Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  The Socs’ affinity for genetic modification was an open secret, and rumor had it that many within their military and elite classes were artificially enhanced. The woman’s gloating confirmed Sieg’s growing suspicions. Governor Naryal.

  “Asking your identity and intentions now would only waste time,” Naryal said as the guards hauled him to his feet. He met her calculating gaze. “We’ll talk later under more favorable conditions.” She nodded toward the house. The guards marched Sieg inside.

  “Try the hydrojets again,” Max said into his headset mic, “at full power this time.”

  The water twenty-five meters below churned white against the Yamamoto’s hull. Max gripped one of the four wrist-thick chains that ran from a cargo crane to the Mablung beneath the surface. Vibrations surged through the warm metal.

  “The reactor’s still in the green at fifty knots,” Ritter said excitedly. “We boosted engine output by twenty-five percent!”

  I’m happier we fixed the Mab’s radio, thought Max. “Don’t be so modest. You did the heavy lifting. I just ran the numbers.”

  “Either way,” said Ritter, “This Mab outclasses any Grenzmark.” His voice fell. “Too bad I won’t get to pilot her against the Socs.”

  Max looked out from the carrier’s fantail to the port of Algiers. The setting sun painted the city orange and gold. A helicopter thundered overhead, ruffling Max’s jumpsuit. The EGE had taken in six thousand Algerian refugees. With the Coalition’s abrupt ceasefire, the fleet’s helo pilots had been ordered to turn right around and transport all of them back. One reason Max had agreed to help Ritter was to avoid the understandably testy Major Collins.

  “The SOC still claims the whole region and holds everything but the city.” A sinking feeling pulled on Max. “This truce is temporary. You’ll get your chance.”

  “Max,” Marilyn’s synthetic voice cut into his channel. “I’ve received a most surprising message.”

  “From deep space?” joked Max.

  “No,” said Marilyn.

  Max stepped to the mobile terminal positioned against the rail. “Go ahead and patch it through.”

  “Considering the nature and origin of this message, transmitting its contents to a public terminal would violate OPSEC regs. Lieutenant Li Wen would not approve.”

  Max winced. No she wouldn’t. “OK, honey. I’ll be right down.”

  The hangar looked like a campground the day after a music festival. Max weaved through a maze of abandoned tents, overflowing trash bins, and the cloying stench of rotting food before he reached the port wall and his parked jet. That’s one reason to be glad the fighting’s on hold.

  Max climbed into the cockpit, closed the canopy, and removed his headset. “We’re all alone, darling,” he said to Marilyn’s built-in UI. “Now what’s so important you had to drag me all the way down here to see it?”

  Marilyn brought up her mail client, revealing a newly received message. The subject line was a string of seemingly random numbers, but Max’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the point of origin.

  That’s an internal Seed Corp address! Not only that, the sender’s profile indicated someone high up in the R&D division.

  Max hadn’t communicated with anyone at Seed Corp since he’d stolen their experimental jet and nearly got himself killed in the process. His hand shook as he tapped the screen to open the message.

  “Yes?” General McCaskey’s terse voice filtered through his office door.

  Max rushed into the room and almost blurted out what he’d learned before he remembered to stop and salute.

  “At ease,” Captain,” McCaskey said, returning the greeting. “The Lieutenant was just telling us that the Socs threw another curveball.”

  Max took his eyes off the General for the first time since coming in. Both chairs facing the desk were occupied. Colonel Larson sat on the left, and Wen sat on the right, directly under Max’s nose.

  “You might as well start over,” Griff told her.

  “Thirty minutes ago,” said Wen, “Secretary-General Mitsu announced a relief mission to the war-torn regions of North Africa. Our sources say the Coalition plans to send 200,000 aid workers to Earth.”

  Dread tightened Max’s chest. “It’s a trick. The Socs are launching a wholesale invasion.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” said McCaskey, “but can you tell us why we should treat this revelation as more than a hunch?”

  “Tesla Browning just warned me that Seed Corp is rolling out a next-generation combat frame to replace the Grenzmark,” Max said in one breath. “In five days the new CFs will be deployed from Kisangani as part of something called Operation N.”

  Wen lifted her dark, almond-shaped eyes to Max. “The SOC is calling the relief mission Operation Nightingale.”

  McCaskey and Larson exchanged a look. “How long have you been in contact with Browning?” asked Griff.

  “Until today? Not for six months,” said Max. “I was helping Ritter with the Mab out on the fantail when Marilyn told me I had a message. It could only have come from Browning. I read it and came straight here.”

  “Don’t attempt to contact Dr. Browning,” the General said. “I want you glued to your aircraft, and Lieutenant Li Wen glued to you, until further notice. The second you receive another message that you even suspect is related to Operation N, you are to inform me at once. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Max.

  “Is it really necessary for me to stay with Captain Darving’s plane, Sir?” asked Wen.

  McCaskey rested his folded hands on the desk. “So far, Browning has only made contact via the Thor Prototype. Since it was built at Seed Corp, it’s possible he has some kind of back door access. He may have other communication channels, but we only know of one, and we can’t risk missing vital intel. Do I make myself clear?”

  Wen nodded. “Perfectly, Sir.”

  “Good,” McCaskey said. “Report to the hangar. And send Private Ritter up here. I have a special assignment for him.”

  “Ritter didn’t tag along for once,” Larson said as Max started toward the door. “Where is he?”

  Max froze. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. “He’s—”

  Larson rose and tugged on his khaki shirt. “Get back to your trigger happy digital assistant. I’ll have someone pull the kid out of the water.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Max swung the door open and hurried from the room.

  14

  Megami followed three steps behind Sanzen as they debarked from the shuttle to the colossal hangar carved into the cratered face of Metis. Other shuttles shaped like blunt white bullets were discharging orderly lines of men and women in dark gray uniforms.

  The Kazoku, Megami thought with a flutter of affection. Sanzen likes to think they’re his private army. And he thinks he owns Metis.

  The Consortium had towed the two hundred kilometer-wide rock from the asteroid belt to L5 as raw material for the first colonies. Metis had later served as a manufacturing hub before the Colonization Commission let Sanzen use the mined-out asteroid as a secret CSC base.

  As Megami and her self-styled mentor crossed the half-kilometer metal deck, she imagined the back of his bald head cracking open like a blood-filled egg. The noise of work frames unloading cargo and crews wielding power tools would drown out the sound if she did split his skull, but there were too many witnesses.

  The CSC Director and his protégé entered a lift built into the far iron and silica wall. A blond Kazoku soldier pressed the button for the observation deck, and a muffled hum reverberated through the lift’s brushed steel walls. The young man’s appearance stirred up a strange longing in Megami, but the sentiment soon passed.

  “Have all Block 101 personnel relocated to Metis?” asked Sanzen.

  “All but the 200,000 you left behind,” Megami said. “The Ministry of General Affairs took them into ‘protective custody’ on Secretary-General Mitsu’s orders.”

  “Including two thousand
Kazoku?”

  Megami nodded. “I handpicked them myself.”

  The lift doors slid open to reveal a tall wide room. The opposite wall was a single long window that looked down on the vast hangar below.

  Sanzen stepped from the lift, and Megami followed. The soles of her boots sank into the soft eggshell white carpet—newly installed, by the smell. A low table of polished black marble sat in the middle of the room. Sanzen sat down with his legs crossed on one of the square cushions surrounding the table. Megami sat across from him.

  Before each of them lay a full place setting complete with fine china bearing the O’Neill cylinder and shield seal of the Coalition Security Corps. Megami unfolded a white linen napkin monogrammed in gold with the kanji for three thousand and placed it in the lap of her black skirt. A white-gloved Kazoku in dinner dress blues filled first Sanzen’s; then Megami’s champagne flutes with sparkling white wine.

  Sanzen raised his glass. “To Mitsu, for taking our bait.”

  Megami joined in the toast but declined to drink the floral-scented wine.

  “Still,” Sanzen said after dabbing his goateed chin with his napkin, “it’s annoying having to rely on the EGE. You’re certain the necessary information will fall into their hands?”

  “Browning is thorough,” Megami said, “and our trial run proved the EGE can be reliably manipulated. They exploited the Operation O leak exactly as predicted.”

  “Not exactly,” Sanzen reminded her. “You underestimated their restraint. How can we be sure they’ll launch a preemptive strike on the shuttles?”

  “The EGE fancy themselves the last legitimate government on Earth. Playing neutral observer to a limited retaliatory action doesn’t threaten their group identity. An invading army equipped with next-generation combat frames will plunge them into existential crisis.”

  “Speaking of which,” Sanzen said as the waiter served the soup course: a savory-smelling tomato bisque, “how is the Dolph rollout proceeding?”

  “Mr. Huang contacted me from Kisangani during our flight,” said Megami. “He assured me the first production run of Ein Dolphs will be ready ahead of schedule.”

  Sanzen held up his glass and peered through the tawny liquid at the busy hangar beyond the observation deck windows. “I have stood watch through the night. Now comes the hour before dawn. My Kazoku, armed with the deadliest weapons ever devised, will sweep away all opposition. I will at last bring order to the earth.” He swirled his champagne thoughtfully. “This must be how Themistocles felt before Salamis.”

  Themistocles was vexed from arguing with his allies and lusting for his young male lover the night before Salamis, Megami recalled as if that warm September evening had been only yesterday. “It sounds glorious. I’d like to go down and witness your triumph firsthand.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanzen chuckled. “I shall watch the Kazoku’s victory from on high like Xerxes from the slopes of Mount Aigaleo. You, my dear, were made to stand at my side.”

  “Xerxes lost,” Megami said.

  “An imperfect analogy,” said Sanzen. “My personal power so far outstrips the King of Kings’ as to be incomparable.”

  The waiter returned, whispered in Sanzen’s ear, and left. The Director laid his napkin on the table. “Excuse me, my child,” Sanzen said as he stood. “Duty calls. Expect me back tomorrow. Until then, I wish you a pleasant meal and sweet dreams.”

  Megami watched Sanzen stride to the lift with cold hatred creeping through her veins. At last, the door slid closed. She broke her champagne flute against the black stone table, leapt to her feet, and threw the jagged stem after the Director. It shattered on the closed steel door. “Sweet dreams? Not since I met you!”

  The carpet mostly muted the heavy footsteps approaching Megami from behind, but she knew they belonged to Masz. She turned and proved her intuition correct. “How long were you eavesdropping from the next room?” she asked.

  “The whole time,” said Masz. His midnight blue leather jacket and pants creaked as he approached. “Sanzen insulted you. Let me kill him.”

  Megami thought for a moment. “Okay. As soon as I pin Operation N’s failure on Sanzen, he’s all yours.”

  Masz’s nostrils flared, but suddenly he frowned. “Do we really have to let two thousand of our brothers and sisters die?”

  “Sanzen already set the plan in motion,” Megami said with a pang of regret. “But their deaths won’t be in vain. When the other Kazoku see how the EGE slaughters our brethren, they’ll gladly cleanse the earth.”

  “As long as I get to kill Sanzen,” said Masz.

  Megami brushed her hand through his coarse dark hair. “You will.”

  “I’ll ask again,” said Naryal. She’d changed out of her swimsuit and into a green silk dress, but Sieg could still smell a trace of saltwater concentrated by the walk in closet-sized room. “Who sent you?”

  Sieg shifted in the steel chair to which he was handcuffed. He glanced from the Governor, whose dark eyes gleamed with indignation, to the brooding silver-haired man on her right. His navy blue CSC uniform named him Commander Davis.

  “And I’ll tell you again,” said Sieg. “I’m just a peeping Tom. If I’d known you were the governor, I’d have tried another house.”

  Naryal folded her arms. “Don’t insult me. Of all the houses in Jeddah, you picked mine at random?”

  “No,” said Sieg. “Yours was just the easiest to find.”

  “With all due respect, Your Excellency,” said Davis, “You weren’t trained in interrogation. Let me call in some of my people to…enhance the process.”

  “No,” said Naryal. “We’re not savages like Kazid Zarai. Besides, it’s obvious our little voyeur works for the EGE. His chief value is as a bargaining chip. I want him kept intact. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Davis.

  Naryal turned to leave but paused. “Keep in mind,” she said with her back to Sieg, “Your degree of cooperation determines the quality of your treatment. Sleep tight, Mr. Friedlander.” She strode out of the small room. Davis followed. He glowered at Sieg as he shut and locked the hardwood door.

  She knows who I am. Not surprising for someone of her stature. Sieg waited till the sound of retreating footsteps faded. “Don’t sleep too soundly yourself, Governor,” he whispered.

  Calling on muscles he’d trained through long and unpleasant practice, Sieg regurgitated a small plastic pouch and spat it onto the tile floor to his right. He tipped the chair over. His induced nausea gave way to wrenching pain in his side and wrists when he struck the floor.

  Halfway there. Sieg scooted across the tiles till his fingers touched the wet pouch. He eagerly tore it open and retrieved the lock pick he’d ingested in case of capture. Good thing I didn’t vomit it up by the pool when Naryal elbowed me in the gut.

  Within five minutes, Sieg had unlocked his handcuffs and his improvised cell. He opened the door a crack and glimpsed a long hallway carpeted in blue. No guard stood by the cell, which meant Davis had put more men on the mansion’s perimeter while letting hidden cameras mind his prisoner.

  That’s fine, thought Sieg. The security and communications servers would be in the same place. Finding it would achieve both his goals.

  Sieg scanned the walls, which were clad in waist-high oak paneling with green, ivy-patterned wallpaper above. His search continued upward to the plaster ceiling, where a bundle of cables ran along the left side.

  The cables led Sieg up two flights of stairs and through two more locked doors. At last he stood on the mansion’s third story in front of a hardwood door with an electronic keypad. Picks won’t work on that, he thought.

  Thankfully, Admiral Omaka had already provided Sieg with the key code. He entered the number, the lock clicked open, and he opened the door. The room beyond must have originally been a bedroom suite. Now it was filled with row upon row of blinking, humming server racks.

  Sieg closed the door and moved to a compact desk against the wall to
his right. Atop the desk sat a work station connected to the backbone of the SOC’s diplomatic net. Omaka had also furnished him with an admin-level password.

  I’ll have to thank the mole in Naryal’s administration. Sieg would know the mole’s identity soon. The fact that Omaka was willing to burn a high-level asset tripped alarms in his head, but his aching need to know the truth drove him on.

  The local drives were filled with dreary financial reports. Sieg widened his search to recently deleted items and found traces of a communication from the Ministry of General Affairs. The message itself was long gone, but its source gave Sieg a lead. A shock lanced up his spine when he laid eyes on a hidden folder stored on a server in the colonies labeled “Elizabeth” containing a single document.

  These are orders commanding Security Chief Davis to stage a false flag bombing of the Jeddah waterworks!

  The door lock clicked. Sieg leapt to his feet as Davis charged through the door with pistol drawn. Sieg dived between the server racks as a bullet blasted from Davis’ gun and through the back of the empty desk chair.

  Sieg wended through the forest of twinkling racks as Davis stalked into the room, leading with his pistol. The unarmed spy kept the servers between him and his pursuer, hoping the security chief shared the Soc tendency to value information over human life.

  “Who discharged a firearm in my server room?” Naryal shouted from the doorway. Davis looked to her for a split second, but it was long enough for Sieg to lunge from the servers and grab the security chief’s arm. He broke Davis’ wrist, took the pistol from his limp hand, and repeated the maneuver he’d used to take Naryal hostage.

  “Clear the doorway,” Sieg ordered the governor while holding Davis’ broken hand to the chief’s back and the gun to his head.

  “Do what he says!” Davis groaned.

  Naryal’s face was a mask of rage, but she complied. Sieg exited the room, goading Davis before him. Three other CSC guards stood in the hallway with pistols drawn.