by Ian Whates
He jerked backwards instinctively, “What the f…” before realising that what he saw wasn’t a living thing at all, but a statue, a mannequin, so artfully rendered and posed that it looked as if the figure before him stood ready to leap into action at the door’s opening.
“Yes, I know,” Jen said as she brushed past him. “The captain hasn’t reclaimed his coat, hat and boots as yet, but he will, he will. Come on, this way.”
She led him to the left. The walls and floor, the very air, glowed white and bright to the point of making him squint a little, otherworldly in its impact. He noted a number of stands supporting items, and truncated stocky pillars which supported nothing at all, but he found it difficult to concentrate on details.
As they approached the nearest empty pillar, words appeared to hover above its top in gold letters: RAMROD.
“No chance of getting lost, at any rate,” Nate said, mounting excitement making him loquacious – certainly not something he could usually be accused of.
Jen ignored him and simply passed her spread hand, palm downwards, over the top of the stand, just beneath the lettering, which promptly dissolved in a shower of glittering sparks. At her gesture, an alabaster bust rose from within the plinth, bearing Ramrod’s unmistakeable helmet – no, not just a bust, because it continued to rise, revealing a pale and muscular torso. A mannequin: a figure which ended just below the waist and now appeared to be a seamless extension of the stand.
The torso was naked apart from a rigid-framed harness. Ramrod’s paraphernalia could not have been simpler, consisting of a belt that circled the waist from which rose two flattened bars. They travelled up to curve over the shoulders and back down to join the belt once more. Part harness, part cage, Nate thought.
“Is this all of it?”
“Yes,” Jen confirmed. “The rest – the bodysuit you’re used to seeing – is generated by the harness.”
He hesitated, still doubting any of this could possibly be real.
“Go on,” Jen said.
Encouraged by her prompt, he reached out to grasp the helmet.
“Lift from the back,” Jen advised. “You’ll find it comes off more easily that way.”
She was right. The mask, the front part of what had seemed a single solid piece, retracted upwards rapidly, like a silk curtain being drawn, and the helmet lifted without resistance.
Nate hefted it in his hand: lighter than he’d expected.
He took a deep breath and donned it in one swift movement. It fitted perfectly, and suddenly he was looking at the world through a golden veil, as the mask flowed down to cover his face.
“It’ll take a little getting used to,” Jen said, her voice muffled by the helmet, “But once you do, you’ll actually be able to see and hear better than with your naked senses.”
That was reassuring. Nate just wished the adjustment would hurry up, because for now it felt as if he were interacting with the world through a filter.
He reached with deliberate care to take the harness, his movements uncertain due to the sense of remove. He wanted to make a good first impression on his new teammates, not spoil the moment by clumsily knocking over the alabaster figure.
In every rendering he’d seen – in the corny holodrama and elsewhere – Ramrod’s harness had been rigid, cast from what appeared to be polished gold, and that was precisely how it looked now. Until Nate actually touched it. When he did, he found the material to be warm and pliable, a texture more akin to leather than anything metallic.
“What the…?” he said as he took proper hold the surprisingly light strap, which wilted in his hands as he lifted the harness off the mannequin.
“I know,” Jen said. “Weird, isn’t it? Totally counterintuitive.”
“You might have warned me.”
“You reckon? How do you prepare someone for that?”
Which was a fair point.
“I hadn’t yet joined the crew when your predecessor first took on the guise of Ramrod,” Jen said, “but I understand the harness was huge when they first discovered it. As soon as Kyle – the original Ramrod – picked it up, it wilted and, in the process, somehow shrunk to human proportions.”
Nate stared at the deceptively limp strip of cloth in his hand. “You mean… this was once worn by an Elder?”
“Probably – a long long time ago. What do you think we’re dealing with here? Things the Elders knocked up just for our benefit? Stuff they left hanging around purely so we could discover and use it aeons after they were dead?”
“No, of course not.” He’d just never thought of any artefact in those terms before.
“Good. So put it on.”
He did so, his excitement and – yes – awe tempered a little by the thought that this same material might once have rested on alien flesh, but that didn’t really give him pause. Hell, this was a dream come true, and maybe one day he would get the chance to track Pelquin down and gloat, just a little.
The moment the harness settled on his shoulders it all kicked in: the enhanced senses Jen had promised – colours leapt out at him, he could suddenly see dust motes floating in the air and hear every intake and exhalation of Jen’s gentle breathing – but it was so much more than that. He felt energised, powerful, his whole body as ramped as his senses. He felt as if he could run headlong through solid walls and punch his way through armour shielding; which, given Ramrod’s reputation, he probably could.
“This beats any drug I’ve ever heard of,” he said.
“Just don’t get carried away. Until we get you trained up, you genuinely don’t know your own strength.”
He didn’t doubt Jen for a moment. He could easily imagine himself accidently crushing something vital to somebody. He reached up to grasp the back of the helmet and lifted it forwards and off, as Jen had taught him. Instantly, everything turned down a notch. The sense of energy in his limbs remained but the world grew a few shades duller.
As they left the artefact room, Raider’s voice spoke from the air. “Welcome to the Dark Angels, Ramrod,” it said.
Nine
Terry Reese couldn’t help thinking things were getting out of control. This wasn’t a feeling she was used to and certainly not one she enjoyed.
She had left her office that afternoon in full knowledge that her days here might be numbered. Her fate would be decided behind the imposing doors of the boardroom. There had always been a risk in offering Cornische a position at First Solar and helping him to establish the persona of Corbin Thaddeus Drake, but it was a calculated one and not a decision she regretted at any stage. Drake proved to be the best banking agent she had ever encountered, with a higher success rate at cache hunts than anyone else in the industry. She found herself having to defend the decision now, though, but she did so bullishly, without any intention of apologising.
In Valter Åkesson, senior partner at First Solar, she felt she had an ally, or at least a sympathetic ear, but his might well prove an isolated voice and it seemed unlikely he would be blatant in his support. To do so would risk diminishing his influence, should his fellows consider him to be biased at outset.
All five senior partners had gathered – a rarity in itself – though Reese suspected that only Åkesson and Son were physically present, the rest attending via projection.
Sara Minier seemed to have adopted the role of chief interrogator for now – whether by default or design, Terry couldn’t be sure. She was on nodding acquaintance with Minier, but wouldn’t claim to know her well. Their interactions had always been civil, though rare – Minier’s responsibilities covered other areas of First Solar’s interests. Presumably, this qualified her to take the lead now; as did her reputation for cold hard decision making.
Outwardly, she was all smiles, though the expression never reached as far as her eyes.
“And you didn’t think to refer the decision to a superior?” she said.
“I’m fully authorised to vet and recruit my own staff,�
�� Terry said, attempting to match Minier’s calm tone, “without troubling anyone at board level.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but this could hardly be construed as ‘normal’, could it? You were offering the most notorious freebooter in known space a job with a premier financial institution, in the process providing him with a degree of legitimacy beyond anything he could have hoped to find elsewhere. You didn’t think that worth referring?”
“I’ve never troubled any of the partners with administrative matters such as recruitment,” Terry said, aware that her smile might be slipping, just a bit. “My understanding has always been that partners have more important matters to deal with than the vetting of new staff, and that they trusted such matters within my department to me. It would be a failure on my part should they ever be consulted on such things.”
“I see.” That smile again. “So you were seeking to spare us additional work.”
“I was taking responsibility for a decision, which is one of the things you pay me for, in the full knowledge that any decision I make may be held to account.” No one would miss that oblique reference; everyone present knew that Drake had been directly responsible for earning First Solar a significant amount over the course of many years. When it came to ‘accounting’, Terry was on safe ground; as for the rest…
“It wasn’t perhaps because you knew that no partner would condone your actions, but you had already decided to push ahead in any case?”
There was that. Deniability too; Terry suspected that Åkesson knew precisely who Drake was from the get go, but there was no way she could ever prove as much, nor would she wish to.
“As I say, the employment of staff falls under my remit, and I’m experienced enough to make such decisions without the need of validation.”
“Yes… as you say. Let’s move on. Having decided to offer this notorious vagabond a job, you then conspired to hide his identity, helping him to create a false persona which he then hid behind for the best part of ten years.”
“A new persona, yes. Without that, he could never have worked for us as a representative in the field.”
“And you did so, as far as I can see, on First Solar’s time and utilising First Solar’s resources.”
Really? Was that the best she could come up with: misuse of company time?
“Indeed,” Terry confirmed. “And First Solar have benefitted handsomely as a result. The resources invested in creating the legend of Corbin Drake have been repaid many thousands of times over, from the proceeds of the successful cache hunts Drake has conducted on First Solar’s behalf.”
“What prompted you to take such a risk in the first place?” interjected Son, the oldest and reputedly most conservative of the partners.
“It seemed to me a unique opportunity,” Terry said without hesitation. “In establishing and leading the Dark Angels, Cornische had proven himself to be a resourceful and highly effective individual. Qualities which, to my mind, made him ideally suited to the task of rooting out Elder caches and securing their contents. I felt his potential as an agent for First Solar more than justified the comparatively minor investment required to recruit him and establish the Drake identity. I believe the results of doing so have borne out that conviction.”
“Why have you now chosen to come clean and admit the deception?” Minier said, clearly determined to regain control of proceedings.
Bitch! “Omission, rather than deception,” Terry corrected, calmly. “Because developing events have convinced me that now is the right time to do so,” And because I’d rather you heard it from me than from anyone else.
“You’re referring to the recent assignment to the Enduril system, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“To which you persuaded Mr Åkesson to commit one of our Sabre units.”
“There was little persuasion required,” Åkesson assured her. “I trust Ms Reese’s judgement implicitly.”
Bless you, Valter.
“I’m sure, and with good cause,” Minier conceded. “Your record speaks for itself, Ms. Reese. The best loan assessor in the business, would you go along with that?
Terry shook her head, dismissing the very notion. “Not my concern. That’s for others to judge. I just do my job to the best of my ability.”
“Excuse me one moment,” Åkesson said, evidently taking a call of some sort. It had to be important. Terry felt certain that DO NOT DISTURB would have been the edict for the duration of this session. Glances were exchanged between a few of the partners, and Minier made no attempt to hide her annoyance at the interruption.
“I apologise,” Åkesson said, “but I hope you’ll forgive such rudeness when I tell you that we’ve just received a message from the commander of Sabre 1. His report impacts directly on our current discussion. If no one objects, I’d like to share it with you now.”
No one did.
Thapa’s image appeared, hovering in the air at the centre of the group, configured so that he seemed to be looking directly at each of them.
“This is Commander Deepak Thapa, of the stealth ship Sabre 1, with report summary. A more detailed report will follow on my return to New Sparta.”
There were protocols regarding message length, even for stealth ship commanders, given the exorbitant cost of faster than light communication via RzSpace.
“The presence of Sabre 1 was detected by the Night Hammer ship Darkness Mourning…”
Night Hammers? Nobody else reacted, which led Terry to conclude this wasn’t Thapa’s first report. She wondered what else the partners might know about the developing situation that she wasn’t privy to.
“They engaged us towards the edge of the Enduril system, Thapa continued. “Being outgunned, we were forced to resort to stealth mode. A Comet class trading vessel identifying as Blue Angel exited from Rz in the midst of the conflict. The newcomer fired upon Darkness Mourning and successfully disabled her.”
That caused a few murmurs.
“Subsequently, it emerged that the trader was captained by Corbin Drake, registered agent for this bank and the man we had been assigned to support. Mr Drake asked me to forward as a matter of urgency a record of what he then went on to say, for the attention of the senior officers of First Solar. Given recent experiences and my limited interaction with Mr Drake, I recommend that what follows should be viewed as credible but unproven.”
Thapa’s features faded, to be replaced by a face Terry knew only too well.
“This is Corbin Thadeus Drake, reporting to Terry Reese and the senior officers of First Solar Bank…”
Drake’s entire message lasted less than three minutes – she timed it – yet its impact was profound. A second of stunned silence followed its conclusion and then somebody – Sara Minier – laughed.
“No one’s suggesting we should take this seriously, are they?” Minier said.
Åkesson ignored her. “Terry,” he said. First names now, that has to be a good sign. “You know Drake better than any of us. Is he prone to melodrama, would you say?”
“No, quite the opposite.”
Clever Valter. She didn’t doubt the question was designed to emphasise that very point rather than obtain information. Any of them could summon up Drake’s psych profile with the blink of an eye.
“So you think we should take what he says seriously?”
“Absolutely.”
“Has anyone ever heard of this ‘Saflik’?” Son asked.
Shakes of the head all round.
“What about Archer, is he one of yours Ms Reese?”
“Not directly. The same department, though.”
“Archer is one of Mawson’s,” Åkesson supplied. In theory, all senior loan advisors could assign any representative to a given mission, but in practice they tended to rely on a handful of favourites, often those they had played some part in recruiting. “Archer was our follow-up representative sent to Enduril II when concerns over Drake’s welfare first surface
d.”
“Why him?” Minier wanted to know.
“He was between assignments at the time and so available immediately and…” Åkesson was clearly checking a detail, “…he requested the job.”
“Hmm.”
“If Drake’s message is to be deemed credible, this is all very disturbing,” said Barnes, the partner Terry knew least.
“It certainly gives us plenty to think about.”
“That it does,” Åkesson agreed. “Though, unless I’ve failed to grasp the significance, we’ve just been told the location of Lenbya and warned that it’s at risk of falling into the hands of an inimical organisation, so I suggest we do our thinking quickly.”
Terry left the meeting with no clear idea of what was likely to happen next, but at least it seemed she still had a job; for the present, at any rate.
Ten
“For Elders’ sake, exercise some control!” Jen roared at him.
“I’m doing my best!” Nate snarled back.
“Well do better. You nearly brought that whole bloody building down on top of us.”
Nate yanked his helmet off with a frustrated bellow, half tempted to kick it across the street. This was harder than he’d expected. He was good with gadgets, always had been, and the harness was just another overblown gadget, so why was he finding it so difficult to adjust to? Because he wasn’t used to so much raw power, he supposed.
Jen had to visibly force down her anger, though in truth she was proving to be a lot more patient than he might have been in similar circumstances, which didn’t help his self-esteem either.
“Look, I know this is all new to you and, in all honesty, you’re doing okay,” she admitted. “But okay isn’t good enough. In a matter of days it’s the big one – we’re going to war – and ‘okay’ will get you killed. Or, worse still, get us killed. We can’t afford for you to fuck up, so you need to hit the ground running and pick this up real quick, for all our sakes. You understand?”
He nodded. I’m not an idiot.
“Good. So are you ready to go again?”
