by Dan Moren
That was Simon Kovalic’s opinion, anyway. He’d looked into Elijah Brody a few weeks ago, when the name had first cropped up in his research, but all the data on him had pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Brody had been dead for almost five years.
Then, two days ago, a Sabaean fast courier had jumped through that planet’s formerly defunct wormhole gate, and all hell had broken loose in the upper echelons of the Commonwealth’s intelligence apparatus. The general had insisted they follow up on the lead—no matter how slim it might be.
Because if Elijah Brody was alive, they couldn’t risk anybody else finding out first.
As the shuttle made a bumpy approach, Kovalic peered out of the small window by his seat. Not that there was much to see up here on the tundra: Even if it had been daytime, the swirling snows would have obscured most of the ground below. At this time of night, it was just a big dark mass. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to ride the waves of turbulence without falling asleep; not easy, especially when his last shut-eye had been over twenty-four hours ago.
Despite his strenuous objections that his talents would be best utilized elsewhere—any place other than digging up what was, best case, a corpse and, worst case, rumor and hearsay—the general had decided they would go to Sabaea themselves, and that Kovalic would personally fly down to the surface. Because if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself or, in this case, had your most trusted subordinate do it.
He glanced down at the tablet on his lap, skimming the dossier he’d drawn up. Five years ago, Brody had been assigned, fresh out of the academy, to the Illyrican Fifth Fleet—which had promptly been dispatched to invade Sabaea. And then he’d disappeared, along with the rest of the fleet and any ability to contact or reach Sabaea. All that had remained was an inactive wormhole gate, floating in space like the eye of a dead god. Kovalic had seen it once or twice, and he didn’t mind admitting that it creeped him the hell out.
Brody’s name had appeared on the list of “missing, presumed dead” that the Illyricans had broadcast on their state-sponsored communication network, and that had been all she wrote for Elijah Brody. And, for that matter, the independent world of Sabaea.
Until now.
A thump marked the shuttle’s contact with the ground. It was supposed to be a landing pad, but from what Kovalic could see in the pre-dawn, it was indistinguishable from a snowbank. Flakes whirled past the viewport, occasionally sticking to the transparent aluminum for a moment before melting away into drops of water.
The Sabaeans had scrambled when the Commonwealth had transmitted the request about Brody, eventually responding with instructions to land at this facility near the planet’s northern pole, but without providing further detail. He got the feeling nobody had thought about Elijah Brody in a long time.
He shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this mission. He’d set foot on plenty of worlds in his lifetime, but this was hardly his average op: here he was, the first person to step onto the Sabaean surface in five years. A world that should, by all rights, never have been heard from again. A world of ghosts.
Kovalic sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The wormhole lag and lack of sleep must be hitting him if he was starting to get maudlin. The sooner he wrapped up this fool’s errand, the faster he could get back to the ship and grab some rack time.
He unbuckled and worked his way forward. Besides the pilot, he had the shuttle to himself; this mission was more or less unsanctioned—as the general’s operations tended to be—so the fewer people that knew their true purpose here the better. The hatch opened with a hiss, and Kovalic trod out into the snow. It crunched underneath his boots, his footprints all too quickly subsumed beneath the endless onslaught of flakes as the wind bit at his cheeks.
Two soldiers met him at an unassuming metal structure that looked barely a step above a temporary survival hut, though at least it had the decency to boast a heavy security door. Both of his escorts wore large, puffy parkas, their faces shadowed behind fur-lined hoods. Kovalic cast an envious look at the outfits and tried not to shiver.
Fortunately, the two soldiers had pity on his insufficient garb and quickly swiped open the door, ushering him into a short hallway that was, if not warm, at least icicle-free.
From there, it was an elevator trip down—way down—into what was apparently the base proper. Once they were in the lift, the two soldiers peeled off their hoods and unwrapped their scarves: one was a surprisingly young man, red acne spots spattered across a greasy forehead; the other was a somewhat older woman, who stood ramrod straight, eyes front.
“So you’re the welcoming committee, huh?” said Kovalic, briskly rubbing his hands together before raising them to his mouth and blowing on them.
“Yes, sir,” the woman said, her eyes flicking to his face only for a moment before returning to the apparently much more interesting elevator door. The kid didn’t say a word, though the frightened expression that crossed his face made Kovalic wonder if maybe the military had not been his original career path.
“Well, sure is a nice place you got here,” he said, offering a smile. “Though if you could have arranged for some better weather, I’d have appreciated it.”
Neither responded. The kid looked like he was about to pass out.
So this was the vaunted military that had taken out an entire Illyrican battle fleet. Granted, it was a victory you’d find filed under pyrrhic in most textbooks, so maybe this was the best the Sabaean Defense Forces had to offer. With a sigh, Kovalic lapsed back into silence. His spirits and hope of finding anything useful fell along with the elevator’s descent.
The lift ground to a halt, the door sliding open with a loud clang. His escort led him into another gray-tiled corridor that, had he not felt the motion of the elevator, he would have concluded was the same one from above, though it did feel merely chilly rather than blisteringly cold. Neither of the soldiers gave any more concession to the heat than unzipping their parkas.
What followed was a short trip through a maze of corridors that seemed more like utility tunnels than the hallways of a military base, wallpapered as they were with snaking conduits, pipes, and bundles of cables. They arrived at a door marked OPERATIONS, where Kovalic was carefully chivvied through a room of control panels and screens. A handful of officers sat amid the detritus of what had clearly been some sort of celebration, but they perked up as Kovalic was paraded through, eyeing him like he was some sort of exotic animal. He was glad to be out of uniform—an obvious Commonwealth military officer would only have raised awkward questions.
At the top of a short flight of stairs, he was deposited in front of a frosted glass door; the two soldiers took up spots flanking it.
Apparently the tour ended here. Kovalic glanced around, then rapped on the glass and, at the muted acknowledgement from beyond, let himself in.
Two people sat across a desk from one another, nearly as dissimilar as the soldiers who’d escorted him there. Behind the desk was an older woman, lean and sharp-featured with short, steel gray hair. The colonel’s insignia on the immaculately pressed collar took Kovalic by surprise—there was something in the woman’s bearing that he’d pegged as a general’s confidence.
A man was slouched in the chair opposite, as if trying to blend in with the upholstery. His brown hair was long and unkempt, and he sported a scruffy beard that would have been more appropriate to a recluse. He shifted slightly in the chair, glancing in curiosity at Kovalic, and in that moment Kovalic’s breath caught in his throat.
It was the eyes that did it—even bloodshot, they’d lost none of the blue from the picture that Kovalic had been staring at for the last two days. Mentally, Kovalic took five years off the man, trimmed his hair back to regulation length, and shaved off the beard.
Elijah goddamned Brody.
Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be a complete waste after all.
The woman rose and extended a hand. “Colonel Indira Antony.”
“A plea
sure, colonel.” Kovalic shook the hand absently, his eyes still on Brody. After spending much of his trip studying the man’s file, seeing him in the flesh was a bit like meeting a celebrity, albeit one whose best days were probably behind him.
Antony gestured to a second, empty chair across from her desk, next to Brody. “Please, have a seat, Mister … ?”
“Fielding,” Kovalic said, forcing himself to meet Antony’s gaze and dusting off his most diplomatic expression.
It was a new alias—they didn’t get reused, for security reasons—but it came out without so much as a hitch. If there was one thing he’d gotten good at over the last ten years, it was lying about his name. Which probably wasn’t something he should be proud about, but, well, that could have described any number of skills he’d built up in a decade of intel work. He settled into the chair, then cleared his throat. “Thank you for accommodating this impromptu visit, colonel. I know this must be a lot to take in.”
Antony gave a faint smile. “We’ve been waiting to rejoin the human race for five years now. I like to think we’ve prepared a bit in that time.”
“Well, we’re certainly glad to have you back. The blow you dealt to the Illyrican military was,” Kovalic paused, head cocked to one side, searching for the right word, “… substantial.”
Brody shifted again at that, his eyes blankly fixed somewhere that was decidedly not Kovalic. For her part, Antony’s expression held like she was posing for a photograph.
So, that was apparently a touchy subject.
Again clearing his throat, Kovalic launched into the carefully worded speech that the general had drilled into him for what seemed like the bulk of their twelve-hour trip. “As we speak, diplomatic representatives of the Commonwealth are engaging in high-level talks with your government to join our coalition. Sabaea would be a welcome addition and we could provide you with considerable assistance in rebuilding your planet.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Antony, eyebrows raised. “But that’s all well above my pay grade.”
Kovalic just barely avoided letting out a sigh of relief and relaxed into his chair. Antony was clearly not the type to be impressed by ten-dollar words. Just as well: Kovalic preferred the dime-store variety himself. “You and me both, colonel. Personally, I’m fine letting the diplomatic muckety-mucks upstairs work out all the fine print. I’m just here for Lieutenant Brody.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Kovalic saw Brody stiffen. Neither Kovalic’s nor Antony’s gaze turned to him, their eyes still locked on each other.
“I see,” said Antony. Her fingers, long and narrow as those of a concert pianist, rippled across the surface of the desk. “Could you perhaps enlighten us as to why the Commonwealth is so interested in Mr. Brody?”
Kovalic sucked a breath in through his teeth. “I can’t. Hell, I can’t even say ‘I wish I could.’” He smiled, apologetically. “You know the deal, colonel.”
Antony’s forehead creased. Orders were orders, and you didn’t make colonel without a healthy dose of respect for them—then again, you also didn’t end up in an icebox like this unless you’d made the shit list of some very important people.
“Look,” said Kovalic, leaning forward, “soldier to soldier, what I can tell you is that a lot happened while you guys have been out of commission. You dealt the Illyricans a serious blow five years ago—twenty percent of their naval strength destroyed in a single engagement is nothing to sneeze at.” He shook his head. “But they’re hardly on the ropes. We’re just trying to make sure the battlefield stays level, for all of us: the Commonwealth and the independent worlds that have been trying to stay out of it. And at this very moment, that—hard as it may be to believe—requires Lieutenant Brody’s help.”
“It’s not ‘Lieutenant.’” It took Kovalic a moment to realize that it was Brody who’d spoken. If his voice wasn’t the most confident Kovalic had ever heard, neither was it the piteous squeak that one might have expected from watching his body language. Narrowing his eyes, Kovalic took another, closer look at the man he’d come here to find.
Brody had unfolded slightly from the chair, his legs improbably lanky for a man who’d once had to squeeze into a fighter cockpit. His expression was guarded, but the eyes, despite the bleary redness, still had a certain spark in them.
“I’m sorry?” said Kovalic, tilting his head.
“It’s not ‘Lieutenant’ Brody,” he said, his eyes meeting Kovalic’s for the first time. “I resigned my commission in the Illyrican Navy as part of an agreement with the Sabaean government.”
Kovalic blinked, then nodded carefully. “I see. Mr. Brody, then.”
Brody shrugged. “That’s what it used to say on my tax forms.”
“Well,” said Antony, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands, “given that it seems likely we’re about to be allies, I see little harm in you talking to Mr. Brody.” She gestured in the younger man’s direction.
Kovalic’s brow furrowed. “I think you misunderstood me, colonel. This isn’t just a matter of debriefing—I’m taking Mr. Brody with me.”
The shockwave from that pronouncement rippled through both of them, though Kovalic had a hard time telling who seemed more bothered by it: Brody’s eyes had widened, more startled than angry, while Antony had sat forward again, clearly marshaling for a fight.
“Mr. Fielding,” Antony said; her voice was all honey and diplomacy on the outside, but there was no mistaking the reinforced steel beneath, “I appreciate that you have your orders, but Mr. Brody’s situation here on Sabaea is a complicated one. You have to realize that I can’t just let you whisk him away for your admittedly vague purposes.”
“All due respect, colonel, but you don’t have a choice.”
A mere tap would have shattered Antony’s expression. “I don’t respond well to threats, Mr. Fielding.”
The gentle chime of a communicator echoed in the silence, accompanied by a light winking on Antony’s desk. The colonel ignored it, holding Kovalic’s gaze.
“That’s going to be your boss,” said Kovalic, nodding to the desk. “And I know that because she’s been talking to my boss. And my boss can be very, very persuasive.” The general always got what he wanted, one way or another. Pushing back his chair, Kovalic rose. “I’ll be outside when you’re through.” He tried to shrug off the twinge of regret. Antony seemed decent enough, but that was beside the point: right now, she was just in his way.
It couldn’t have taken more than a couple minutes for the colonel to finish her conversation, but with Kovalic’s only company the two taciturn guards at Antony’s door it seemed like an hour. He’d taken the opportunity to browse some of the files that the general had just uploaded, including some of the data on what had happened to Brody after the invasion.
At the click of the door latch, the comm disappeared into Kovalic’s pocket and he pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. The two guards straightened up as Antony and Brody walked through.
“Good luck, Mr. B—,” the colonel’s voice caught, “Mr. Rankin.” Her eyes crinkled, and for a moment her expression softened. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too, ma’am,” said Brody, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Make sure Farrell stays on the straight and narrow.”
“I’m not sure I have the depths of patience required for that endeavor,” Antony said with a sigh. “Give me a moment with Mr. Fielding, will you?”
Brody eyed the two of them, unable to excise the faintest hint of suspicion from his eyes, but in the end he nodded. As he took up a spot outside the office, he turned suddenly and clicked his heels together, offering Antony a surprisingly sharp salute—albeit an Illyrican one, elbow crooked and palm facing out.
A smile crossed Antony’s face and she returned the salute in the more abbreviated Sabaean style.
The pleasant expression dropped from her face as she ushered Kovalic back into her office and closed the door. One on one with a senior officer w
as never Kovalic’s idea of a Friday night out; the full brunt of Antony’s attention descended upon him and he felt himself unconsciously adopting a parade rest. She lowered herself into her chair.
“You’re a military man, Mr. Fielding,” said Antony, eyes narrowed, “so I think we can speak plainly with one another.”
Kovalic resisted the urge to swallow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If anything happens to Eli Brody—if he nicks himself shaving, if he stubs his toe, if he doesn’t so much as get two sugars in his goddamned coffee—I will hold you personally responsible. And then you and I will have a problem. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kovalic repeated. It came automatically; there was no other possible reply.
Antony relaxed slightly. “Good,” she said, nodding as if to punctuate the point. “I may not know you, Mr. Fielding, but I know your kind. Special forces, I should think? Before your current career in,” she waved a hand, “whichever branch of the Commonwealth’s intelligence services you report to.”
He could have dissembled, could have given the polite but noncommittal denial that they both would have known to be a lie, but what would be the point? Kovalic kept his expression bland, but he acknowledged the assessment with a tilt of the head.
Antony pursed her lips. “Too many of your sort are more concerned with the big picture than with the … smaller details.” Her eyes flicked to the door. “That young man has been through a lot already. Too damn much, at his age.” The unnerving gaze returned to Kovalic. “See that he comes through the other side of this no worse than he went in.”
Some long dormant instinct prodded Kovalic to full attention, though he stopped just short of offering his own salute, instead substituting a curt, professional nod. “Yes, ma’am.” The address might have been a formality before, but this time he gave it the weight he deserved. Looking out for their personnel was the foremost responsibility of a commanding officer; Kovalic could get behind that. “For what it’s worth, we’re not in this to destroy lives.”
