by M. D. Cooper
The connection was shaky, dropping data as if she might lose it any second. It was a woman, and despite the interference, Cara recognized her instantly.
Fugia Wong.
She straightened her shoulders.
Cara set her jaw. In barely over a minute, Fugia had reminded her why she rarely talked to the hacker. They were too similar.
Cara checked her comms logs, and Fugia’s request barely registered as completed. It would look like static to anyone else.
Cara shook her head. This was just like Fugia. She could never just say what she wanted, she had to play her cloak and dagger games.
“I need a drink,” Cara said out loud.
She went to the cabinet and found a complimentary bottle of some clear liquor, and poured herself a tumblerful. It tasted vaguely of plums, but didn’t help her sleep.
PLAN NUMBER ONE
STELLAR DATE: 3.23.3011 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: City Governmental Heart, New Austin
REGION: Luna, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
At the entryway to the arms symposium, Cara was handed a faux leather bag filled with goodies. She stared at the woman handing over the swag, not understanding what she was supposed to do.
“For you,” the woman said, giving her a brilliant smile. “Compliments of our generous sponsors.”
Cara reached into the bag and pulled out a snub-nosed pulse pistol with plas grips. “This is complimentary?”
“Undetectable by all major active-scan systems,” the woman said. “That model utilizes scatter profile tech.”
“Huh,” Cara said, turning the pistol in her hand. She verified it was on safe and dropped it back in the bag.
She walked through the open gate into the symposium hall, where a grid of vendors was already crowded with attendees.
It was midmorning, and the convention had already been open for several hours. Cara had waited to go through line for her credentials, complaining over her Link to Amanda about the whole process.
She strode forward into the buzzing hall, immediately enveloped by sales pitches and informational displays. Pulling up the map on the local Link, she perused the offerings as she wandered, half-listening as booths focused their pitches on her as she approached, only to fade away as she walked past. The crowd was a mix of directed communication and random conversations, as she found herself following a group of TSF officers from a garrison on High Terra.
Besides the people she expected to see from Earth and High Terra, she spotted hundreds from Mars, the Cho, Europa, Ganymede, and even Cruithne. For a while, she wondered if Fugia had mentioned Ngoba Starl because he was on Luna. That would have been just like her. But Cara didn’t spot the crime boss who was like an uncle to her.
The first display Cara stopped to listen to was for a new style of kinetic armor that looked just like a standard shipsuit. A smiling man wearing the display suit stood in front of a group of onlookers, turning a slow circle as he raised his arms. When he came back to face the crowd, another man heaved a metal javelin at the center of this shoulder blades.
The crowd gasped. Cara expected the point of the javelin to jut from the man’s chest, it had been thrown so hard.
The salesman wearing the suit took a steadying step forward as the spear bounced off his back, then turned to wag his finger at his accomplice. Then he turned back to the crowd with a smile.
“That’s what we call resonant displacement, folks. Watch the display to see a grenade dropped in a pillowcase made of our patented fabric.”
Cara wandered past booths displaying so many different types of projectile weapon that she lost count. She came around one corner display to find a shoulder-high panther drone clawing through a metal wall.
The thing was an obvious rip-off of the Heartbridge model, but those drones had taken on such a life in the public’s imagination that anything vaguely similar incited fear.
“Weapon Born capabilities on a budget,” the salesperson said, smiling widely. “Our drone can operate in all conditions, from static security missions to purpose-directed objectives. As you can see, the standard ship’s hull is no match for our kitty cat’s claws.”
Cara rolled her eyes and kept walking.
She watched a demonstration of next-gen magboots with intelligent surface tracking. The same company had a tracked drone using the same tech that easily climbed a metal wall.
“Interior or exterior,” the sales representative called out. “Our caterpillar will climb it remotely or with personnel on board.”
Another display featured a set of long plascrete corridors where people could try out several new types of grenade. Cara waited in line, watching as corporate types tossed fragmentation grenades like they were bowling. The explosions were subdued by the plascrete, but most still covered their heads or shied away from the throw. Cara was less interested in the focused frag grenade than the smart EMP and something they called a “nano blob”, which they claimed could infiltrate and subvert enemy drones like the faux ship-killers.
As the morning stretched on, Cara noticed a definite interplay between companies that were obviously counteracting each other’s tech, or escalating certain types of armament, from close-combat non-lethal weapons to intra-vessel systems. She marveled at a shotgun that could clear corridors without damaging bulkheads, firing what were essentially bomblets that would shred any non-metallic material in their path.
She spent several minutes at a booth selling non-lethal compliance tools that were basically Link-hacking, though none of the salespeople would use those terms. Their docility protocol could be localized on an individual, rather than broadcast across a facility such as a prison.
Cara nodded along as the salesperson exp
lained the various applications of the tech.
“And it works on anyone?” Cara asked.
“Well, certain Link types will be more resilient than others, based on custom firmware and whatnot. But at a minimum, it can incapacitate based on the response.”
“Mind if I try it?” Cara asked, overcome with the desire to use the tech on the salesman.
“Sorry, we can’t do that,” he said, looking nervous at her interest.
The thrust of the show was small arms, and the spectrum of handheld weapons, armor and assistance drones was mind-numbing. By lunchtime, the displays had long since become repetitive. Only a few of the salespeople acted like they recognized her, and she drew a few second glances as she walked with the crowd, but otherwise, Cara was able to drift among the booths, keeping her eyes open for Osla.
Despite spotting a few people in Andersonian uniforms, Cara had yet to see the chancellor. She had stuffed her swag bag with freebies, and was getting tired of lugging it around. She considered dumping the bag in a trash receptacle, but there were a few usable weapons in there, so instead, she went in search of something to eat.
At the center of the conference hall was a cafeteria with a crowded buffet. The line stretched back into the display area.
Cara didn’t want any part of standing in one place for an extended period of time, so she walked back out the main doors to the lobby, where she remembered seeing a bar.
She was looking forward to a stiff drink and some time to sort through her goodie bag before dumping most of it, when the exterior doors to the conference hall opened, and the Andersonian entourage entered, with Chancellor Osla at the center of two armed columns.
Cara was already several meters away from the entry, and stood where she was, watching the group march past. Osla might have walked right past her, if he had been staring straight ahead.
The chancellor, however, was taking in all the sights, turning his head in a measured pattern as he walked, smiling and nodding to all onlookers.
As he turned to face Cara, Osla’s glassy eyes grew sharp, his smile harder. He didn’t double-take when he saw her, he grinned. Then he winked and kept walking.
Cara considered shoving her hand in her bag for the complimentary projectile pistol, but Osla was already past her, marching into the convention hall as the crowd split in front of him.
Cara glanced at the bar, imagining the drink she wasn’t going to get, then hefted her bag and went back into the big hall.
The crowd had opened to allow the Andersonian passage, but now closed around them. The corridors between booths were more packed than they had been in the morning, and Cara had to shoulder her way through.
She reached the end of Osla’s entourage, and followed into the middle of the conference hall, where the booths fell away and there was open space for conversations. While the detail remained tight on their leader, Cara was able to fall back a few meters and tail the rest of the way without worry of losing them. She dug into the goodie bag until she found the pistol, which she moved to a cargo pocket as she walked. She was still wearing her own pulse pistol, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup.
“Captain Sykes,” a man said beside her.
Cara jerked her head toward the sound, finding a tall man with a thick beard and intense eyes leaning over her. He was dressed like a miner, with a utility harness covered in small tools, and wearing a battered brown trench coat that only reached his thighs due to his height.
The man held his hands in apology and a black cat peeked from inside his coat.
“Hey, don’t cut my head off,” he said quickly “I saw you earlier, and was hoping I could catch you before you disappeared.”
“Who are you?” Cara asked. “I’m in a hurry.”
Osla had stopped near one of the VIP tables on the edge of the buffet area, so she didn’t need to leave immediately.
“You stopped at our booth earlier. Advanced ballistics. I think you caught half the display, but I was busy making the presentation and couldn’t say hello. I’m a huge fan of the show.”
“You realize I don’t have anything to do with that show, right?” Cara asked.
“I know,” he said, and gave her a wink.
“Really. I’m not part of it.”
The man kept talking, apparently not wanting to listen. He was holding a light jacket, which he held out for Cara. “I wanted to give you this. We’ve got a printer in the booth there, one of our newest improvements. We can manufacture anything to spec. I hope you don’t mind, but I grabbed a body scan and put this together for you. We’d love it if you tried it out.”
Cara glanced at the jacket, then at Osla. The salesman followed her gaze.
“You took the liberty of a body scan, huh?”
The bits of his face not covered by beard paled.
“You’re busy,” he said. “Obviously. Look, the jacket is a small piece. If you wanted to wear it around here, we’d be very grateful. We’re a small company, but we’re cutting edge. Cutting edge. I invented the tech myself.”
Cara gave him a newly appraising nod. “You’ve got guts, coming up to me like this,” she said. “I’ll check it out.”
Osla was shaking hands with the VIP and leaning toward leaving.
Cara accepted the jacket.
“I’ve got this, too,” the tech said, and slid a small backpack off his shoulder. “It’s the whole suit. I had your entire body scan, so I figured why not.”
“Don’t do anything inappropriate with my scan,” Cara said.
He blushed. “I promise. I mean I won’t.”
“Right. Thanks.” Cara looped the pack over her shoulder. It was so light, she barely felt it.
Osla’s entourage shifted as he left the food area, headed for the far side of the convention hall.
Without saying goodbye, Cara followed. The salesman seemed pleased she had taken his gifts, and fell back into the crowd.
Cara shoved the jacket into her bag. She would need to check them later. She wasn’t above free stuff, especially in her current state, but there was something too convenient about the offer.
Jentry snorted.
Despite Jentry’s warning, the armor looked very useful to Cara. She planned to put it on as soon as she was alone.
Entering another booth-lined corridor, Cara threaded her way past wandering groups of people rubbernecking at the Andersonian column. Osla waved to the onlookers like some minor king.
At the side door off the convention hall, Cara passed the security token Jentry had given her, and the door slid open on an anteroom leading to a wide lift. Half of Osla’s security detail stood in the room, waiting for the next car.
Cara stood in the doorway. A few of the soldiers glanced her direction, one visibly recognizing her. She tensed, ready for the woman to sound an alarm, but the soldier only cast her eyes down.
“Anyone using the lift?” she asked
“We’re staying down here
,” a soldier said. “Wait, aren’t you Cara Sykes?”
Cara gave a nervous laugh. “People are always telling me I look like her,” she said, hoping that the Andersonian guards didn’t have the tech to see past her masked Link ident. “Do you really think it’s true?”
A couple soldiers came back from Link-gazing to blink at her. The closest shook his head.
“I guess I can see it,” he said. “Maybe in some of the early shows.”
In another two steps, Cara was inside the lift. She turned as the doors were closing, catching the eye of the woman who had been too shy to speak. Cara gave her a wink.
The lift rose beneath her, headed for the surface, according to the display. Cara hit the stop button and dumped her swag bag, digging through the various sample tools and pieces of equipment she had collected from the most interesting displays.
In five minutes, she had stripped down to pull on the ballistic shipsuit, followed by the adaptive magboots, and utility belt, with her pulse pistol and the new projectile pistol on either hip. She finished her upgrades with the ballistic jacket, which resembled well-worn leather, and featured low-profile pockets on its front and sleeves.
With her new swag, plus the sturdy gear from Pedro’s shop, Cara finally felt properly outfitted.
There was no mirror but the polished wall. Cara admired her faint reflection in the metal before hitting the resume button that allowed the lift to continue climbing. When the doors slid open on the VIP level, she left her bag in the lift and strode out into a carpet-lined corridor half-filled with a party, servants moving among guests with silver platters of finger foods.
Cara stood with her hands on her pistol butts for a minute, absorbing the scene. Osla wasn’t readily visible, but this was only the entrance to a busier area where the sounds of laughter and tinkling glassware floated.
