by Richard Fox
A panel opened on a wall, and an upright, clear coffin slid out and floated toward Salis. A suit of bronze armor sized for a man larger than Salis floated within. The armor’s visor was modelled after helms from Earth’s medieval past. Salis stared into the darkness beneath the thin wire mesh over the eye sockets.
“This gestalt has served us for eighty-seven years,” Royce said. “Through your bond, House Ticino will know your quality.”
“I serve to honor my house, my charge, and the gestalt,” Salis continued the ritual words older than all the cities on Geneva.
“How long will you honor your oaths?”
“Until my last dying breath.”
The empty armor raised its helm and looked at Salis. A chill ran down the base of her skull and through the neuro-wires stretched through her body. She gasped as the gestalt’s presence flowed through her. She lifted a hand and the armor mirrored the gesture. Salis pressed her hand to the coffin in tune with the armor.
The lid slid aside and the bronze metal touched her flesh. She felt a vibration through her fingers as the armor separated and flowed over her hand. Bronze squares and individual links of chain mail ran up her arm as the armor broke apart and reassembled over Salis’ body.
She clenched her jaw, feeling the gestalt’s touch pass over her shoulder and across her chest and back. The armor formed a ring around the base of her neck…then rose into a helm that covered her head, cutting her off from the world.
+Morgaten+ The gestalt whispered its name to her mind.
Salis. She focused her mind on the word. Communicating with the gestalt would take some practice, but the crude artificial intelligence would become a seamless extension of her body and mind in time.
Her surroundings returned as the gestalt closed around her legs. She lifted a foot as the last of the mail and squares slithered down a calf. She looked at her now-armored hands and squeezed them into fists. Her body felt…larger, almost as if it didn’t fit anymore.
“The seal isn’t perfect,” Chiara said. “Andrin’s pathways are still embedded in the gestalt, but they’ve nearly faded out. Give it a few more days and the dislocation will ease.”
Salis sent a desire to the gestalt and a square slid over an eye. The armor projected a perfect holo for her to “see” through the square and fed her system information.
“Why are some data feeds blocked? I can’t locate the royal family…local data feeds only…I’m not even connected to the palace’s security network,” she said.
“King Frederick hasn’t accepted you into his household yet,” Royce said. “The gestalt will unlock full functionality once you’ve sworn yourself to the throne. King’s orders.”
Royce stepped onto the round sparring mat and gave Chiara a quick glance.
The woman nodded.
The metal ring around the base of Royce’s neck stretched up and formed into a helm. Pale blue flashed from the eye lenses and the captain of the King’s Guard snapped a punch at Salis’ face.
The blade of her hand hit Royce’s wrist with a snap of metal on metal. Her gestalt flooded her body with adrenaline as she ducked a hook kick aimed at her temple. She launched a flurry of punches at Royce, her fists moving faster than she’d ever thought possible as her new armor acted in concert with her body.
Salis’ knuckles missed Royce’s jaw by a hair. The captain drove a knee toward her stomach. Her armor solidified before the blow landed, dispersing the force of the impact across her midsection. He slid his foot behind her leg and tripped her up with an almost casual bump from his shoulder.
Salis rolled with the momentum, dodging a stomp that cracked the dojo mat. Salis stopped, one knee on the mat, and saw Royce charging toward her. She jumped straight up, kicking the tip of her foot toward her attacker. The satisfying impact of her foot to Royce’s chin didn’t happen as she flipped backwards and landed on her feet.
She looked up and saw a fist an instant before it crashed into the bridge of her nose. Her gestalt braced armor against her neck and saved her from a blow that would have killed a normal person. Her vision swam as the blow knocked her onto her backside. Her left arm swung across her face without her even thinking of it and deflected a kick away from her throat.
Salis swept a leg into Royce’s ankle hard enough to trip him up and send him to the ground. She dove on top of him, pummeling his head with hammer blows that managed to either glance off his helmet or strike the floor as he evaded her attacks.
Royce lowered a hand to his waist, leaving his neck exposed. Salis locked a hand in place. The armor on her fingertips lengthened into knife points and she readied a blow that would rip into the thin armor over Royce’s jugular.
A flash of steel came up with the captain’s hand, a knife driving straight for her heart.
Salis angled her locked hand toward her weapon, but her armor fought against her, trying to carry out the original attack on Royce’s exposed neck. Her striking arm jerked to a halt.
Royce reached up and tapped a code into the base of Salis’ helm. Her armor lost all power and pulled her to the mat with its tremendous weight. Salis lay on her side, shame burning through her heart. For a fighter to disengage another’s gestalt in a fight was a humiliation, no matter how more experienced the opponent.
Royce got to his feet, then dropped the knife in front of her face. The blade was nothing more than a dull lump of metal, no threat to her armor.
“You had a killing blow, yet I beat you. Why?” Royce asked.
“My gestalt…it knew the blade wasn’t a threat, but I didn’t. We acted against each other.” Salis raised a heavy arm and slammed a fist to the mat.
“Your gestalt is older, wiser. You must learn to trust it.” Royce motioned to Chiara and Salis’ armor came back online.
“Marginal combat effectiveness from her,” the woman said. “Let me put her through the paces with robots and a few hours on the firing range.”
Royce grabbed Salis by the forearm and hauled her onto her feet. He rapped the back of his knuckles against her collarbone, an old Geneva way of thanking another for a good fight. Salis withdrew her helmet with a thought, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
“I’m taking her to the armory for a sidearm and shield. We have a matter of honor to attend to,” he said.
“She doesn’t need to know about—”
“She does. The King will question her before he accepts her oath. There is no hiding what happened.”
Chiara shook her head.
“What’s happened?” Salis asked.
“Come. I’ll explain on the way.”
****
Tolan watched a screen of the man in the interrogation room, his hands shackled to a table, his ankles similarly bound to a chair bolted to the floor. Tolan tugged at his lips as the man mumbled a word over and over again.
“Any hit on that word ‘shemalge’?” Tolan asked over his shoulder.
Director Ormond, chief of the Albion Intelligence Ministry, shook his head.
“Linguists at the university can’t place it,” Ormond said. “After all those years running around with the freaks in wild space, I half-expected you to know what he’s been saying.”
“Wild space is full of religious fanatics, techno-arcanists, pirates, and lots of normal men and women that just want to be left the hell alone,” Tolan said. “I didn’t meet any ‘freaks.’”
“I get that you had to go native to accomplish your mission, but you’re in civilization again. Time to remember who you were and what Albion values. You’ve got a mountain of vacation time and back pay waiting for you. I expect you to make the most of it once this…situation is resolved.”
“I’ll relax the minute Ja’war is executed for his crimes. When is his trial?”
Ormond clicked his tongue. “About that. More than half the nations involved in the last war lost senior diplomats in the attack on Westminster Station. There’s a pretty long list of political bodies that want their hands on Ja’war.”
&nbs
p; “We have a mountain of evidence pinning the attack on him. A recorded confession. Drag him in front of a magistrate and send him to the gallows. I volunteer as hangman.”
“But who hired him?” Ormond tossed his hands up in frustration. “Albion fought in the war. We pushed for it to end as soon as the shooting started. There were plenty of losers when the armistice was finally agreed to. The biggest brains in human space think one of the nations that lost territory and ships wanted the war to keep going so they could recover what they lost—that’s why someone hired Ja’war to hit the negotiations. If we just execute him before anyone else has the chance to get their hands on him, it’ll look like Albion has something to hide.”
“I could have killed him on Scarrus. But instead I brought him back for justice. Justice, boss. Not to be a pawn in a blame game for a war that ended two decades ago.” Tolan abandoned his normal poker face of impartiality and let his anger show on his face and through his words while speaking with his commander and longtime mentor.
“You went through a lot to catch him.” Ormond put a hand on Tolan’s shoulder. “Lost good people along the way. Bringing him back was the right thing to do, even though it’s caused an enormous pain in my ass. The wounds from the war are still fresh for some. The Indus and Cathay are at each other’s throats over neutral-zone violations. We flub Ja’war’s situation and that may be all the excuse they need to start shooting.”
“Shemalge,” came over the speakers from the interrogation room.
Tolan picked up a data slate and swiped a finger over the surface. A bio scan of the man came up. Pictures from a deep cell scan popped up and down the man’s back. Silver filigree laced through his spinal cord.
“This tech,” Ormond said, “was badly damaged when the crawfish sent the initial shock pulse through his system. Whatever EMP ripped through the house damaged him even further. Doesn’t conform to any known augments or neurological therapy. It isn’t a stretch to connect the implants to whatever burnt the other three into a crisp.”
“We have positive ID on the dead?” Tolan asked.
“No biometric markers survived the…crisping. Can’t even get DNA. Techs say they’ve never seen anything like it. We swept the house and got hits on four individuals. One body had a woman’s frame and a build similar to the initial subject in the investigation; got a DNA match for her too from a bedroom.”
“That’s not a hundred percent, but enough to work on.” Tolan pressed his hands into a steeple and tapped his fingers together as he watched the prisoner on the screen.
“Bunch of nobodies,” Ormond said. “No connection to any critical security systems. I’ve got my squirrels building out their social networks now. The only other lead we had is exhausted. The King is convinced the four were here to spring Ja’war out of prison. He wants to know who sent them here.”
“Yes, that would be most illuminating. Any law firms with connections to off-world powers come sniffing around to provide counsel?”
“None. Not even the usual ambulance chasers.”
“Odd…” Tolan stood up and pulled his skin taut over his temples.
“We’ll get you to a surgeon who’ll—”
“Later, boss. We’ll worry about that later.” Tolan looked in a mirror and concentrated on the face he’d worn when he’d run into the prisoner’s home. His features morphed: a bigger nose, darker skin, and a suitable five o’clock shadow. He thinned his lips slightly, then stepped out of the observation room.
The armed guards outside the interrogation room nodded to Tolan.
“Instructions?” one asked.
“Don’t come in unless he breaks his restraints.” Tolan put his palm to a sensor on the doorframe and the reinforced panel slid aside.
The prisoner didn’t acknowledge Tolan as he entered and sat down.
Tolan ran the fingertips of one hand across the table, noting the unacceptable amount of dust his touch accumulated. The room hadn’t seen use in some time. Albion hadn’t had a real threat since the last war ended so long ago. Peace had broken out across settled space. The only reason Albion had an oversized navy was for regular forays against pirates in wild space. Complacency was evident everywhere he looked in the palace. Tolan could accept that he was overly paranoid, a survival trait he’d cleaved to while undercover in the near-anarchy of worlds where Ja’war had been in hiding.
The man across from him was an enigma. His implants didn’t conform to anything in known space…and his rather dull lifestyle was at odds with the mystery of him and his dead roommates. There was one thing that Tolan knew better than any intelligence agent on this side of the galaxy, and that was Ja’war the Black.
“Darren Polonius.” Tolan said the man’s name and tapped out a quick beat on the table. “Sous chef at a steak house on Exeter’s spaceport. Before that you were a galley mate on the trader St. Barts.” Tolan paused, watching Polonius’ reaction to the ship’s name. The man kept his head down.
“The ship had an interesting trade route, came awfully close to wild space several times during the years you were aboard. Bet you met some interesting characters while you were out there,” Tolan said. “They say a man can have anything he wants in wild space, so long as he’s willing to pay the price. That how you got your implants?”
Polonius chuckled.
There’s something, Tolan thought.
“You know the penalty for undocumented augmentation? Ten years on a prison asteroid breaking out ore with a gravity pick. Immediate removal of the implants. Just need a writ from a judge for that, no trial or jury. You want to tell me about what’s woven into your spine before the docs get ahold of you? They won’t be careful—they’re shielded from malpractice suits while carrying out a judicial order. Ten years in jail is rough. It’s even worse if you’re a quadriplegic.”
Polonius looked up. One of his eyes twitched and the pupil dilated slowly.
“Maybe you liked wild space during your time on the St. Barts. Maybe I could get you back out there, help find a doctor that can fix you up, but I need you to cooperate.”
The prisoner’s face went slack. His mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to remember how to speak.
“Malarai Shemalge,” Polonius said.
“What’s that?”
“There’s a slicer on Tokara.” The words rasped out of Polonius’ throat. “Malarai Shemalge can fix me.”
“Tokara…that’s a planet in wild space, right? Big place, I’m sure. You want to give me some more information on this Malarai…” Tolan paused as Polonius stiffened at the word, “…this Malarai person.”
“Malarai Shemalge,” the prisoner spat, struggling against his restraints for the first time.
“Where does he or she work? If your health takes a bad turn, we can have him here in a few days. Help me out.”
“Clinic on the Shigewa River, couple miles north of Naha City. Make sure you ask for the right Malarai Shemalge. She has a gene twin that does womb edits. Not what I need,” Polonius said. “You know her name?”
“I’ve got it.” Tolan stood up, noting the twinge of frustration across Polonius’ face. “You want something to drink? You sound parched.”
Tolan backed out of the room and returned to the observation lounge where Ormond was waiting for him.
“You got us a lead. Well done,” the intelligence director said.
“He lied to me.” Tolan clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing across the small room. “I was on Tokara running down a lead on Ja’war the same time our subject was bouncing around the St. Barts. Couple years before that, the Shigewa River flooded out the entire valley when a glacier broke loose from an ice shelf. A wall of water spread Naha City across the ocean floor. Tens of thousands dead. Tragedy.”
“If this guy is a spy for a major power, he’s not a good one,” Ormond said. “Even if we didn’t have someone with your firsthand knowledge of wild space, it would take…twelve, maybe fourteen days to get a courier ship to and from Tokar
a and confirm that he’s lying to us.”
“He bought himself time. If I go back in there, I bet his slagged augments will start giving him fits. Two weeks…a lot can happen. Still, there’s something bothering me. I got to know most every ethically challenged flesh sculptor in wild space while I was making—” Tolan gestured to his face. “—this work. None ever used tech like what Polonius has wrapped around his spine. Whatever suicide switch he and the others have, I don’t think it’s wild-space tech.”
“That kind of augment violates more parts of the Vitruvian Accords than I can think of off the top of my head,” Ormond said. “Any intelligence agency that got caught using that would put their parent government in a heap of trouble with the League. Too much risk, not enough reward, especially when the old standbys of a poisoned tooth or subdermal toxin can still kill a compromised spy.”
“He may not be an agent of a foreign power.” Tolan tugged at his bottom lip. “His story and travel don’t fit with being part of a wild-space group either.”
“Why don’t you go ask Ja’war about him?”
“Ja’war worked alone. Always. His clients never met him face-to-face.” Tolan laughed derisively. “Which is what made catching him so damn difficult. He has no idea who this guy—or his barbequed friends—are. I already know the answer; no point in asking Ja’war.”
“So what am I supposed to tell the King?”
“We don’t know.” Tolan shrugged. “Not yet, at least. In the meantime, we should put the navy and internal security on high alert.”
“The whale passage festival starts tomorrow, you know that? There are eighty-seven slip transport ships loading and unloading freight from orbit. You expect me to go to the King, tell him to make things miserable for tourists, dignitaries, and every last potential complainer that has his ear? He’ll ask me why and I’ll have to do this…” Ormond raised his palms and shrugged his shoulders almost up to his ears.
“There’s something more to this situation than just Ja’war being in our custody. We got this lead from that Genevan who developed a guilty conscious. There’s a deeper connection we haven’t found yet. Tell the King that people don’t just burst into flames when the police knock on the door. Better safe than sorry.”
