by M. R. Forbes
“All contents.”
“Affirmative. Twenty-four Earth Standard.”
“Confirmed.”
Olus dropped the link and then leaned back in his seat. Damn it. This was going to get ugly. He looked down at the communicator. Would he be able to get enough data from it to take care of both needs at one time?
There was only one way to find out.
He slipped the battery back in, turning the device over so he could see it power on. He flipped it face down again, putting his jacket back on and running the wire from it to the communicator. The size of the device made it more challenging to make the connection, but he managed to get it into place. The command line interface appeared in the lense over his eye.
The communicator was locked. That was no surprise. It didn’t take long for Olus to determine that Omsala was an idiot. That wasn’t much of a surprise either. The General hadn’t bothered to harden his personal comm against Breaker tools, even though the opportunity was available to him. He had left the off-the-shelf device with off-the-shelf security, which to the OSI or HSOC was as good as no security. He could imagine what Thraven would think of the ineptitude and allowed himself a slight smile. Judging by Emily Eagan’s fate, Omsala was lucky he was already dead.
“Let’s see what you’ve got for me, General,” he said, tapping his fingers on his jacket to enter commands into the system.
First things first, he needed to see if there was a link to Lieutenant Cage’s ‘treasure,’ which he was guessing meant the mainframe she had been trying to crack when she had been taken into custody. He wished he could have gotten more information and found out how she and the Rejects were faring overall, but he knew his official Milnet account was likely already shut down, and his special secured channel would soon be discovered and tapped.
He wondered how the Committee was going to spin Omsala’s death and his departure. Would they pin the murder on him? If so, what motive would they use? He supposed they could connect him to Feru and the death of Mars Eagan, but only loosely. It might be enough to satisfy Thraven’s minions, and maybe some of the public. It would never convince his people, and that was dangerous. There was a reason Thraven had diverted him instead of removing him, though now he had no other choice.
Good.
The fact that Abbey and the Rejects were still out there and on the loose, still moving the mission forward, was a good sign. He knew General Kett was connected to the mainframe, so if Abbey wanted it, then it meant she needed to know more about that. For what purpose? To what end? Was Kett on their side or Thraven’s?
“Just figure out where it is and get it to her,” he said to himself. “She can handle the rest.”
Abbey reminded him so much of himself when he was younger. Damn, that felt like a long, long time ago. Except she had the Nephilim’s Gift to take her to the next level. A part of him envied her for that. He could only imagine what he could have done with a power like hers. Then again, he knew what they said about power and corruption, and he wasn’t fool enough to think he was incorruptible. At least she had a reason to stay on the right side of this fight. He had been betting it would be enough when he encouraged her to embrace the Gift. So far, so good.
He dove into the communicator’s stored data. He wasn’t looking for anything specific yet. He scanned the contacts to and from the device, taking note of the ones that repeated consistently. Omsala had a wife and children back on Fezzin, and he seemed to talk to them the most. Outside of that, he only had communications with a few individuals, and one name stood out above the rest:
Abraham Davis.
He remembered Abbey telling him about Mr. Davis, a man whose first name she had never learned. He was willing to risk his career that this was the same Davis. He quickly went through the General’s messages to him. They were short and simple. They spoke about inconsequential things. Encoded. Maybe Omsala wasn’t as stupid as he had originally thought.
Then again, he knew enough of the story to begin to guess at the meaning behind the innocent looking words, and he was also experienced enough to begin picking up the patterns in the messages not long after he began sifting through them. Omsala had met with Davis for ‘dinner’ in New York City on multiple occasions. The last was only two days earlier. There was no indication of what they were discussing, but he was sure it wasn’t sports. The important thing was that if Davis was hanging out in New York, then the mainframe was likely there somewhere as well. Not that finding something as small as a Republic issue server in the densest city in the world was going to be easy, but he had a lead and most times that was all it took.
He considered his other mission. It was clear that Davis was the link between Omsala and Thraven, and that he was directing the General in person. If there was a plan to begin assassinating the members of the Council who had yet to be turned, it was likely Davis was orchestrating it. It made sense that he would try to catch them all in one shot, because picking them off one at a time might cause the others to take cover and secure themselves beyond approach. That was his second clue.
He needed more than clues, though. He needed more than he had time to gather on his own.
He disconnected the wire from the communicator, closing the device and shoving it back into his pocket. Then he picked up the beacon and examined it. It was barely a centimeter around, with a connector to both the main battery and the emergency backup. He smiled as he looked at it. He could already imagine a dozen uses for it.
He stood up, picking up all of his things, quickly grabbing a towel from the bathroom, wetting it, and wiping down everything he had touched. He had been hoping to grab an hour or two of sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. He abandoned the room, heading back out to the streets.
He needed a little extra help.
He knew exactly who to contact.
15
Olus ducked behind a shattered wall. Plasma bolts hissed over his head, striking the building behind him, while voices echoed over his communicator.
“Four One, advance to position Delta. Six One, flanking position Echo.”
“Roger,” a voice replied.
“Affirmative,” another answered.
Olus leaned up, glancing over the wall. The defenses were laid out ahead of him. Three squads of mechs and an entire company of infantry. They were well-secured behind steel barriers, ahead of a tall iron fortress bristling with weapons of its own.
“Calling in air support,” the first voice said. “Foxtrot One, do you copy? The target is painted.”
“This is Foxtrot One, we copy. Target verified. Commencing run.”
Olus kept his eyes on the scene ahead, watching as the Apocalypse fighters streaked in, releasing their payload of heavy ballistics as they neared the fortress. The mechs aimed their heavy gauss rifles skyward, sending projectiles up at the fighters. One of them was hit, and it exploded in a ball of flame, almost at the same time the missiles struck the defenses. Massive walls of smoke and fire exploded from the strikes, leaving the defenders blinded.
“All units, go, go, go,” the voice shouted.
Olus hopped over the wall, bouncing along the terrain in his battlesuit, joined by the rest of his battalion. They charged the defensive position, guns blaring, as the fighters circled back for a support run.
Something big and heavy began chewing up the ground around him. He bounced sideways, evading a spout of chewed up dirt, rolling to his feet as the mech crashed down one hundred meters away, its arms out and munitions pouring away from it and into their attack. He shouldered his rifle, unhooking the portable launched on his other arm and planting it in the ground. He eyes his HUD, watching the soldier he had marked with the carat coming up behind him.
The mech began swiveling his way. He aimed the launcher, having to remain static to prep the mech-buster. The second soldier had nearly reached him.
The mech started firing, bullets chewing up the earth around him, one of them hitting the launcher and taking it offline. Olus was
about to be shot himself when the soldier grabbed him by the waste, bouncing away, dragging him from the scene as the whole thing exploded behind them.
“Bad maneuver, Four Six,” the soldier said. “Mech-busters are handicapped in this sim.”
Olus looked back at the helmeted soldier. “Zoey,” he said. “The shit is hitting the fan.”
The soldier froze. “How do you-”
“Of course, your boss knows how to find you,” Olus said. “This is the only secure channel. I need you to meet me in New York City. The Penn loop terminal. Three hours.”
“You’re on Earth, sir?”
“I’ve been shut down. Nobody told you?”
“I was off today. My boss should have known that, too.”
Olus laughed. “Check your messages. I’ll need a full debriefing when you get to New York.”
“What’s happening, sir?”
“There’s a new, old asshole in the galaxy, and he’s making his power play. He’s got the Committee in his pocket, and he’s working on the Council. We need to stop it.”
“Roger.”
“You might get dragged down with me. Get what you can and get to me. If you can reach any of the others securely, tell them to do the same.”
“I’ve got Shaw here with me, sir. I’ll wake him up and drag him along.”
Olus made a face she couldn’t see behind his helmet. Officially, the OSI didn’t approve of operatives getting romantically involved. Not that they could stop it, either.
“Do it. Three hours, Lieutenant.”
“Roger, sir. Die with honor.”
She bounced away from him, heading toward the mech. He watched for a second, and then brought his rifle up, giving her cover fire while she moved in. Bullets from the machine tore into her, but she landed and managed one last bounce, pulling a grenade from her hip as she reached the mech and put the explosive against the neck joint. The resulting explosion left a gaping wound, and Olus drove toward it himself, preparing his grenade.
He managed to avoid getting hit, the first wave of damage taking out the mech’s targeting sensors. He landed on top of the weapon’s platform, shoving the grenade into the open hole. It would be more than enough to blow its head off. He remained crouched there, staring off at the battlefield as the seconds ticked away.
It was just as well. He could tell their team was going to lose this Construct match anyway.
The grenade exploded.
16
Getting to New York was easy. The fares for private hoppers were reasonable, and Olus had the unmarked credit to cover it. The flight took a little less than an hour, leaving him with more than enough time to navigate the urban center and find his way to Penn Station.
New York City had been around a long time. It had seen its share of misery and heartache, along with an equal measure of glory and success. It was the most densely populated place in the world, and still one of the ten major hubs of human civilization, a place that had been torn down, rebuilt, upgraded and renovated, and yet still maintained a classical charm that couldn’t be duplicated anywhere else.
It was late evening. Cars littered all of the available travel lanes, moving slowly but smoothly at various heights, weaving between the skyscrapers, entering and abandoning landing corridors and keeping everything flowing. Though he couldn’t see it, Olus knew the same thing would be happening below ground, where loops and tunnels carried millions of people under the earth like ants in a series of passages designed and organized by a renowned Plixian Queen.
“Here we are,” the pilot said, slipping into the landing block and descending to street level. Another car rose up beside them, exiting the block and joining one of the lanes.
Olus reached out with his card. The pilot scanned it, and the door beside Olus swung open. He slipped out onto the street, straightening his jacket and waving as the door closed and the shuttle lifted back into the air, likely to pick up a fare for the return trip to Baltimore. Olus watched it join the crowds above and then joined the rest of the individuals on foot.
He didn’t see many off-worlders as he made his way to the opposite block and below ground into the station. A pair of Plixians, a Curlatin, and two Trovers. That was it. Foreign species struggled to deal with the experience of the city, and he couldn’t blame them. A lot of native humans still felt overwhelmed, too.
He entered the large, open concourse, activating his cap as he did. He felt a bit of heat on his face as the material changed shape against it, adding subtle adjustments to his bone structure to alter his appearance. He didn’t know if Thraven or Davis had put the word out about his presence on the planet, but he wasn’t taking chances.
He entered the crowds, moving through them to wait at a Starbucks. The ancient corporation had been through a lot over the centuries, but it had managed to stay relevant and profitable even as alternate civilizations had opened up the galaxy to new beverages and ways of making them. He knew Zoey well enough to know she would wind up here when she arrived.
He watched the individuals pass through the station. It still amazed him that any single place could maintain its population when there were so many more worlds to live on. Nobody had to be part of a crowd. Nobody had to limit their personal space or force themselves to live a life they didn’t want. It wasn’t a utopia by any means, but the opportunities were there for anyone with the guts to grab them. He had seen it with other species as much as with humans. The majority of individuals liked what they knew, or at least were afraid to abandon it. Most of the ones who didn’t usually ended up in the Republic or as merchant traders or otherwise employed in interstellar endeavors, traveling the stars because of their career. That’s what he had done, and he had never regretted it. He never regretted the travel, at least. Sometimes the killing ate at him when he gave it the time to.
He couldn’t give it that time right now. He spotted Sergeant Zoey Haeri headed toward the tables in front of the store, with Sergeant Gyo Shaw at her side. They were both dressed for business, in similar attire to his, though he doubted it was quite the same. They were both field operatives and well-trained, but they weren’t assassins.
He watched them as they took one of the tables. Gyo sat. Zoey headed for the counter. Her eyes passed over him, but she didn’t know who he was.
He remained seated, scanning the crowd. Zoey had finished picking up her order and returned to her seat by the time he had made the four marks who had circled back to the area a few times. He had been hoping they hadn’t been followed, but he wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t have waited otherwise.
He activated his TCU, tapping on his pants beneath the table. He sent a short range encrypted message using Zoey’s alternate identifier, a personal code only the most trusted members of his team knew. If she was sporting a SOC anywhere on her outfit, she would catch the missive.
You brought friends. Four of them.
He waited a few seconds for the reply.
Lose them or disable them?
Olus considered. It would be tough in the crowd, but they could escape the crowd. He scanned the departure schedule.
Loop Seven, five minutes, he wrote.
Confirmed.
He waited another minute before standing and heading away, walking right past them as he did. He didn’t know if they knew who he was yet, but it didn’t matter. They would take care of this quietly.
He went down the steps to the platform below. It was clean and well-lit, modern and open. A few hundred people waited for the transport to arrive. He waited with them.
The transport came to a stop three minutes later. He entered after the others, remaining near the doors, and then stepping back out as they chimed to alert their closure. He saw Zoey and Gyo at the far end of the platform, stepping out as well.
Thraven’s four goons evacuated the transport between them.
They were further away than Olus would have liked, but it was one variable he couldn’t control. He sprang forward, shouting and running toward the group as t
hey took notice of him, reaching beneath their coats to find their sidearms.
They were all on the ground before Olus could reach them, each with a nerve dart planted at the base of their necks. Zoey and Gyo stood behind the downed group with guns in hand, smiling as Olus examined their work.
“Nice,” he said. “I approve.”
“Thank you, sir,” Zoey said, holstering her weapon.
Gyo was making a face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Olus asked.
“I bet Z two hundred that you were the old guy with the chai.”
“I picked you out,” Zoey said. “Who are these assholes?”
“It’s a long story,” Olus said.
He bent over them, going through their things. He took two of the sidearms and their holsters. He found their ID. They were NYPD.
“Cops?” Gyo said.
“He’s got to be watching everybody in the OSI,” Olus said.
“Who?”
“My guess is a guy named Abraham Davis. He’s our target.”
“What did he do?”
“Besides the fact that he’s most likely one of the enemy’s prime wizards? That’s what we need to figure out.”
“Wizard?” Zoey said. “I don’t follow, sir.”
“I’ll explain as we move. The platform’s going to start filling up again. Stay close, but not too close.”
“Yes, sir.”
They left the platform, ascending back to the station. Olus kept a good distance from them to minimize suspicion. He also kept his eyes out for more police. He was hard to identify with the mask, but Zoey and Gyo would be easy to spot.
He entered the auto-queue to hail a transport, waiting in line while his subordinates stayed back and out of sight. It arrived within a minute, and he kept his arm in the door, forcing it to remain open as Zoey and Gyo dashed across the distance and piled in.
“Where are you headed?” the pilot asked.
“Harlem,” Olus said. “Riverbank Park.”
“Yes, sir.”
