by Allen Stroud
The climb down was long. I recall steps and ropes. I could have resisted. I struggled a bit at first, but I knew they would just kill me. Life or death, even when life means darkness eternal, to continue existing brings with it a glimmer of hope.
Pointless hope.
This place is far beneath Ashoria. No one comes here, except to deposit more unfortunates. No light reaches us and there are no bars or cells. They don’t need any. The darkness is prison enough.
The last stretch is a four-hundred foot drop directly into this cavern through a hole in its roof. They leave no rope and no one could climb that in return.
So we are left, left here to cling to life; or die. They call us the Disappeared
Many have starved. You find their corpses with your fingers. Clothes and belongings quickly vanish, acquired by our silent nation. The flesh takes longer. We have grown accustomed to raw meat.
There is water in this place. Moisture coats the rock, it must come from somewhere, but I have never found it.
Perhaps others have escaped? I would never know; I have never seen them.
We share whispers here; news and knowledge of the world beyond. We compare betrayals and then when the hunger comes, betray each other.
Now I am the last that remains and I am alone.
* * *
We estimate it is an account from the earliest days of Walden’s reign, a period for which there is very little accurate record, particularly of this nature. My colleagues will investigate the tunnel and cavern system further over the ensuing weeks and let you know what we find.
Turgan Devante – Archaeologist. Ashorian Historical Society.
Chapter 3: The Agent
‘What do you want with me?’
The Gallant emerged from hyperspace on the edge of the Solati system as Pietro finished asking the question. Heldaban Kel wheeled around in his chair, his lips quirked into a smile. ‘You’re wasted on trade. After a getaway like that, you’d be better outside the law.’
‘You’re still not answering my questions.’
Kel’s smile disappeared. ‘No I’m not.’ He leaned forward. ‘You ever think I might be trying to protect you?’
‘Protect me?’
Kel waved the gun at him. ‘The more a person learns about why, what and who, the shorter their life expectancy.’
Pietro flinched. ‘I’ve seen your face. I’m dead the minute you have no use for me.’
Kel shrugged. ‘Might not shake out that way.’
‘It will.’
Kel stared Pietro in the eye. ‘You close to your late friend?’
‘Finch? He traded out of Sirius. We met regularly for cards and did some runs together a few times.’
‘How long you been meeting up?’
‘Four years.’
Kel sighed. ‘People don’t buy me to kill cargo haulers.’
‘So, I was in the wrong place and I had the faster ship?’ Pietro asked and frowned when Kel nodded. ‘Pretty cold,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Kel said.
‘Who were you supposed to kill?’
‘You want to know?’
‘Better I die with answers than without,’ Pietro replied.
‘Suppose Finch wasn’t your friend?’ Kel said. ‘Would you still want to know?’
Pietro shrugged. ‘Like you said, corporations don’t hire assassins to kill cargo haulers.’
‘No but they do hire them to kill criminals and spies.’
‘What?’
Kel laughed bitterly. ‘Atticus Nathanial Finch, born in a test tube, manufactured by the very best scientists, raised for twenty years as a proper little prince. All fake, whatever he told you, all lies.’
Pietro realised his mouth had fallen open. He closed it and swallowed past the sudden dryness. ‘That’s not—’
‘Possible?’ Kel shrugged. ‘Well, you go ahead and believe what you want. Maybe he was collateral and I was after someone else on the station?’ He leaned towards Pietro until their faces were an inch apart. ‘The one thing I’m not is a liar.’
An awkward silence, Pietro flinched and looked at the floor. ‘Suppose I believe you,’ he said, ‘means you've a bounty to pick up.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And I'm a witness to your crime.’
‘Indeed,’ Kel replied. ‘My employers’ll make sure there’s no record. Your friend’s life will just disappear. Once we were off station, the incident logs were changed, written up the way they want it. I go on to the next target and next pay cheque.’
‘And you’ll get rid of me?’
‘Can’t be helped now, you asked too many questions.’
* * *
Now what?
Pietro spent the next twenty minutes staring at the front viewscreen trying to work out a plan as they got closer and closer to Solati Reach space station. Every so often he sneaked a look at Kel. The assassin was absorbed by the contents of a datascreen. The gun still lay on the console. Kel kept his hand ontop, to prevent it floating away.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Pietro asked.
‘You so eager to die?’ Kel said, without looking around. ‘We’ve a few minutes until we’re close, no sense in rushing.’
‘I want to know how long I’ve got,’ Pietro said.
‘Plan to make peace with your maker? Don’t worry, you’ll get fair warning.’
Moving as fast as he dared, Pietro disabled the ship’s audio alerts. He snuck another glance at Kel, but he didn’t react, next job, venting the air in the loading bay. ‘How do you plan on doing it?’ Pietro asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Well, you’ve been helpful, so I’ll give you a good send off,’ Kel said. ‘As we orbit the planet I’ll pack you in the escape pod and drop you into the atmosphere, nice little cremation. I’ll need your thumb and eyeball to operate the ship of course, but you won’t miss them, after.’
The pressure indicator reached zero. The hull creaked a little, but Kel didn’t react. ‘What about my ship?’ Pietro asked.
‘She stays in dock and I’ll take another ride,’ Kel replied. ‘Happens a lot more than you’d think.’
Slowly, Pietro powered down the engines. The next part was the tricky bit. He turned around in his chair to face Kel, who remained absorbed by the datascreen.
The assassin’s bald head finally moved. He locked eyes with Pietro and frowned. ‘We’re not moving.’
‘No,’ Pietro said. ‘We’re not.’
‘You decided to grow some balls?’ Kel said. ‘Or got more questions?’
‘Well, if these are my last minutes, I want to end right,’ Pietro replied, ‘like you said no sense in rushing.’
He hit two buttons on the console, took a deep breath and gripped his chair, hard.
There was a hiss of escaping air as the cockpit door started to open.
Kel’s gun was snatched away. He snarled and made a grab for it, but Pietro was already moving; a forearm into Kel’s throat while he depressed the harness, then the magboots, they gave with a sudden huff and Kel slithered helpless across the floor. Pietro saw the man’s fingers curl desperately round the edge of the chair. For a fraction of a second, it seemed he might regain equilibrium. Then the door gaped wide and his flailing body flew into the loading bay.
Pietro clung to a handful of harness, trying to brace against the howling wind, his magboots helped, but he’d disengaged the safety locks. That meant seconds until the reserve air tank emptied. He strained towards the door engage, watched his finger creep along the console against the tremendous pull. Come on! His eyes lost focus. He saw spots dance in the air. He lost track of how far ...
Come on!
Then a shriek, changing to a hiss as the wind eased and stopped. He slumped forward, got his breath and glanced over his shoulder.
The doors were sealed and the cockpit repressurised.
Pietro sighed and the knot in his stomach relaxed. He managed to grab the arms of the chair and reseat himself.
H
e took a moment to check everything else before repressurising the loading bay and restarting the engines, slowly. No point in smearing Kel all over the interior. He opened the internal comms.
‘Kel, can you hear me?’
No answer.
‘Kel?’
Still no reply.
Pietro switched off the link and opened the external transmitter. ‘Ship Ident 546, requesting Blue Cobalt.’
The line beeped twice, another holoscreen appeared and a series of numbers filed across it as the retina scan swiped his eye once more, then it beeped again.
‘Pietro that you?’ said a voice.
‘Yeah,’ Pietro replied. ‘Cargo’s secure, any trouble your end?’
‘Clean up was a chore, but we’ve everything we need. Shame you couldn’t save the target.’
‘I know,’ Pietro said, ‘he was too quick. If I’d intervened, we’d have no leads.’ He keyed up a remlok, dropping it into the loading bay beside the unconscious body. ‘I’ll dump the prisoner and proceed to the rendezvous in his place. Just make sure you pick him up.’
‘Will do. Any problems?’
‘No, but he took a swab for DNA and picked up a metal chit. I’ll take the chit, you’ll want to process the swab. Check for a clone signature.’
‘Understood, maybe worth putting the chip in the analyser for us? Coordinates sending.’
‘Received,’
The controller on the other end cleared his throat. ‘You sure about this?’
Pietro smiled. Pietro Devander Alliance navy veteran and independent trader might not be able to manage, but Pietro Devander, Federal Intelligence Agent, would cope. ‘Not a lot of point catching the gun if you don’t catch the money,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I handled him, I’ll handle them.’
‘Okay, I’ll inform Miranda.’
‘Thanks.’
* * *
[Edit: The following message was extracted from a relay transmitter and sold to the Historical Society by an independent trader in the 3280s. It was encrypted, but decoded by Government authorities.]
-----Original Message-----
From: Central Control Supervision
Sent: 0815.60.3265.
To: All Points
Subject: Further Mission Details
Data files received ... Initialising ...
Reliable intelligence indicates a contract has been accepted in your quadrant.
Agent,
One of your contacts is a target. An altercation is imminent.
Task summary: - Arrange contact meeting on open band.
- Rendezvous and observe.
- Identify perpetrator.
- Apprehend Perpetrator. Find links to illegal network and employer.
- If possible, protect target.
Your filed datacard has been swept and modified for access. Profile 6# has been uploaded.
Chapter 4: The Prefect
2230 hours. Lave’s feeble sun began to set on Ashoria’s skyline.
Bertrum watched on a viewscreen. In his mind, the benefits of ‘fresh air’ were vastly outweighed by the sidelong glances and whispering his presence caused amongst the staff.
So he stayed in his office.
It wasn’t an unusual decision. He had a sleeping compartment, which saw frequent use. The job demanded irregular hours far beyond any work quota given to Colonial citizens. Three aides rotated in shifts to assist him. The prefect’s position remained a prestigious one, but job was hard; few held the post more than eighteen months.
Bertrum had outlasted them all.
Lave’s Interstellar upper-class had little interest in such work. They stayed inside their gated communities dreaming of their glorious past in the Galactic Co-operative. Nearly a century living in the bubble of Walden’s dogma, shaped former starfarers into pointless parasites, apart from the few who preserved the lies.
Men like Bertrum Kowl.
Four prefects ruled the planetary regions, supported by primes and factors, who managed each settlement and territory. Firstfall and its capital, Ashoria remained the most important cog in the wheel of the Lavian machine. More than anyone else on Lave, Bertrum knew Walden had a plan. The viewscreens on street corners and in offices reminded people continually.
But, like everyone else, Bertrum didn’t know what the plan was.
He stared at the battered plaque on the wall, opposite Walden’s continual speechmaking. The rusty robot griffon stared back, the symbol of the Elite Federation of Pilots. In the time of the Galactic Co-operative, trainees had received their ‘wings’ from Graduation Hall on Lave. Now, that room housed broken machinery. One of Bertrum’s predecessors had retrieved the plaque and hung it in the office.
Bertrum hated that plaque. It was a perennial reminder of failure, a failure he could never redress, but he couldn’t take it down. If he did, the people in his staff would ask why. A question not easily answered with half truths and lies.
So it stayed; a symbol of shame and powerlessness, to keep him working.
‘Appointment pending,’ said Niamh’s soft familiar voice. His gaze returned to the main screen on his desk, a new alert. He keyed up the message and the tanned face of Karsian Brunan, prefect of Kadia appeared.
‘Kowl! Long time since we spoke.’
‘Our last communication is logged from sixty four hours ago, Brunan. How can I help you?’
‘More a question of how I can help you.’ Karsian's lips peeled back in a wide grin, displaying his bright white teeth, printed replacements, another off-world vanity. ‘I heard the factor in Darahk disappeared.’
Bertrum didn’t react. ‘How does that concern you?’
‘Well, I may have a friend or two in the system,’ Karsian replied. ‘They might prove useful.’
‘What do you want for this favour?’ Bertrum asked.
Karsian rubbed his face and grimaced. ‘Well, the energy supply quota for this month ...’
‘You think you will miss target again?’ Bertrum frowned. A vast oceanic region, Kadia supplied the majority of Lave’s power through hydroelectric and wind generation. The vast network required constant maintenance. ‘Something to mention?’
A flicker of irritation wiped away the easy smile. ‘No, nothing we can’t handle,’ Karsian said, ‘however, since your family lives here ...’
An appeal of familial solidarity, laced with implied threat. With an effort, Bertrum kept the scowl from his face. ‘You also have relatives in the city,’ he countered.
Karsian’s smile widened. ‘Distant relatives,’ he said.
Bertrum leaned forward. ‘If you find anything, then I’ll look into a power curfew. We may need to reserve energy for a new public works effort later in the year.’
‘Thank you,’ Karsian replied. ‘I’ll speak to my people.’
The connection terminated. Bertrum sat back and sighed. All conversations between prefects were the same, a mixture of trade and threats veneered with small talk. Karsian was usually the most pleasant of his peers, the others tended to be blunt.
‘Niamh, display full view.’
‘Acknowledged.’
The wall-mounted viewscreens brightened as the sunset appeared on each. Figures and images vanished, leaving Walden murmuring alone amidst the orange glory of Lave’s horizon. From his chair, Bertrum could almost pretend he was looking through windows at a patchwork vista of the sky outside. Lave’s dwarf star, in the last few million years of its life, a feeble candle in the sky. ‘Gaze out on an Earth-like sunset’ – a phrase used in the Astrogator travel guides. Bertrum had never been off planet, but the warm glow was a novelty for Federation holidaymakers. The brisk trade in the resorts on the Kadian Sea, a vital source of income for the region’s prefect.
Lucky bastard, Bertrum thought and keyed up the next task in his diary.
* * *
-----Original Message-----
From: Turgan Devante
Sent: Twelfthday Day 210. 3286.
To: Shulton Kaspet
> Subject: Letters for Publication
We recovered several print-out letters from a strongbox found in the rubble of a former residence known to belong to Walden’s security officials in Ashoria. They have been authenticated to date back to the early part of Walden’s regime, sometime in the late 3170s. I have included one here.
* * *
Yesterday, I saw my wife murdered. It seems, despite his inauguration speech, Walden intends to break us into obedience by taking those dearest to us.
I will not accept this.
I’m flying to you now. Prepare a meeting of the Councillors on Sark. We need to organise quickly and find a way to undermine these plans before he wipes out all those with authority who would resist him.
We must establish an exit route and safe houses for those in danger. You have assured me you have contacts and connections to get people off planet, we will need these resources.
Yours in faith,
Torvalod Hexian – Neudaal Minister of Agriculture.
* * *
It would seem the news reports of an accidental mid air collision causing the deaths of several government officials at the time, was in fact a, cover-up for assassination. I can only assume these copies were kept for future leverage and forgotten.
Turgan Devante – Archaeologist. Ashorian Historical Society.
Chapter 5: The Child
Harry was lying on his bed, book in hand when someone knocked on the door.
He got up quickly and opened it.
Henry stood in the corridor a wide smile on his face. ‘Hello Harry.’
‘Hello Henry.’
Harry liked Henry; seventeen years of age, nine older than Harry. When Harry grew up, he wanted to be just like him. ‘How can I help you?’
‘The Elders sent me. They have a task for you.’
Harry straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, trying to minimise the eight inches of height difference between them. ‘I’ll help of course, what do they want me to do?’
