The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1)

by Matthew Williams

  Sandoval lost all trace of joviality. For someone to remind her about the rules and regulations of her own facility. Even Ward didn’t think that was a good idea.

  “Like I said, I would not recommend an unescorted meeting,” she repeated.

  Emile appeared unhappy for the first time since Ward had walked in. Folding his hands in front of him, he adopted a civil, but firm tone.

  “Ma’am, under the articles of the Convict Labor Law, I, as his prospective employer, am entitled to share the details of his employment. In fact, I’m obligated to, if I want him to understand what is being asked of him.”

  Ward was familiar with the law himself. He knew such an arrangement involving convict laborers was only legal provided the convict had the terms of their employment spelled out well in advance.

  “Any conversations between the two of you will be recorded. You do know that, don’t you?” Sandoval attempted to get the last word.

  “Of course,” Emile conceded, smiling politely. “Everything I have to say is completely above board. I would only insist on a modicum of privacy so Mr. Ward and I feel we can speak freely and without intrusion or interruption.”

  That seemed to appease the Iron Widow a little, enough at least she seemed willing to let the two of them leave without a beating. She’d evidently missed the part where Emile implied she was the source of any anticipated interruption.

  “I must insist you be accompanied by guards.”

  “I don’t see the point.” Emile pointed to Ward’s temple, indicating the location of the neural implant currently keeping Ward in line. “But if you insist, I won’t protest.”

  Sandoval gave Ward another disparaging look before nodding to Emile.

  “All right. You have ten minutes. Then I want to speak to you personally, and privately.”

  Emile indicated his acceptance, placing his hands palm up towards her. Sandoval tapped a button on her desk and the door opened. Banks quickly stepped in, flanked by another guard.

  “Chief Banks,” she said. “Please escort these two individuals to the Observation Lounge. And make sure they’re not intruded upon.”

  Banks looked very much lost. “I’m sorry, what –”

  “Escort the prisoner and his visitor to the Observation Lounge!” repeated Sandoval. There was no disguising the mettle in her voice. “Can you do that or not?”

  Banks clicked his heels together and promptly obeyed. Gesturing to the door, the Chief allowed Ward and Emile to leave, before following closely behind.

  Once they were well away from the Administrator’s office, Ward felt safe to talk. Naturally, he circled the conversation back to the part appealing to him most.

  “So, if I accept this offer of yours, I would get to leave?”

  “That is one of the terms of the offer, yes. I would need you to do some travelling.” Emile waved a hand at the walls. “And you can’t very well do that if you’re here, can you?”

  “Travel, huh? Where to?”

  “Far, far away,” Emile answered wistfully.

  “Care to be more specific?”

  Emile chuckled, but said nothing more until they reached the Observation Lounge. Walking over to the room’s windows, he placed his hands behind his back and began looking out at the barren landscape and black, star-filled sky in wonder.

  “Quite the view, isn’t it? I’m surprised to find the view so empty.”

  Ward sidled up next to him and peered out on the Slinger. The powerful magnetic rails, coiled like a serpent and reaching upwards towards the sky, were currently idle. You never expected to hear their powerful hum all the way from the Observation Lounge, mainly because the Slinger was far away and situated on the surface of an airless planet. But when the Slinger was powered up and hurling balls of processed ore into orbit, ready for collection by the tugs which would hook onto its cargo pods before hauling them to their ultimate destination, it was said you always felt a slight rumble in the floor boards.

  Ward had yet to confirm this anecdotal information. Focusing on what Emile had said, he responded courteously.

  “Yeah, well, it’s late. Anyone who’s been out on the surface in the past few days is probably dead asleep. Anyone not cleared for work is languishing in their cells. Dangerous convicts don’t have the privileges others do.”

  Emile chuckled. “I suppose I deserve that. I really should have researched facility protocol before coming.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Ward said, sounding scarcely shy of impatient. “Now about this job.”

  “Yes, of course! The job would involve some travelling, as I said. But the destination, and the business you would be carrying out there? Well, that is very specific. You see, I need someone found.”

  “All right,” Ward replied, hoping for more. “Is this someone special?”

  “You might say so. He is a colleague. A senior fellow among the Formists.”

  There was another pause. Obviously, Ward was meant to ask questions. “Where exactly did he go missing?”

  “Titan, Mr. Ward. Titan was his last known location, before visiting other moons and settlements in the outer System. Which is why this job would require you to venture out there.”

  “And you believe he’s still alive?”

  A soft sigh from Emile. “We have no way of knowing at this point. There has been no word of ransom demands being made, and no one has been able to find a trace of him. So, we can only assume that if he’s dead, someone is going to great lengths to keep that a secret.”

  Ward hummed thoughtfully, looking Emile up and down. Aside from his clothing and collar pin, Ward detected no outward traces of Extropian-like dress or augmentation. His eyes showed no signs of embeds, and there were no marks on his face or hands indicating the presence of implants of any kind. Then there was the platinum ring with the large inset jewel he bore on his finger, the same ring Ward had noticed back in Sandoval’s office. Ward assumed the ring was a keepsake of some kind, as Extros tended to consider wearable processors to be entirely gaudy.

  Still, he knew a fellow Extro when he saw one, and guessed whatever augments Emile had, they were sophisticated enough to evade visual detection.

  “This man, there’s a record of his DNA, yes?”

  “Of course,” Emile replied simply.

  “And his neurology is on file as well, I assume?”

  “Backed up directly before his departure, yes.”

  Ward was confused. “So why not reproduce him and cut your losses?”

  “Well, three reasons.” Emile raised three fingers and began listing them off like a child in school. “For one, the man in question was a conservative soul. He would not approve of being resurrected unless it was necessary. Second, if he were still alive and turned up after we produced his facsimile, there would be some sticky issues of legality to contend with.”

  Of course, Ward thought, chastising himself for not thinking of that.

  “Lastly, there is the matter of what he learned while conducting our business in the Outer Worlds. We need to make every effort to retrieve the version of him that knows all of these things, if possible.”

  Ward hummed to himself again as he mulled over Emile’s points. He couldn’t argue with any of those reasons, as detached as some of them were. You had to expect such things when dealing with the more fundamental types of Extros.

  Alright, Ward thought, time to ask the big question. “Why me?”

  This brought a smile to Emile’s face. “Do you not mean to ask, why would I venture all this way to enlist the help of a former investigator who is currently a convicted criminal?”

  Ward mirrored his smile, but with implied irony. “Yes, precisely.”

  “I understand your skepticism, Mr. Ward. I understand you’ve had problems. But before the unfortunate events resulting in your conviction, you were a decorated officer of the law. You have extensive experience working cases in the Inner and Outer Worlds. And given the fact you’ve spent time out there, I think you know why I woul
d be interested in hiring a private investigator.”

  The Formist emphasized the word quite deliberately. And he was right, Ward knew exactly why he would be looking for someone to be making private inquiries. In the Outer Worlds, kidnappings weren’t an unusual occurrence, especially where people from the Inner Worlds were concerned. Local law enforcement might not always be counted on to deal with such things in a prompt and efficient manner. Domestic disputes and homicides tended to take most of their time.

  “Okay.” Ward put away his smile and began looking dourly at him. “Now what’s the real reason you want me for this?”

  Now it was Emile’s turn to smile. “You’re an astute person, Mr. Ward. You know how to ask the right questions.”

  “So how about giving me some answers?”

  “This was a matter I was hoping to discuss once we got to Ares. However, since you ask and I’m not legally permitted to withhold information.” He drew his hands up and placed them together in front of him, prayer fashion. His voice seemed to automatically drop a few decibels as he spoke his next words. “There is a certain issue of discretion involved in this matter. Our friend and colleague, who went missing, was conducting business of vital importance to the Formists. On his person, he was carrying certain . . .ah, sensitive materials. So. In addition to determining what happened to him, we very much want those materials returned.”

  Ah, the penny drops, Ward thought.

  Ward smiled before looking towards the doorway, where Banks and the other guard stood. He could, if he were so inclined, demand to know more about what these materials were, but he knew better than to press the issue right now. What’s more, he was interested in the compensation Emile had spoken of earlier.

  Ward’s demeanor became all business. “All right, so what’s in this for me if I sign on? Time off my sentence?”

  Emile graced him with his most winning smile again. “That’s the beautiful part of this proposal, Mr. Ward. Thanks to the arrangements my colleagues and I have made, in exchange for your work – and in addition to a generous retainer – your sentence would be voided.”

  Ward’s jaw fell open in disbelief before he closed his mouth with an audible click. “Voided?” He was positive he had heard Emile wrong. “But I’ve got at least ten years left on my sentence.”

  “Ten years, three months, five weeks and seven days, if I am not mistaken.” Emile nodded. “However, the nature of the work, and the time it would take for you to travel to your destinations and back, plus any additional considerations that need to be taken into account, would amount to a license for a full pardon.”

  Ward began to stammer, no longer able to find the words to express his disbelief. Part of him was sure he was hallucinating now. That he had never left his cell. At any moment, he thought he might wake up screaming. But he had endured the effects of mind-altering substances and withdrawal from their use enough times to know the difference.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” Ward finally blurted out. “This all sounds too good to be true.”

  Emile placed a friendly hand on Ward’s shoulder. “Not at all, Mr. Ward. By helping us, you would be ensuring our friend returns home, one way or another. You would also be ensuring valuable information would remain in our hands.” The Formist’s face suddenly became quite serious. “Our plans for the future very much depend upon us getting it back. You being a free man seems like meagre compensation by comparison.”

  Ward rolled the offer over a few times in his mind. He still didn’t see why Emile, and the Faction he represented, should be so generous to him. He found no fault in his logic thus far, but his mind was sluggish compared to what it once had been.

  He also had to consider the euphoria and sense of well-being he had been riding on was beginning to fade. A sense of growing fatigue was rapidly setting in. He needed to conclude this conservation while he still had some energy left.

  “When do you need an answer?”

  Emile gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Preferably before I leave, which will be whenever you give me your answer.”

  Ward shook his head. Knowing his visitor’s timetable rested with him didn’t make the decision any easier.

  “Give me a few hours,” he said modestly. “I need to say goodbye to someone first.”

  #

  Having the run of the facility gave Ward the oddest feeling. Ordinarily, a prisoner’s movements were preordained, prescheduled, and endlessly monitored. Today, however, minus the escort, Ward could go where he pleased, do the things he wanted, and in his own time. It was so freeing, and so awkward. At every step, the instinct to ask for permission crept in, but, he tempered this impulse with the knowledge he would be leaving all this behind.

  Of course, this made his visit to Guernsey’s quarters all the more necessary.

  Ward stood there in front of the gunmetal-grey door, eyeing the small display panel set in the wall at eye level. A simple numerical designation was the largest thing on the screen. Four names in typeface beneath the screen. Guernsey’s was the second from the top.

  Timothy Guernsey – CL

  The helpful initials indicated he was a convict laborer, not a volunteer. Such distinctions were necessary, apparently, to ensure anyone rapping on the door was sufficiently warned. Or perhaps initials ensured that in a case where two laborers had the same name, they might be told apart based on their rap sheet.

  Ward had always suspected the initials were merely another way of ensuring people knew their place.

  The panel changed to show a tiny camera feed from inside the room. Guernsey’s face filled the small display.

  “Who is it?” he said, sounding more than a bit annoyed.

  Ward leaned in close to show his face visibly to the camera. “It’s me, Tim. We need to talk.”

  “Jer? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Tim. Can you open the door?”

  “Hang on.”

  Ward glanced to his left, to where his escort stood. Banks no longer shadowed him. Having heard of his imminent transfer off station, the Chief no longer wanted Ward’s company. That dubious privilege now fell to a single rookie. Ward flashed him a smile.

  “Think I woke him up,” he said.

  The guard smiled falsely, saying nothing.

  “What time is it?”

  The guard looked into the upper right field of his vision, where his implants projected a pane with the station time displayed on it.

  “It’s late,” he answered. “Just past midnight.”

  Ward grumbled. In all the recent craziness, he had completely lost track of time. The time in solitary, plus the brief power nap he had taken before meeting with Emile again, had all taken a terrible toll on his diurnal cycle. This inconsiderably timed visit to Guernsey was merely the latest proof.

  When the door slid open, Guernsey’s face and the state of his attire confirmed Ward’s suspicions. He had indeed been sleeping. The look in his eyes, though, indicated he was both surprised and relieved to see Ward.

  “Jer? When did you get out?”

  Ward chuckled. “You heard, huh?”

  “Yeah, the guards told us. Banks seemed practically proud of the news.”

  “Sounds like him. In any case, I got out maybe a few hours ago.”

  “Good to hear, boss. So, you back on the job now?”

  Ward cringed. “Ah, well, not exactly. Something has come up.”

  “Oh.” Guernsey peeked down the hall and spotted the escort. “What’s going on?”

  Ward hesitated. Perhaps he should have started by indicating this was a good news/bad news situation. How to go about explaining the only reason he no longer resided in a cell was because someone had decided to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse? How to explain that if all went well, he would likely never see Guernsey or the rest of the crew again?

  “I’ve been offered a job.”

  Guernsey frowned. “A job?”

  “An off-world job. One which will take me far, far from here.”

 
; “Oh,” Guernsey mumbled. His eyes appeared suddenly alert, his mind grasping the full extent of the situation. “I see.”

  “Yeah.” was all Ward thought to say. The next few seconds felt like an eternity. Neither of them appeared to know what to say, but for what Ward suspected were wholly different reasons.

  In time, Guernsey nodded, offering positive words. “Well, I hope the job all works out. I know you’ve wanted to get out of here.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Ward said, instantly regretting his words. Sure, they all wanted to get off the Rock. But right now, only he was. Worse still, he was leaving shortly after an altercation that should have added years to his sentence. That alone would have been enough to make Guernsey resent him right now. Add to that all the times the man had covered for him over the years.

  This was all making for a rather awkward goodbye. Ward sensed even his escort was beginning to feel the awkwardness. He said the only things he might, hoping to cut through the interminable delay.

  “The transport leaves in a few minutes. I wanted to stop by one last time. Could you . . . ah, pass on my goodbyes to the other –”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Guernsey said, with another nod.

  Ward nodded too. They had reached the end of what realistically might be said, at least when it came to the subject of his departure. All that was left were the final words of farewell, and some words of false modesty to smooth it over.

  “Look, Tim, I’m sorry. I wish things were –”

  “It’s all right,” Guernsey interrupted. “I’ve been around long enough to know this is how it works. Some go. Some stay. And some always stay longer than others.”

  “Right,” Ward said, admittedly. “Hey, you and the others will be getting out soon. Maybe once that happens –”

  Guernsey raised his hand. “Jer, you know that’s not possible. In here, we had a good thing. We were all of a kind and looked out for each other. But out there, you know.”

  The words felt like a slug in Ward’s stomach. He even felt a little short of breath. He did indeed know. Out there, as Guernsey so succinctly put it, Ward and the others were from completely different worlds. That was more than a literal truth. Once they were all on the outside, an insurmountable gulf would lie between them.