by A P Heath
More questions queued in his head as the Lord Admiral answered his last.
“The mission objectives were achieved, although at great cost.” His tone was laden. Lanad had been expecting an answer of failure; for the conversation to continue with details of admonishments, court martials, demotions. The answer threw him into disarray.
How?
“The science team you were tasked with retrieving had clearly abandoned the station. Command has instructed us to ascertain the current trajectory of their lifeboat and intercept. They haven’t been found yet, but there’s a lot of space out there to look through.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the tops of his thighs in an attempt to find a more comfortable position on the spindly chair.
“The station was destroyed, I ordered the Peregrines to launch a full spread bombardment and the debris was tracked falling into Earth’s atmosphere by the Pride’s scanners. It isn’t the
outcome Command wanted, but it’s within mission parameters.”
Secure the target or scupper it; that had been the order.
Lanad had been shaken by the engagement, he still was. On any other mission the Deorum Marines would consider the need to scupper their target as much a failure as leaving it intact to their enemy.
The idea they could be bested in combat was alien to them, the idea they could be so comprehensively overwhelmed at all, let alone by a smaller force, was simply astounding. It would shake the Companies down to their very core. And they hadn’t even gathered any useful intel on this unknown enemy.
Lanad had not been conscious when he was evacuated, but he suspected they’d been lucky to make it out at all. If anything, the time Lanad had spent on GS-114 had given him more questions than answers.
“And of course, we secured examples of this new weapons tech, whatever it is.”
The Lord Admiral added with a lighter tone.
“We might not know who created it, or how, but by Luna next time we face them we’ll be prepared.”
Lanad struggled to put the pieces together.
“But…we…” He stammered. The marines had evacuated under fire, the dropships had destroyed the station. How could they have recovered anything?
“Your reserve Lieutenant, Cassini,” DeMarchek said, answering the question Lanad couldn’t form.
“He led the Peregrines attack run on my order and dropped into the tertiary loading bay to pull out Lieutenant Bolthosian.”
DeMarchek leaned back again, any comfort of his seated position eluding him.
“Damn fine officer that man, shame he couldn’t find Timonny.”
Lanad heard the mocking edge to the Lord Admiral’s words, in respect of his fellow captain.
“Aitkin, I mean Lieutenant Cassini recovered useable intel?”
He asked, the pride in his officer’s performance a glimmer of positivity amongst the darkness of their crushing defeat.
“He did indeed,” The Lord Admiral almost smiled, “He got the majority of his squad out before the bombardment and they brought three of the enemy’s weapons back to the Pride with them.”
There was something missing in the Lord Admiral’s words. Lanad could hear the unsaid words.
“And what about Lieutenant Cassini?” He asked.
DeMarchek paused, taking a breath and pursing his lips. His eyes narrowed with a calculating look that spread to his mouth briefly before a thin smile replaced it.
“We’ve talked enough for today,” He said gently, patting Lanad on the shoulder again as he stood awkwardly from his chair.
“We’ll continue once you’ve rested a little more.”
The Lord Admiral turned from Lanad’s bed and made to walk away.
“Please, Lord Admiral,” Lanad raised a beseeching hand towards him.
“Did Lieutenant Cassini make it back?”
It took a moment for DeMarchek to face him. He looked grave, his thick eyebrows creasing as he sought for the right words.
“We will talk of Lieutenant Cassini when you’ve rested,” He repeated in a tone that made it clear he would not be drawn further into this topic.
“He conducted himself admirably, but...”
Lanad’s face fell as the words trailed into silence. Cassini’s name had not been on the list of casualties the Lord Admiral had relayed and he’d dared to hope his reserve had been spared from the bloodshed.
DeMarchek himself had a pensive look. He shook his head, as if to dislodge a thought he couldn’t find a way to voice.
“As I said, we will talk more of Lieutenant Cassini.” He stepped around the screen and out of sight, leaving Lanad to wonder on his cryptic words while his footsteps faded away.
THIRTY-NINE
The J-Sec offices of Amory quadrant were busy with the myriad tasks apportioned to this section of the millions strong security force.
They dealt with everything from petty thefts and noise complaints to investigating the numerous deaths and not entirely occasional acts of civil disobedience that a floating population of sixteen billion people caused.
J-Sec was the law enforcement of Jupiter’s Halo. In each quadrant they had numerous stations, centres and outposts to house the bodies and equipment necessary to police the vast population, all governed from their central offices in each of the bureaucratic Cores.
Tylin Harten usually had little cause for venturing into the J-Sec office within Amory Core, but today he needed answers and he wasn’t prepared to wait on their messages.
As Under-secretary he held the authority to designate orders directly to the commander of the Amory J-Sec force, but as the man had reminded him in the past, he possessed the authority to interpret any such order as he would and act on it as he saw fit. The relationship they had cultivated was best described as grudgingly cooperative.
Amory J-Sec Commander Leonard French was a bullish man of middle age. He sported a thick moustache of greying bristles that swathed his upper lip and curled out to meet his sideburns on either cheek. The hair around his face seemed strangely in balance with the complete lack of strands across his scalp. Harten had dedicated many of his younger years to the study of old Earth fauna and seeing the Commander always put him in mind of a particular walrus picture he’d always liked as a child.
He couldn’t help but think of that image now as French sat behind his desk and bristled at Harten’s brazen entrance.
So far today the Commander had rearranged their appointment three times already and Harten had grown tired of waiting.
Tired was an appropriate word. He had yet to sleep since the
Reception and despite the application of several not altogether mild stimulants, the extended hours of consciousness were beginning to weigh on him.
After the third message offering his apologies and rescheduling for another hours delay, Harten had simply given up responding and had taken the trans-terminal down to the J-Sec floor.
An entire level of the Amory Core was given over to the central office and Harten had strolled through it with the confidence afforded a man who knows no one around has the authority to challenge him. He had walked right into Commander French’s office and seated himself before the man’s desk, a satisfied smile plastered across his face.
He’d clearly interrupted something important to the Commander, but Harten felt long past the point of caring. In the fourteen hours since the Ambassador’s death he’d been threatened with personal violence twice, threatened with professional disgrace on at least four occasions and with significant military action just once.
He was tired of being the target and wanted to move that focus onto another for a time. Namely, whoever put a blade through the Deorum Ambassador in front of three hundred potential witnesses, without apparently being seen by a single one.
Somewhere, someone knew something and he was tired of the assumptions that someone was him. If he was going to be accused of knowing what happened he felt he should at least be afforded the opportunity to find out for himself.
At his interruption Commander French dismissed the officers he had previously been meeting with, asking the last one out to close the door as he left.
Alone in the office he turned his stare on Harten.
“Under-secretary, I believe my message about our scheduling was quite clear...” He began brusquely.
“It was Commander,” Harten replied, still smiling, “I simply chose to ignore it.”
He sat up straight in the thinly cushioned chair and fixed French with his own slightly manic gaze.
“Now, I would like you to explain to me exactly what your
officers have ascertained thus far, in respect to the assassination of the Deorum Ambassador.”
Commander French leaned over his desk to inspect his unwanted guest more closely.
“Are you alright Under-secretary,” He asked, an edge of concern on his words, “You’re not blinking.”
“I am a little overwrought Commander French, but otherwise perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, but it really is not necessary. Now, as I said, what progress have you made?”
Commander French sighed as he sat back in his chair, his ample bulk causing a groan of protest from its overtaxed frame.
“It’s still early days, I’m not sure there’s any more to tell than you had in the initial report.”
Harten continued his stare, letting his eyes accentuate his words.
“May I remind you we are talking about the death of an ambassador here Commander? There is no such thing as early days.” He placed his hands pointedly on the edge of the Commander’s desk.
“Your office’s initial report confirmed cause of death and noted the absence of one member of the waiting staff. I would sincerely hope you have more to tell me after a further thirrteen hours of investigations.” He gripped the desk, turning his knuckles white.
The Commander’s desk had no slate as Harten’s did, but instead a large display that hovered horizontally over the leftmost portion of its polished surface. The angle from Harten’s chosen chair was not good enough to make out the detail of the information it displayed and he made a mental note to seat himself elsewhere the next time he invited himself into the Commander’s presence.
“To be frank with you Under-secretary, we’ve uncovered quite a lot of information, but none of it is going to make you any happier.”
Harten rolled his eyes at the dissembling.
“Just tell me Commander.” He said, “Have you found the
missing waiter?” Commander French looked uncomfortable.
“Aye, we found her,” He said in reply, “Ingette Rolson was her name.”
“Was?” French shifted in his seat, managing to look more uncomfortable still.
“Yes Under-secretary, was. We recovered her body in her private domicile a few hours ago.”
“And you didn’t think that a worthy update?” Harten demanded.
“It’s a little complicated Under-secretary,” Commander French raised his hands, palms outwards.
“We have a witness statement from one,” He consulted the data on his display, “Armonde Biston, a waiter who claims he saw Miss Rolson only moments before the Ambassador was attacked, but…”
“But what Commander?” Harten could feel his temper fraying.
They’d found her, the missing waiter and he’d deemed the revelation unnecessary to share. If Harten had known that name a few hours ago he may have had a significantly less painful morning.
“But Under-secretary, the coroner puts time of death at eleven ay-em yesterday.”
Harten felt his stomach tighten.
“But that’s…”
“Yes Under-secretary. It’s ten hours before the Ambassador was murdered.”
Harten sank onto his chair. Their only lead of any real value and it was impossible.
“I’m afraid it gets worse.” Commander French continued, “We have limited viewing panes directed at the interior of the Celebratory Hall,” He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Ambassadorial privilege and all that. What we do have caught images of Miss Rolson entering the kitchen block an hour before the Reception commenced, but never leaving again.”
“But the problem with that is that she wasn’t there when the staff were interviewed.” Harten interjected.
“And that she had been dead in her own home for several
hours already.” Commander French finished.
Harten took a deep breath. “Do you have anything to drink in here?” He asked.
Commander French gave him a stern look.
“I do hope you’re not suggesting I imbibe alcoholic substances while in the course of undertaking my duties.”
“I don’t care what you do Commander, “Harten replied with uncharacteristic candour. “I’m just saying I need a drink.”
Commander French reached below his desk and pulled out a bottle of dark liquid and two small glasses.
“Rum.” He stated, holding up a finger.
“Strictly for professional emergencies you understand.”
“Fine, fine.” Harten waved at him to pour.
He took the nearest glass as the Commander filled a second and tipped the contents into his mouth in a single swallow.
The liquor was fiery and strong in flavour. He shook his head vigorously.
Commander French looked at him for a moment and then followed suit, draining his own glass.
“We also have footage of a young woman exiting the maintenance tunnels that lead under the Hall and heading down the main concourse, shortly after the incident.”
“Is this one still alive?” Harten felt a little light headed. Probably from the lack of sleep he thought.
“We don’t know.” Commander French admitted. Harten gave him a look he hoped expressed the depths of his displeasure with that answer.
“She is identified as Cammie Li’An, a member of the Ambassador’s office staff, however,” Harten was not pleased with the ‘however’.
For a moment it had seemed like there might be a loose end the good Commander could actually pull on.
“According to our records no such person exists.”
“On the station?”
“Anywhere.” Commander French had the decency to at least look sheepish.
“We’re working on the premise she was more than her work
permit describes and her records are sealed under the Ambassadors diplomatic privilege. Harten grasped for a straw.
“Do you at least know where she is?” He asked, aware his voice had taken on a pleading tone.
“Not exactly. She entered the main hab section below the social quarter and it’s like a maze down there. We have officers searching, but going door to door is slow progress.”
Harten rested his head in his hands.
“I suppose it’s too much to imagine this Cammie Li’An was somehow disguised as the waiter and that’s why she never left the Hall?” Harten felt pleased with the deduction.
“We considered that possibility, but we’ve got footage of Cammie Li’An entering the Hall the previous day and nothing of her leaving until after the Ambassador was murdered. It’s a big place; it’s entirely possible she was there throughout the night.”
“Doing what?” Harten was exasperated.
“How should I know?” Commander French replied hotly.
“If I had the tools to see inside the bloody Hall I’d have a lot more answers than questions right now!”
He picked up the rum bottle again and filled his glass a little fuller this time.
“Is there anything else?” Harten asked, fearing the answer. “Any other snippets of information, dead bodies or mysterious persons unknown that you’ve avoided telling me about?”
Commander French emptied his glass and tilted the bottle towards Harten. He waved it away.
“Is there anything else Commander?” He repeated.
“There’s a slight possibility the Ambassador’s husband is missing.”
Harten threw his
hands in the air. He stood from the chair, pacing around it and leaning on the low back to glare at Commander French.
“So just for my own sanity, let me summarise.” He said darkly.
“You have a suspect, who you assure me cannot be guilty as she perished several hours before the crime she is suspected of committing, was in fact committed.” Commander French
nodded, refilling his glass for the second time.
“You have a person of interest, I believe you call it, in this Cammie Li’An character, who may or may not have been involved, but you can’t currently speak as to her whereabouts and from the information you have access to, she does not technically exist.” Harten could hear the stress in his own voice. He knew he was approaching hysteria but he couldn’t see a way back.
“And now on top of the diplomatic nightmare I am desperately trying to prevent turning into an actual system-wide crisis, you tell me you’ve lost the husband of our victim!”
He was panting, his heart thumping in his chest. Outside the Commander’s office he could see his raised voice had attracted attention. Several concerned looks were directed his way. Behind his desk Commander French emptied his brimming glass and placed it next to the now much depleted rum bottle.
“Now you see why I kept putting off this meeting.” He said.
FORTY
They filed out into the station corridor in pairs. Hornwood and one of his men led them, followed by two of the doctors, another two agents and then her.
Emelia walked alongside Oliver, trying not to let her fear take over and freeze her to the spot. Behind her Masj walked alongside the last doctor, the old man, Franklyn dogging their heels. The last of their protectors brought up the rear of the column, walking crabwise to scan the corridor behind as they walked.
Hornwood had been strict about the order they would take. The fat woman and the middle aged man, Bramley, went first of the civilians and she was to follow with her memory coils. He’d spoken with the rest of his squad prior to abandoning the Peregrine and the loading bay. None of them seemed overly pleased with the prospect of using the evac pods to fall to Earth and the agent who had been shouting in the bay had demanded she and Oliver send a distress signal.
