by David Ryker
He kept pushing forward. Two more rooms left on this level.
The first bedroom was empty, the door open. The second, at the front of the building, was closed.
The floor creaked behind him and a quick glance told him that Arza was coming up on his six. She nodded, signaling that the other rooms were empty.
He reached for the brass handle and held firm for a second, thoughts of Ganymede flashing in his mind.
He shut them down and looked at Arza, then past her to the stairs leading to the third floor. “Ready?”
She drew a breath, the pistol shuddering in her anxious grip.
Ward pushed down and inward and the door burst open. He stepped around the frame and covered the left-hand side, Arza behind him covering the right.
It was empty. The windows had been covered over with cardboard and taped that way. On the floor were three mattresses. Two of them were stripped bare. The third had a crumpled blanket on it, a pillow hanging off the side.
Ward moved forward and crouched, pressing his hand flat to it. He stood up, whirling for the door. “Still warm.”
He took the stairs to the third floor two at a time, listening as footsteps thudded somewhere above him.
The top floor was one room, a single pitched attic with skylights at the front and back. He came up, sliding on one knee, twisting around the balustrade to face the front of the house and the rest of the room, pistol raised. A gentle draft tugged at his hair, the sound of the sighing city just audible behind him.
“Shit,” he hissed, rolling backward and to his feet, training his M2.0 on the open window. He approached quickly from the side and peeked out at the brightening sky.
The sloping roof was empty, fresh marks of sliding feet cut into the dew on the tiles. At the edge, the roof dropped a few meters onto scaffolding that ran the length of the buildings — all eight of them.
Ward stuck his head out slowly, trying not to get it blown off, and stared into the twilight. He couldn’t see anything, and the already fading footsteps had now disappeared. The third shooter had been there, sleeping, but had heard the shot and then bolted through the roof. Whoever they were, they were probably already on the ground now, following a pre-planned route to another safe-house.
Ward swore and balled his fist, turning and putting it through the plasterboard with a dry crunch.
He pulled it out with a plume of dust and shook it off, still swearing as he turned back to the room, and to a frozen Arza. She was standing there, in shock, staring at what the shooter had left behind.
Ward was right, this was their HQ, and it was where they’d planned it all from.
All across the left-hand wall, opposite the stairs, a makeshift bench had been constructed out of offcuts and plywood.
On the far left of that, a stool stood in front of a workstation with a light over it, filled with the sort of tools needed to make adjustments to high-powered rifles. In the middle, across the surface and pinned to the wall were pictures and plans, schematics and blueprints. Overhead maps of the city at different times of day. Weather patterns. Atmospheric conditions. Planetary information. All of it geared towards Xaraniah Square and the spots around it that would make for good vantage points.
Next to that was a whole rundown on Chang. Every place he’d been on his OCA tour around the systems — dates, places, times. They even had his weight, his height, his walking speed, how he moved, his entourage and travel details — hell, they even had the brand of the ballistic vest he wore. Everything they’d need to make a perfect shot.
“Holy shit,” Arza breathed, walking down the room toward the far end. On the wall, there were racks filled with weapons. “They were expecting a war.”
“No. Just prepped for one in case things went wrong.” Ward walked solemnly after her. “They wanted to get in and out clean, but they were prepared to get this done whatever the cost.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a pair of black nitrile gloves, pulling them on. He handed a pair to Arza and stepped toward the rack, running his fingers over the empty spots. There was still no carpeting or floor coverings in the house and the exposed wooden boards ejected dust with each step. A thin sheen lay over everything.
At the top of the rack, there were two large spaces, and under them, another of the huge rifles that the merc at the port had had. It hung ominously, shining black, unused. Its barrel was detached, making it just over a meter long. It was folded back and clipped to the body. Ward knew that when fully assembled it was at least a hundred and sixty, maybe a hundred and seventy centimeters in length. He could envision it in the hands of the shooter at the port. How cumbersome it had been.
Ward reached up and ran his finger along the space in the rack above it. Clean. He did the same with the top one and came away with a finger full of dust. He rubbed it between his fingers and hummed.
“What is it?”
Ward stepped back and surveyed the other weapons — automatic carbine rifles, pistols, combat shotguns. Three of everything, or at least space for three of everything. “Whoever bolted just now took a rifle with them.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right. There are three spaces there — the top one’s got dust. That spot has been open since yesterday, no doubt. The shooter at the port. That one’s now in the Security Bureau HQ’s evidence room — or at least I hope it is. We can’t be sure. The third one here I’d say was Sadler’s. Never fired. Never taken out of this room.”
“And the second?”
“Our shooter’s going to need something to shoot with.” Ward leaned in a little, squinting in the growing morning light bleeding in through the window over his shoulder. “Looks like he took a Glock-17, too.”
“But there are two missing, here.”
Ward looked at her. “The first one was planted at Ootooka’s.”
“And the missing assault rifle?”
Ward sighed loudly and rubbed his eyes, the dust stinging them. “He’s running now, shooter number three — his backup is dead — he shot one himself, and the second failed to take us out, so I took care of him. His hideout is compromised, his operation is a bust. We’ve got him — the plans, the rifle, the information on Chang — this is everything we need to nail him to the goddamn wall.”
“Enough to go to Moozana?” Arza asked, a tinge of hope in her voice.
“We’ll bring him in on this — tell him it’s all here.”
“But not go back?”
“We still don’t know who the shooter is — or how they got here in the first place. There’s still a lot of missing puzzle pieces, yet, Arza.” Ward turned toward the open window and closed his eyes. The faint sound of sirens was beginning to come through. Someone had called in the SB on the shot. They needed to get out of there. “But this guy’s going to go to ground now, hole up somewhere. He’s off-book, a shade, no doubt. A merc with his identity burned off the OCA system. A professional. The best of the three and there’ll be no trail.”
“How do you know he’s the best of the three?”
“Because he’s the only one who’s not dead.” Ward paused, his mind turning. “He’s probably got a car stashed somewhere. Probably. He’ll disappear into Old-Town or out in the plains — wait for exfil if he can get it. Or stay and finish the mission. Hard to say.” Ward shrugged. “Best we can do is tell Moozana, and have him put the Bureau on it. They’ll have a better chance of finding him than we will.”
“So what do we do?”
Ward looked back at the rifle hanging on the wall. “Klaymo said that he couldn’t help us unless we had the rifle. And now we do. If there’s anyone who can tell us what it is and where it came from, I’d bet it’s him. If he can tell us where to start looking, then it’s another lead. The shooters weren’t here of their own free will. Someone’s pulling the strings of this operation, and we need to find out who that is. This rifle is our best bet.”
“You’re not suggesting we take it with us? I’m not carrying it on the back of your goddamn bike, I’m t
elling you that right now.” Arza looked firm on that, though Ward suspected it was more the thought of removing evidence from a crime scene than actually carrying the rifle that was bugging her.
He pulled out his communicator — the one he had from the AIA tac kit in Old-Town. “Luckily, we don’t have to.” He held it up to the rifle and tapped the screen, running the communicator slowly down the length of the rifle. He swept around and did it from the underside, scanning every millimeter of the thing. He stowed it without looking at Arza or answering her questioning look and then made for the stairs. “Come on,” he said, taking them two at a time. “We need to get out of here before the SB show up.”
“You do know we’re not criminals, right?” Arza said, jogging after him.
Ward laughed, swinging around the banister and down to the next floor. “Stick around then, see if that line works on the sentinels. I’m sure they’ll just let you go.”
Arza said nothing more, but she didn’t stop. She just kept following him.
They mounted up, the sound of sirens thick in the air, and pulled off hard, accelerating quickly toward the rising sun, and with any luck, something that would keep them both out of handcuffs.
Part IV
The Gate
Historical Archive Information
Extract Retrieved From:
Carlos Jimenez’s “System Hopping on a Budget”
Published, October 2296
Oh, man — the first time you see the gate. You never forget it.
Wormholes? I mean, come on — that’s science fiction, right? Well, it used to be. But when the Martians arrived, they brought it with them. Except, it’s not quite what you think, probably. So the story goes that when they chose Mars, they weren’t totally sure it would be viable, so, as a backup, they sent out ‘beacons’ — devices that transmitted a data signal across space, to their ship — to alternative, nearby exoplanets. And this signal was like a trail that they could follow. Combine that with their ability to utilize dark matter fusion to produce a small wrinkle in space-time, and boom, you got yourself a wormhole.
Of course, it was our idea to commercialize it. It’s just the way we think. And boy, is a ticket to another solar system expensive!
Well, actually, it’s not. Not if you know what you’re doing, at least. And, I’m here to tell exactly how you can system-hop on a budget. All it involves is a bit of patience, and the willingness to elbow your way to the front of a line.
16
“Come on,” Ward muttered angrily, staring at his communicator.
It’d been nearly nine minutes since he’d sent the coupon, and protocol dictated that if it got to ten without contact, he needed to snap his communicator in two and disappear into the plains. Ward couldn’t contact him directly — a callback was the only option, and he was nearly out of time.
His phone vibrated and he shoved it against his ear. “Cutting it close, Cootes.”
“You’ve got to be mad doing this, Miller. Reaching out for contact now, of all times? I’ve got the SB crawling up the embassy’s ass about Sadler — they think the humans are behind all this—”
“Shut up, Cootes. Just listen. We found the shooter’s hideout. This morning, in the Human-Quarter. There’s another one out there.”
“Say that again?”
“A construction site in the Human-Quarter. We found the shooter’s hideout. There’s three of them. Shooters. Sadler, the merc at the port, and another one.”
“Jesus Christ. You recognize him?”
“No. He was in the wind before we could get to him.” Ward turned and looked back toward Klaymo’s house. Arza was inside, talking to him about the rifle.
“Damn.” Cootes sighed loudly. “I can’t see anything on the SB bulletins. Must be keeping it quiet. You didn’t call to tell me that, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t have anything on the leak at the SB, either. Moozana’s got the whole thing locked down tight. No one’s saying anything. All I know is that a couple of sentinels have been suspended pending investigation — probably your shooters from the cyber doc’s, but I’ve got no names. I’ve got nothing for you. Moozana’s not letting anything slip until he gets his house in order. He’s not stupid, I’ll give the guy that.”
“It’s not about that, either, Cootes. I need something else.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to look into something. Check out some data records, and I need it done yesterday.”
He exhaled and Ward could hear him scrabbling for a pen. “All right. What is it?”
“The sat-network around Mars.”
“What about it?”
“Who runs it?”
“The UMR.”
“No shit, Cootes. I mean who made the damn things? The satellites? Who installed them, handles maintenance — who’s contracted to—”
“Okay, okay. Give me a second.” Ward could hear him tapping on his terminal. “Uh, a company called Edelweiss Orbital.”
“They clean?”
“Far as I know. Never seen their name crop up. What am I looking for here, Ward?”
“An operational failure. A glitch. Anything anomalous in the network. A hole.”
“A hole?”
“Yeah, a hole, Cootes, like something that some people might have come through.”
“You think these guys beaned in?” He was incredulous, nearly scoffing it. “These systems are infallible, Ward. That’s why they’re there, to stop anything coming through that shouldn’t. To create a hole, you’d have to pay off the entire UMR.”
“I don’t care, Cootes. Just do it. They didn’t come in through the ports or on a civilian ship, so unless you’ve got any bright ideas, this is all we have.”
“It’s a long shot, Ward. Beaning’s not been in fashion for nearly fifty years—”
“Then no one would expect it.”
“You can’t honestly think that this sort of operation would hinge on—”
“Just do it, Cootes. And call me back — quickly. The shooter’s spooked and I want to be on whoever's paying him before they cut their losses and mop up. We don’t have long.” Ward hung up and clenched his fist around the communicator, shoving it roughly into his pocket.
Back inside Klaymo’s, they were all were sitting around a coffee table. Ward had pinged the scan of the rifle to her communicator and she had it laid on the wooden surface, a full-scale wire projection of the weapon hovering in mid-air above.
Klaymo was inspecting it minutely. “You really think they would have come in on a U-LOP?”
Unguided Low Orbital Pods used to be the primary delivery mode of supplies and other resources to budding colonies. Large ships doing flybys could drop them off — armored, heat resistant pods, usually shaped like beans — hence ‘beaning’ — and they’d land on the surface. Whatever was inside would then be pulled out and used.
Ward shrugged. “I don’t know, but we know they didn’t come through the port. They slipped in somehow, so this is as good a place to start as anywhere else.”
“But dropping in a U-LOP — I’m surprised they’d even be able to survive the impact. Let alone—”
Ward sat and put his head in his hands. “Tell me about the rifle again,” Ward said, cutting him off.
Klaymo leaned back. “Never seen it before. One of kind, I’d say.”
“Three of a kind. There were three of them.”
“Right, three of a kind. Whatever. See this?” Klaymo said, pointing to the chamber. “This reloading mechanism isn’t built for speed. There’s a small magazine underneath, but this rifle is loaded via this sliding bolt. Pulling it back releases the spent cartridge and loads another in. Though, judging by the size of this mechanism, I’d say that the shooter would need to take it full in his fist. Not surprising considering the size of the barrel and no doubt the cartridge. It’s all custom — this thing must fire sixty cal rounds — though you said they’re shatter-on-impact?”
“F
ragmentary,” Ward said.
Klaymo nodded. “Jacketed, probably,” he said, nodding to himself. “Layered construction.” He made a fist in the air. “Cartridge.” He slapped his other hand around it. “Jacket.” He looked at Ward now. “Firing pin hits the primer, and the force of the explosion that drives the cartridge out of the chamber is disseminated through the soft jacket — lead, probably.” He mimicked his outer hand being blown away from the inner fist. “The jacket takes the brunt of the force, probably tears itself apart in the chamber. The cartridge channels the propellant force into your fragmentary bullet, shooting it out of the muzzle with the speed and power of a much higher caliber weapon.” He threw his fist out from inside the loose jacketing of his other hand. “I’d say these rounds are going to be long and sleek, rifled to spin.” He leaned in now and pointed to the bolt again. “It’s why you need such a big chamber opening — and this big bolt, to drag that destroyed husk out of the chamber before a new one is loaded in. Hate to think what the recoil on this thing is like, though.” He scratched at his chin. “That dead girl have any bruising on her shoulder?”
Ward shook his head. “No.”
“Doubt she ever fired one then.”
“They bolted it down on the Xaraniah Square overlook.”
“You’d have to,” Klaymo laughed.
“The merc at the port got a shot off,” Ward said, “missed me by a mile and nearly blew himself off the stack.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Who makes rifles like this?”
“No one,” Klaymo said. “These are concept pieces, made for this job. They’re only meant to shoot one bullet. Probably takes ten seconds to get another one in and be ready to fire again.”
