scream ended abruptly followed by a low ululation that echoed through the forest, punctuated by the snap of bone.
“Drop bear,” Kamala said from the top of the ramp. The four young women clustered behind him, each rubbing their wrists where they’d been bound. “They won’t attack an armed man unless they’re hurt or starving. Idiot volunteered to be lunch when he tossed his rifle aside. Such is life in the jungle.”
“Is it still hungry?” Bertram slunk back behind Gage.
“It’ll carry the kill to its nest, share with the other one I saw. They’re predators, not trophy hunters.” Kamala reached into his shirt and plucked out a leaf with a bloody stem. “How about you bring down your medic?”
“Yes, of course.” He slapped Bertram on the shoulder and his steward turned away, one hand to his mic. “Are the girls injured?”
“Scared, few bruises,” Kamala said. “Slaves are worth more than bodies. ‘Intact’ slaves…even more.” Kamala let a half-smile spread over his scratched face. “They’re lucky the pirates were more disciplined with some things than others.”
“We’ll call in our own shuttle,” Gage said, “get them back home and to a proper medical checkup.”
The oldest of the young women spoke with Kamala, then she took Gage’s hand and pressed his knuckles between her eyes.
“Kamala?” Gage asked as a second one did the same.
“It’s how we say thank you.” He held out his hand to the oldest and received the same honor.
“What do I—”
“Nothing. The more you acknowledge the thanks, the more you devalue the act. For this, do not speak of what happened to them ever again, or you’ll insult them.”
“Fair enough.”
****
Bertram carried a box of stolen goods to the middle of the clearing and set it down next to a neat stack of cases.
“That’s the last of it,” he said, wiping his hand across his brow. “The weather never gets better, does it? Just hotter and wetter. We’ll have to swim back to base camp at this rate.”
His eyes went over the line of equipment packs…his gaze stopped at the last missile tube strapped tight to Clyde’s gear.
“Commodore Gage, sir?”
Gage looked up from a data slate where he was cataloging the contents of an open case.
“What is it?”
“Just a thought, but what about the G9? We can’t leave it out there where another pirate could fix it up. Who knows what kind of trouble that would lead to?”
“All the pirates are dead,” Clyde said.
Bertram elbowed him in the side and said, a bit too loudly, “Well, those poor ladies were under so much stress. Maybe they got their count wrong. There’s one or two more in those woods. If we just leave that shuttle in its repairable state and…”
“What’re you getting at, Bertram?” Gage asked without looking up.
“We’ve another mortar tube…” Bertram shrugged his shoulders, then gave Clyde a wide-eyed look.
“It makes perfect tactical sense, sir.” Clyde perked up as Bertram’s idea spread. “Leave nothing for the enemy. We blow up the G9 with the mortar. Perfect strategic…continuity…of operations. Yes.”
Gage finally looked up. He shook his head slowly.
“Could use the fire to signal the incoming shuttle,” Chief Eisen said. “Helpful, what with all the interference in the atmosphere. Doubt the civilians can make that hike back to the city. I’d rather not spend the night out here, listening to Bertram whine about drop bears.”
“Master Chief Eisen,” Gage said.
“Sir.”
“Have the men destroy the pirate shuttle with our last mortar. I expect better aim this time.”
“All right, lads, you heard the man. Time to blow shit up!” Bertram announced to the rest of the sailors. “In a most professional manner, of course.”
Chapter 4
A man wearing an untucked shirt and stained pants relied on a wall to stay upright as he shambled down the sidewalk.
“You tell her I hope she’s happy with him!” he slurred at a passing couple. He took a sip from a metal flask and lost his grip on the wall. His shoulder thumped against the faux-brick exterior, but he didn’t spill a drop of his drink.
“They deserve each other!” He tilted his head back for another swig, then sank to the ground and kicked his legs out.
“Always knew he had an eye for her…bastard.” His chin sank to his chest, then his head lolled from side to side. Bleary eyes stared across the street to a two-story townhouse nestled between a robot services emporium and a clothing store.
“All right, your little act got an emergency services response,” came through the drunk’s earpiece.
“No activity from the target location,” the drunk mumbled. “Surveillance still have all four suspects inside?”
A bird flit overhead and landed on a windowsill two stories above the drunk’s head. He waited as the artfully disguised drone examined the townhouse.
“All four still there. Heat maps of their bodies consistent
with everyone who’s been in and out of that house for the last two days…You sure about this, Tolan? Bunch of well-behaved nobodies in that house, and this is a nice neighborhood. We could have them all picked up by uniforms the next time they go to work.”
Tolan sniffed at the alcohol soaked into his clothes, then took a sip from his tea-filled flask.
“One is always in the house ready to destroy any and all evidence. This is a state security matter, not local police. Your input was received and ignored. Deliver the crawfish on my mark,” Tolan said and then slumped against a garbage can.
“You get to go back to the ivory tower after this. I get to clean up your mess, thank you very much. Drone in the air. Squad car with your assault team on the way.”
A teenage boy walked in front of Tolan and did a double take.
“Hey, mister. You OK?” He reached for Tolan’s shoulder.
“Piss off!” Tolan made a lazy swipe that missed by a mile. “That bitch locked me out of my own house. She wants freedom to-to-to live her own life…so I’m going to live my life out here with the only thing I can trust.” He took a drink.
“That sounds…rough. Maybe you have a friend I could call?”
A delivery quad-copter buzzed overhead and hovered over a lockbox two doors down. It slid a package the size of a cinder block into the box and zipped away. The top of the lockbox stayed open.
“Don’t need a good smarayman right now. Beat it.” Tolan squirmed away from the teenager.
“There’s a church around the corner. Pastor Smith is a good listener. Let me help you up…” He reached for Tolan’s wrist.
A police cruiser rounded the corner. In the target house, someone peeked around the edge of the curtains.
Tolan grabbed the teenager and looked him in the eye with a stone-cold sober expression.
“Son. You need to leave. Right. Now.”
“What the—what’s going on here?”
Six darts rose out of the open lockbox with a high-pitched whine. The crawfish drones flew across the street and broke through windows on the first and second floor of the townhouse.
A bright flash of light erupted from the home, like a bolt of lightning had been born and died within its confines. The afterimage seared across Tolan’s eyes, blinding him.
Through a tinnitus roar in his ears, he heard the meddlesome teen crying in shock. Tolan blinked hard…then saw the police cruiser driving right for them. He grabbed the kid by the shirt and shoved him into the street. Tolan got his feet under him and jumped up, cleared the hood of the cruiser by inches, then took the windshield against his thigh. The impact sent him rolling over the cruiser and spilled him onto the sidewalk.
Tolan used the momentum and stopped on his hands and feet. He looked up at the townhouse, which was completely dark. Every building and light source was without power. The faux-bird drone lay in the street, wings broken from a bad landing.
“Control, was that an EMP?” Tolan reached behind his back and drew two sidearms, one with a much larger barrel than the other.
The lack of response from the command center was all the answer Tolan needed. He felt sick to his stomach as he realized the suspects inside the house were using this confusion to either escape or destroy any trace of their crimes.
He aimed the wide-barreled pistol at the doorframe and fired three times. Each shot of breach gel stuck to the frame and the doorknob, changing color from black to red as the chemical goo reacted to the air.
Tolan raced over to the teenager sprawled in the middle of the road and put himself between the coming explosion and the teen.
A sharp crack blew the door off its hinges and sent it barreling through the house with a crack of breaking wood. Tolan tossed the breach gun aside and ran through the smoking entrance, his other pistol held high and ready.
The door-turned-projectile had torn gouges along the walls before crashing into the kitchen and leaving a sizable dent in the refrigerator. Tolan stopped in the doorway as a rancid smell assaulted his senses. The scent of burning BBQ and burning copper filled his nose and stung his eyes.
There, lying over the threshold to the living room, an arm stretched into the hallway. The flesh was burnt black, and white tips of bone jutted from the remains of fingers. Tendrils of black smoke rose from the arm and pooled against the ceiling.
Tolan squared the corner to the living room and choked down bile. One body sat on a couch, a data slate still gripped over its lap. Two more lay on the floor. All were burnt beyond recognition, jaws frozen open, white teeth bared in silent screams.
A grunt and shuffle of boots against a wooden floor came from the front room.
Tolan turned away from the horrific scene and sidestepped to the open door leading to the living room.
A man lay on the floor, a crawfish drone sticking out from his back. The drone’s pincers sent jolts of electricity into the prone man, sending his limbs into spasms with each shock. His face twitched constantly and a line of drool stretched from his lips to the floor.
The crawfish drones were designed to incapacitate and restrain suspects, not torture them. Tolan slipped a set of cuffs from his belt and approached the last living suspect. The electromagnetic pulse must have damaged the crawfish. As an agent in the King’s service, he was skilled in many intelligence and combat disciplines. Removing a malfunctioning and electrified drone was not in his repertoire.
He touched the cuffs to the suspect’s wrist and got a nasty shock up his arm.
Tolan cursed and shook his half-numb hand. He waited until the crawfish finished a jolt, then snapped the restraint over one wrist. He tried to bring the man’s wrists together and got another shock.
“To hell with it.” Tolan kicked the crawfish off the man and dropped a knee onto his neck. The man uttered a guttural phrase and tried to get up. Tolan brought the man’s wrists together and the restraints locked in place.
“Shemalge! Shemalge!”
“Shut up.” Tolan rammed an elbow into the back of his head with enough force to bounce his forehead off the floor. The man went slack, unconscious. The agent took another set of cuffs from his belt and fastened them to the man’s ankles. He ran a metal wire to the handcuffs and the restraints tightened, bringing the suspect’s feet off the floor and hog-tying him into place.
“Central, one in custody.” Tolan tapped at his earpiece but got nothing but intermittent static.
“Mister?” came from the doorway.
Tolan rolled his eyes and looked up at the teenager, who stood slack-jawed, pointing a finger outside.
“The…the police in the cruiser are hurt. They crashed into the Murphy’s house. No air bags or crash foam,” he said. “What…” He twisted around to look at the three burnt bodies. “I mean…what happened?”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“James Seaver.”
Tolan felt the left half of his face tingle…the first sign of a more serious issue. One he couldn’t have anyone witness.
“James, did you see anything?”
“Well, you were drunk—pretending to be drunk, then—”
“James,” Tolan’s grip on his pistol went white in frustration, “did you see anything?”
“No, sir!”
Tolan sighed in relief as the kid started to get it. The sound of sirens filled the air.
“And I didn’t see you either. Let’s keep it that way. Get out of here.” Tolan got to his feet.
James took a tentative step back, his head twisting from the bound man to the three smoldering bodies.
“Move!”
The teen bolted from the house and then down the street.
Tolan went to the front doorway and found a cracked mirror bolted to the wall. The left side of his face had gone slack, like he’d survived a stroke, and the color on that half had bled away to alabaster white.
“Not now…please not now.” Tolan pressed a hand over his stricken half and concentrated on a mental image of his face as it should be. Taking a meta
l cigarette case from his pocket and flicking it open, he plucked a thin cigarette from within and pressed one end against his throat. A tiny hidden needle injected a drug that sent a shiver through his body.
He took his hand away from his face and found his reflection as it should be. An itch formed in the back of his mind, a desire that would grow worse in the coming hours.
Tolan went back to the bound man. He’d regained consciousness and stared at Tolan with hatred.
“What’s your name?” Tolan asked. “What the hell happened to your friends?”
The prisoner sneered at Tolan and turned his face away.
“Fine. You’ll talk eventually, buddy. How hard that’ll be is up to you.” Tolan kept his pistol trained on the man as a half-dozen police cruisers and ambulances arrived.
Chapter 5
The armory felt like home. The hand-carved wooden pillars against the eight corners ran to the center of the ceiling where a painted fresco of the Genevan Alps’ Oath Keeper Peak seemed to look down on Salis. The faint smell of ozone in the air and the round exercise platform made her anxious. She’d trained for years in a dojo just like this, all in preparation for this moment.
Salis, in the middle of a scan ring, clenched muscle groups in response to prompts from a wire diagram of her body floating in the air in front of her. She wore only the barest of undergarments that were surely scandalous by Albion standards. The Genevan had little concerns for modesty between each other.
Royce, his body covered in matte bronze armor that appeared little more than a skin suit, stood beside a Genevan woman as her fingers danced over a holo screen.
“This is your first gestalt?” the stern-faced woman asked.
“Correct.” Salis raised a hand and spread the fingers wide, then touched each digit to her palm. The woman, who’d introduced herself as Chiara, had a thick scar from the middle of her forehead to the base of her chin that skirted around her nose and split her lips. To repair such a maim was almost trivial for a surgeon, but a Genevan did not hide wounds earned in the line of duty.
The scan ring powered down and Salis’ heart began pounding.
