by Trevor Wyatt
I lean back with a groan. What have I gotten myself into?
More than that, I realize with a stab of guilt: what have I gotten Gresh into? Well, there’s nothing I can do for him now. The sad fact of the matter is that he is on his own. As a Sonali dealing with Sonali, he’ll probably be able to handle his situation.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Since I can do nothing for Gresh, I had better do something for myself. This operation seems to be unravelling, which means I am going to have to get myself to a safe house until things cool down. There’s no guarantee that such place will have its own atmospheric conditioning like my apartment does; I don’t have to wear a regulator here, which is a huge relief. But if I must wear one, I will. People on the run can’t afford to be picky about their accommodations.
I have adopted disguises before, of course. Part of my Intelligence training was a course in disguises given by a master character actor. Contact lenses, wigs, padded clothing to add a bit of weight, a stone in the mouth to garble the voice. But this time, things are different. The fact that I’m a Terran female means that any disguise I adopt amounts to little more than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Good for short-term, perhaps, but not for the long haul. There aren’t so many of my species and sex on Sonali Prime, and ID-ing us isn’t a big hit for Sonali security. I must, therefore, go the extra mile.
With that, I open a secret panel in my kitchen—people always expect them in the bathroom and I don’t even know why. I withdraw my kit—well, one of them. One is designed for Terran use, and I haven’t had much occasion to dip into it thus far on this assignment.
But the other one is designed to make me look like a Sonali post-Ascension female.
Culturally, Sonali PA females hold a societal niche similar to that held by Terran females, though more Sonali gravitate toward the military and security than do Terrans.
There is less of a history of sexual repression among the Sonali, equality before the Supreme Spirit being built into The Way—to the benefit of all, as far as I’m concerned.
The main problem for me is the hair—Sonali women haven’t got any. And the ears; they’re slits, rather than the skin-covered cartilage we have on the sides of our heads. But the kit was designed to handle these inconvenient characteristics.
I have a short-hair wig I can wear in my Anika/Rosaline personas if needed, so this is not an issue. I’m able to put the fake skin over a few layers and my long tresses that come to my shoulders are put into a bun and hidden. In twenty minutes, I’ve gone from a wavy brunette to being as hairless as a Sonali female.
The ears are, though. I have to take them off.
Before I began this assignment I underwent surgery to replace my human pinnae with Sonali-like ear slits. My fake ears are securely fastened—I could even swim with them if I chose to—but easy enough to remove with a couple of good sharp tugs.
Moments later, bald and earless, I am regarding myself wryly in the bedroom mirror. What a sight. Now there’s just the problem of my skin color. I have an ivory-colored Northern Italian tone, but Sonali are various shades of blue. So I rely to the kit once more, for primer, color mix, and so on. Again, all part of my training. The compounds and colors have all been formulated for use here on Sonali Prime. By the time I’m done, a fairly decent copy of a Sonali female is gazing back at me out of the mirror. Interestingly enough, Sonali do not have blue eyes—the color is unknown among them. So I have had to put in orange contact lenses.
I put the make-up kit back into its hidey-hole. Then I pick up my breather and slip it into my reticule.
Thanks to my nanites, I can get by for a while without the breather, but I’ll certainly need it at some point, because although my nanites will allow me to breathe the Sonali atmosphere for a while, they can’t handle it indefinitely. Having accumulated a load of toxic compounds, they need time to neutralize the poisons and break them down into harmless chemicals that I eliminate in my urine. I can go for a couple of hours before I require the breather, although even then I only need to use it for ten minutes or so—coupled with a trip to the bathroom to dump the toxins before I can continue without it once more.
Technology: It’s a wonderful thing.
Feeling almost cheerful—almost—I head for my front door. I have my hand on the handle when my comm bleeps a code I recognize.
Shit-fire. I want to get out of here, but this is a call I can’t ignore: it’s from Ambassador Esteban Asis. What does this twod want? I am about to click on with the usual vid feed, but something—a hunch, maybe, comes into me. We agents don’t disregard hunches, so I limit the call to voice on my end.
“Ms. Grayson,” he begins; then pauses. “What is wrong with your video?”
“Dropped the comm,” I lie. “Busted the lens. Look, Ambassador, I need to go home,” I say. It’s a jargon, meaning I may be compromised and need to lie low for a while.
He shakes his head. “You haven’t been keeping up with current events.” He says this with a detectable vein of malicious amusement.
“I have been otherwise occupied,” I say as politely as I can manage, which isn’t very. “Things are going sideways here, sir, and I—”
“Slow down,” he says. “Let me—”
“Sir, with all due respect, the Temple went on alert after Gresh went in, and that’s got to be either because they made him, maybe from the nanites he dumped, or maybe they ID’d from the assassin’s description, or—” I break off, because he is shaking his head again.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
He sighs. “Your cover is safe.”
“Um...are you sure?”
“Our intel has no hints of Gresh being compromised, or of you being outed. What has happened, however, is that there’s been an explosion at the merchant port not far away from your current location.”
“A what, did you say? There was an explosion?”
“Yes. We don’t know the reason for it, but something happened on a Sonali vessel while it was docked.”
“Something? Like...what kind of ‘something’?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have used the word,” he says, in an icy tone. Well, I have to grant him that point.
It’s as rare as tree testicles for a ship to explode in port. I’ve heard of it happening only once, and it was the result of an accident involving a ground car’s driver suffering a stroke at the wheel, losing control and slamming into a maintenance tender that was refueling its steering jet tanks. Somehow I don’t think that’s what happened here on Sonali Prime.
“The point, Ms. Grayson,” the ambassador goes on, “is not that it happened—but what occurred as a result.” He pauses. “Every ship in port has been grounded while the Sonali conducts an investigation, and no others are being allowed to land.”
I scoff. “All the other ships? What do they expect to gain by halting traffic in and out of the port?”
“I’m not sure, but I can tell you this: there’s one ship and one ship only, out of all the fifteen or so parked in the port, that is being torn down from bolts to bulkheads while the Sonali look for...I don’t know, whatever it is they are looking for.”
“Surprise me,” I say.
“I don’t think I need to,” he says, and he’s right. For once, we’re on the same page.
“A Terran craft,” I say, and sigh.
“That would be correct. It’s an agricultural vessel. Still, that isn’t the main point of interest to this situation.”
“And what would that be?”
“That the administrator of trading for the port is Master Merchant Byuren.”
Chapter 18
No-One
Master Merchant Byuren? I chew on that for a few seconds. Asis is still talking but I’m not listening to him. My instincts are tingling, the same ones that prompted me to “break the lens” on my comm. I have never really liked Byuren, whom I consider to be a skunk; but then, I feel that way about a lot of Sonali. He has been in and out of t
he embassy for meetings, but I don’t know much more than that. One thing’s for sure: if I want to follow up on Byuren’s doings, I will need embassy resources. I have cultivated no contacts among the merchant class, but of course there are those in the embassy who have.
“If you want me to look into him,” I say to Asis, who seems to have run down, “I’ll need to come in.”
“That would be fine, but for one thing,” he says. “My Intel contacts have just informed that there’s a planet-wide alert out for you.”
“What?”
“Yes. Apparently, the alleged assassin you beat up has told High Cleric Szaad about you. The Sonali security forces have your description.”
I have to shrug it off. Cookie was only doing her job, which is to make my job impossible. However, I’m not out of the game just yet.
“Listen, Grayson, stay where you are. You’ll be safer there. I’ll get someone right away to bring you in.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, and he breaks the connection.
Something about this whole business with Asis doesn’t smell right to me. When is he ever this accommodating? True, I’m in trouble, and any trouble with Terran personnel is going to rebound on him to his detriment. Asis is a man who is obsessed with “face.” I suppose that’s part of a diplomat’s job description, but even so...he’s a vain, self-aggrandizing twod. He’d be happy to get me hidden away in the embassy, all right—but not out of any concern about my well-being.
“The bastard wants to capture me himself!” I say aloud, knowing immediately that I’m right. Asis is covering his own ass. He’ll snag me, and turn me over to the Sonalis as a rogue operative!
This realization makes me as sore as a boil. There is supposed to be a code of ethics in play at the embassy, and to my way of thinking, Asis is in the way of violating it for his own benefit. He’d say that he is sacrificing a pawn for the sake of the more important pieces, but I have no sympathy to this point of view, being the pawn in question.
Therefore, still in my Sonali disguise, I exit my apartment and go down to the building’s lobby, where I take a position to one side half hidden by a bit potted plant, make-up kit in hand, preening as if I am preparing for a big date.
Mere moments later, or so it seems, an official embassy skimmer, black with acid-green trim, plummets down out of the sky, checks just before it hits, and touches down as carefully as Ambassador Asis checking his appearance in a mirror. That landing couldn’t have been easy on the passengers. The car’s gull-wing doors pop open just as my comm link lights up with a brief 4-word message: Don’t go with them. It’s signed V—Violet, of course: Asis’s secretary and my one sure contact among his people.
Now I know I’m right: Asis is willing to throw me to the wolves. I don’t know what he’s told this security detachment, but he’s got them all wee-weed up. They’re in armor and are clutching beamers, I see as they climb out of the skimmer. I’ll have a words with Esteban Asis later, but right now I have more pressing concerns—such as, getting my fine white ass out of the crack in which it now finds itself.
They’re outside, but thanks to my nanites I can hear their conversation.
“She’s dangerous,” one says. I see a captain’s insignia on his shoulder. Squad leader. “Use extreme caution.”
“Sir!”
“Cavanagh, Josko, Whitmorth—stand here with the vehicle. The rest of you, come with me.”
The captain leads the other three men inside the lobby. They head straight for the elevator, and ring for my floor. They’re so absorbed in their assignment that they don’t see me behind the plant. I huddle down, making myself a bit smaller.
The car comes and they troop in.
I am alone in the lobby with my mind in a whirl. No question now: any diplomatic immunity I might have had has been revoked. I’m not about to walk into the embassy, where Asis would be ever so happy to see me. I don’t dare go to my office, either. There will of course be another team of guards there waiting for me. So, where to? And how?
I stand there, eyeing the men outside at the car. Man, that’s a nice car. A girl like me could go places with that.
And with no more thought than that, I stroll out from behind my covering plant and through the door to the outside. As I do, their eyes snap toward me. At least, I assume they do; their helmet shields are polarized and I can’t see the upper half of their faces.
Now, post-Ascension Sonali females are, I have been told by those who should know, often attractive to Terran males, and vice versa. There haven’t been many Terran/Sonali liaisons since the war ended, but it’s been known to happen. And while Terran males are the Galaxy’s prime horn-dogs, other species certainly try to give them a run for their money. Seems like there is something constant in the galaxy, after all. No matter what planet you come from, you’re still looking to get laid at the end of the day.
The three guards at the embassy vehicle instantly zero in on me as I strut my stuff past them. As I go by they make a couple of murmured comments. I scope out their equipment—and I’m not talking about their personal equipment. Their armor and weapons are standard. I know how to deal with them. The fact that there are three of these bozos makes my job a little tougher, but not a lot.
First rule of combat against multiple opponents: Keep ‘em in a line in front of you. The guards are all on one side of the car, so I pass and then swing back with a smile on my face as if I’m going to flirt. Instead, I kick my speed up, and I’m on them before they know what’s happening. They can’t react fast enough to stop me.
I slam a hand under the nearest man’s helmet, snapping his chin back. As I do this I rip the rearview mirror off the skimmer’s side and chuck it at the second man. Sharing my speed and momentum, it caroms off his visor. The visor in unbreakable, but he’s still knocked to one side, stunned. I will be done with my work here before he hits the ground.
This is almost unfair; but then I receive a nasty surprise. The third guy is matching my velocity.
He’s got nanites, too!
He backs off so quickly that I bet he’ll be suffering from burns from atmospheric friction, but he obviously doesn’t care about that.
He halts his retreat and closes with me before I can put up my guard. He’s armored: that means no vulnerable points like knees, groin, or even nose—he has seen what I did to his first comrade, and he’s keeping his head down.
I am not armored, and he takes advantage of this by punching me in my left breast, not bothering to slug me in the face, or even the stomach.
Fuck, does that hurt! We women are as vulnerable to a blow like that as men are to a kick in the balls. This guy has fought women before, and is under no compunctions to be gentlemanly about it.
We trade punches for a few milliseconds, but to little avail. I can’t hurt him because of his armor, and he can’t get through my guard now that I am aware of what he is.
Dammit! I can’t let these idiots go—they’ll give the alarm that I am disguised as a Sonali female. I am going to need this cover for a while. There is only one thing I can do.
I run. I’m off and around the building before he can react. I know he will follow me immediately, so I have at best half a second, real-time, before he finds me. I zip completely around the building and back inside.
There’s the plant, right where I left it. I grab it, lift it up, and he meets it face first as he races into the lobby.
Three down.
Still moving at speed, I haul the unconscious guards into a utility closet off the lobby and truss them up. They’ll be unconscious for a while; at least long enough for their friends upstairs to find them, asses kicked, here in the cubby.
I slow down, head back outside, and commandeer their car. It’s locked, but it responds to my override code. Still in Sonali disguise, I flee the scene in my shiny new skimmer.
Chapter 19
Gresh
The assassin flees across the back streets of the Residential Estate, using the darkness as cover, and I f
ollow after her with my heart pounding to the drums of my possible demise at her utterly cruel side. The backstreets are the slums, where people of questionable characters thrive. Security personnel rarely venture this far, except in times of crisis or to collect a dead body.
I am totally sure this assassin can handle herself should she be attacked.
But can I do that for myself?
We are currently passing through an area where the streets are wider and the houses are receded away from the streets. Most of the houses in this neighborhood are one or two stories tall. The street lights are dead and the houses seemed abandoned. Now and then, I see a couple of people gathered on the lawn, smoking narcotic herbs that are banned in the entire Combine.
Sometimes, I make eye contact with these groups of deadly looking vagabonds and immediately turn away.
I know I’m way in over my head. But I have realized that this is not just about helping No One. This is about the Origin Movement. The High Cleric and this assassin are up to no good. I have to help No One find out what exactly they have going on and stop them before it is too late to do so.
Another reason I’m out here in perpetual jeopardy to my life is because after surviving the Sacred Temple of the Holy Combine, I think I can handle myself. Heck, I know I can handle myself.
Perhaps, my body is still trembling with excitement as a result of the last “near death experience”, for if they had caught a spy in the Temple, it was certainly death without trial for me. The Temple is that powerful.
I found it odd that the moment I stepped out of the High Cleric’s office, the entire Temple went into lockdown. I don’t know what happened. My first instinct when the alarms went off was to dive to the corner of the main administrative floor and stay put. I can remember how my entire body shivered under the oppressive weight of terror.
