Vinay would gather the latest backups along with a few hard copies of crucial elements of their research and put them into the canister. It would then be loaded into a torpedo-like launching tube. At that point all it would take was a command signal from two out of three heads of station—he was one, Heather was another, and Toby Fielding, head of station security, was the third. Toby was out of the question—he was certainly an operative for the CIA—which meant Marc needed to reach Heather’s quarters.
In his closet he pulled back the carpeting to reveal the modular panels beneath. The panels were not so different from the raised flooring IT centers used to hide cabling. It was lightweight, versatile, and had been used extensively all over the station. Using a simple multitool, he unscrewed the corners, which allowed him to pry up the square panel and reveal a similar panel for the ceiling of the floor below his. It took him time because the screws were not accessible, but he managed to break the bolts holding it in place, and then he lowered himself down to the B-Deck utility room.
Once he’d entered the station’s hallways, he scrabbled along—feeling more than a little like a rat in a maze—until he came to Heather’s room. He keyed in her passcode, one she’d given him months ago, praying she hadn’t had the time or foresight to change it.
The light blinked green, and he was in.
After jamming the three keys from his keyring into the gap beneath the sliding door, he moved to Heather’s desk. She was a technology hound, and she kept a lot of her old tablets. He found several in the bottom drawer. After flipping through the first two, finding their batteries dead, he got in with the third. Heather hadn’t given him her passcode, but she hadn’t been very secure with it, either. She typed it out in front of him without thought, and eventually, without really meaning to, he’d learned it. As much as her deception hurt, her willingness—or perhaps her directive—to get close to him had revealed parts of her that were probably frowned upon in Langley.
The first order of business was to grant the canister launch approval. He did that quickly, using a manual passcode since the RFID chip in his wrist hadn’t been paired with her tablet.
Then he moved on to the hard part: coding a macro that he hoped would—
He heard footsteps approaching in the hall outside.
He ignored it, working as fast as he could.
The soft beeping of the door’s keypad sounded as loud as the strikes of a hammer. The acknowledge chime followed, but the door didn’t open.
He typed in the last lines of code as the door was forced open, the keys scraping noisily against the frame.
Heather entered. Toby entered behind her; three more officers, with pistols in hand, remained just outside the door.
“Drop it, Marc.”
He complied, standing slowly and moving away from the desk.
Heather snatched the tablet from his hand. She stared at it, her eyes narrowing, then widening.
“What is it?” Toby asked.
“Send someone down to A-Deck. Check the canister tubes.”
Marc held his breath, willing himself to stare at Toby, to stare at Heather, but not the tablet.
Heather looked down at the tablet. Her free hand gripped into a fist, once, twice, and then she tapped the surface of the tablet with her index finger.
A moment later, a sound like a distant cannon resounded through the station. Marc could feel it through the soles of his shoes.
Heather stared at the tablet, then Marc.
“What happened?” Toby asked.
“He launched the fucking canister, Toby. What do you think happened?”
The look in Heather’s eyes as she stared into Marc’s was not one of anger or betrayal, but simple surprise, as if she hadn’t expected so much from a man she considered little more than an egghead.
He’d captured a simple screenshot of the launch acknowledge page, and then inserted it into a new macro, trying the fake cancel button to the real acknowledge running in the tablet’s background. Her RFID chip, still paired to the tablet, had done the rest.
As Heather stared, her look changed. It became more calculated, more cruel, but the most surprising thing, the thing that made a shiver run down his spine, was the look of regret—not regret that it had come to this.
No, regret for what she was about to do.
* * *
The blooms were defeated, at least nominally, in May of 2028. The first country to receive the cure was Kenya, but the second, contrary to worldwide expectations, was China. Their crops had been resisting the bloom well over the thirteen months since the widespread release of the bacteria. As it turned out, the choice was wise. Several fields succumbed to the bloom in western China, fields that had been thought to be the most resistant. Clearly the bloom had nearly breached the Chinese genetic defenses, and so the choice to prop up the Chinese crops, while unpopular at the time, saved millions from outright starvation and countless more from the instability that would surely have followed. Widespread famine was still commonplace well into 2029, but in the two years following, global wheat crops recovered.
Forgotten by many was the terrorist attack committed on the Demeter IV research station. Dr. Marc Hastings, lead researcher and bacteriologist, was purported to be the man who sabotaged the research effort. Heather Glass was widely hailed as not only the one who identified the plot, but also the one to jettison the research canister shortly before the Demeter IV exploded in the airspace over South Africa, a move that preserved the crucial research despite the successful execution of Hastings’s plans.
Glass and four security personnel miraculously escaped from the Demeter IV before it was destroyed. All other personnel—thirty-two, including Hastings—were presumed dead after the explosion.
Cirque de la Lumière
Grignal stopped on a rise and leaned forward onto his huge, leathery arms. He breathed in the dry, acrid air and studied the beauty of the horizon as the troupe’s wagons continued on. Far ahead, surrounded by miles of wasteland and framed by pre-dawn clouds, the city of Alé Surçois waited. Its hemispherical shield acted as a lens, bending light like the lone remaining piece from God’s own kaleidoscope. Towers and buildings and arching bridges could be seen within, each painted with an indigo brush against a harsh yellow canvas, and to the city’s left, running northward, a slim line of white traced a curve over the blighted land.
This was Grignal’s favorite part of their journeys through the badlands, the time when the city was alluring and full of promise. Nothing could be further from the truth—Alé Surçois was in the midst of a fierce and potentially bloody political battle—but he couldn’t help pretending at times like this.
“Grignal!” Bayard, leader of their ragtag group, was waving his top hat from the rear of the line. His stained crew shirt and hanging suspenders warred with the jodhpurs and black boots. There was no question to his authority, and yet he always wore his top hat like a badge of leadership.
“Keep your eyes on the line,” Bayard said as Grignal approached. He pointed to a nearby wagon, doffed his top hat, and walked toward the bulk of the train.
“Sorry, boss.”
The wagon—little more than a mishmash of ancient tank parts and welded scrap metal—had become stuck. Remmiau, the show’s knife thrower, stood by the front of the wagon, staring with coral-colored eyes at an ancient fusion engine. He removed his brown bowler and cleared his forehead of sweat before trying the engine again. It wouldn’t be the first time Remmiau was unwilling to accept help from a lizard.
The engine spun its bald wheels forward and backward in quick succession, trying in vain to dislodge the wagon and the bulk of canvas in its bed. Finally, Remmiau stopped and stared with a look on his red-skinned face like it was Grignal’s fault the wagon had become stuck.
Grignal lumbered to the wagon and cradled the rear. The musty smell of canvas struck Grignal as he lifted the wagon from the deep rut in which it had fallen and set it on even ground.
“About time, you bi
g ugly lizard.” Remmiau smiled, baring his sharpened teeth. The metallic bronze tattoos crossing his eyes glittered in the sun. Remmiau was always saying things like that. He mostly didn’t mean them.
Remmiau took to the driver seat and guided the wagon toward the rear of the line. Grignal held pace, not really wanting to talk, but not really wanting to be alone either.
“Such a sour puss,” Remmiau said. “No one would ever guess how thin that skin is, would they?” When Grignal didn’t respond, Remmiau continued. “Listen, son, I might have a deal for you if you’re nice.”
“Not interested,” Grignal said.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. The last one went bad, am I right? But this one’s simple. Simple as pie.”
“They’re always simple, Rem.”
“No, I mean really simple. A pick and a pop, half now, half when we reach Balgique-en-Leurre.”
He meant a body. He’d found someone who wanted to transport a person, most likely in a cryosleeve, to the troupe’s next port of call. Grignal didn’t care one way or another who—the troupe took on jobs like this often enough—but Remmiau seemed too eager, which could only mean trouble.
Instead of arguing, which would only serve to prolong the ordeal, Grignal stopped and waited for the wagon to continue on.
“Right, you be that way, but lizards need dosh just like the rest of us. You remember that.”
When the wagon had moved far enough that Grignal could have some peace, he followed. Grignal knew Remmiau was right. He paid well enough, and he was one of the few people that would actually work with him. But his deals, no matter how simple they seemed, always managed to develop complications.
The troupe pushed hard to reach the city’s entrance by dusk—no one wanted to be in the open when the badwinds struck. When they were only a few hundred meters from the entrance, a tram flew toward the city on its quicksilver track. It slowed and entered the city’s outer dock, where it would be purified before being allowed to slip into the affluent upper reaches of the city.
Grignal smiled as he stared up at the glimmering shield. He didn’t much believe in signs, but sometimes they were too powerful to ignore. They were entering the same time as a tram, which could only mean good things—for him, for the show, he didn’t know which, but something good...
* * *
Several days later, Grignal stood backstage, watching Ijia ply her trade among the three rigid poles in the center of the big top. It was the beginning of Act III, the point at which her character was lamenting her decision to leave her homeland. She dove between the poles, catching herself and spinning about before climbing to the top with the graceful ease of a desert lynx. The diaphanous blue trailers attached to her upper arms and thighs accentuated her otherwise naked body. Nearly every seat was filled, and the audience marveled at her. Grignal was no different; he’d been with the troupe nearly seven years, and he could watch Ijia for another hundred before tiring of her.
The city had embraced the show for the most part, largely because Grignal’s character suffered so much misfortune. No surprise there since Alé Surçois was one of the cities hardest hit during the war and had suffered several years of Kyngani rule. Grignal hadn’t even been synthesized by that point, but it didn’t stop the human race from holding it against him.
“Hey... Big boy...”
Grignal rolled his eyes.
Remmiau climbed the stairs leading up from the dressing area. Thick braids of bright purple leather and aubergine rope and eggplant cloth wrapped his body, stark against his red-tinged skin. He was due onstage in a few minutes to punish Ijia for leaving his side. He pulled himself up as tall as he could—still only coming up to Grignal’s sternum—and grinned, baring his pointed teeth and accentuating the wrinkles among the bronze tattoos crossing his eyes. “Found yourself a job, have ya?”
Grignal continued to stare. The trouble in Alé Surçois was beginning to boil over. The première of the city, Jaubert Rousseau, was locked in battle with the city senate over his own post. Grignal didn’t follow such things as a rule, but he heard enough gossip from the troupe to get the gist. The Senate claimed Rousseau was mentally unstable. They were trying to rally enough voter support to recall him. It was the main reason Bayard had decided on coming here as opposed to a half-dozen other cities—political upheaval almost always led to more work. But, as was typical, Grignal had trouble finding work of his own; like most of the cities on Altarus, Alé Surçois didn’t exactly open its arms to members of his race.
“The meet’s tonight,” Remmiau continued, eyeing Ijia now. “Bring you right proper cred you lend me a hand.”
“Get some of your goons,” Grignal replied.
“Don’t get me wrong, son. The boys are good, but a giant lizard like you”—he stepped closer and looked up into Grignal’s eyes—“strikes a certain note of fear in a man’s heart. Makes things go smooth.”
Ijia descended from the darkened heights of the tent, igniting a chorus of gasps from the crowd. She collapsed the moment she reached the stage, unconscious from her self-inflicted frenzy. The stage lights dimmed, and when it was nearly pitch-black, Ijia’s body lit from within, blinding the crowd.
Cheers washed over the darkened stage.
“That’s my cue. What’d’you say?”
Grignal nodded. “When?”
“Ah, that’s my boy.” Remmiau patted Grignal’s arm, which Grignal jerked away. “Right after the show, son. Right after the show.”
* * *
Late that night, hoping to avoid as many security cameras as possible, Grignal, Remmiau, and two of his mates took to the spiraled walkways and stairwells and headed down through the concrete-and-crysteel jungle. Remmiau wore his brown derby; his knives were stashed away within the coat of his tattered brown suit. He was bookended by Quidam and Jacque, who wore pinstripe suits and rapiers at their side. Grignal followed just behind, towering above them—it was better that way, Remmiau had said; put a little fear into ’em.
Grignal had seen only two other Kyngani in the three days he’d been in the city. He saw one more on the way down to the lower levels of the undercity, but once he reached the deeper thoroughfares he saw dozens. They were leftovers, like him, dregs, scraping an existence off of human civilization. Perhaps they had been left behind, like many of his race, or perhaps they liked it here. He didn’t know, but he felt no kinship to them whatsoever and so never bothered to ask.
Among the ground level, their group had drawn attention like a watering hole in the badlands, but here, thirteen levels below, they melded in like they’d lived here all their lives. Traffic increased sharply as they reached a wide street with sex shops and neon brasseries and stores selling cheap, prewar antiques. Several vidboards floated down the street, displaying gaudy and raucous ads, among them several political ads for Jaubert Rousseau.
“Not far now, boys,” Remmiau said.
They turned up an alley and reached a dimly lit courtyard a few minutes later. Nine stories of residences stared down with disinterest. Most of the windows were dark, and those that weren’t were covered with stained shades. Like a ray of hope, the faintest iridescent glimmer of the city’s protective shield filtered down through tram tubes, pipes, and other arteries of the city.
Near the far end of the courtyard, stairs led down to a service door. This opened shortly after they arrived, and out filed nine men, most of them wearing black trench coats. Grignal watched for tattoos on the palms of their hands—the traditional place the undercity gangs would mark themselves. He caught what looked like the open maw of a ferocious dog. Grignal couldn’t recall what group that might mean—that was Remmiau’s department. Remmiau recognized every gang in every city they went to.
The four men at the rear maneuvered a grey chest the size of a small coffin up the stairs to ground level. The chest had a keypad and a small readout, dark.
“Lot o’ boys, Livier,” Remmiau said. He was smiling, but Grignal could hear the tension in his voice. He hadn�
��t expected so many.
Neither had Grignal.
One man stepped forward, tall, but still a half-head from Remmiau’s lanky height. His head was shaved, and a jagged scar snaked through his dark beard to the apple of his neck. “That package weighs almost as much as that big head of yours, Remmiau. Besides”—the man looked straight at Grignal—“looks like you’ve brought a few extra, too.”
Remmiau shot a grin toward Grignal. “What? Him? Kind as a kitten, he is.”
The man pulled his trench coat aside, allowing a clear view of the sawed-off shotgun hanging from his belt. “And kittens have claws.”
“Now, now... You’re getting it all wrong. We’re business men, you and me, right? And we’re here for business, so let’s get to it.”
Grignal watched Livier closely. There was an ex-military stink all over him, which would mean heightened strength, speed, and reflexes.
Remmiau and Livier stepped closer. They talked quietly for a minute, but soon the man in black was allowing a progressively more annoyed expression to show on his face. Finally, he took a step back. “We agreed,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “We agreed three times, once just this morning.”
“Might be, but things change, son,” Remmiau said, smiling.
“Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, yes it has. New info rises to the surface, don’t it? The contents of that case, for example. Sight more dangerous than you made it out to be. Worth a lot more cred too.”
Grignal knew something was wrong about halfway through the ensuing pause. He started running before Livier’s stance had shifted. “Get back!”
Livier, quick as a blink, tugged his trench coat aside and reached for his shotgun. He was fast. Definitely enhanced.
In the Stars I'll Find You Page 11
