Elite

by Allen Stroud

  He glanced around. No one was watching. In fact, the crowd seemed to have disappeared the second they’d stepped off the main walkway. Linley grabbed the handle and yanked. There was a hiss of pressure and the hatch open.

  ‘Come on, quickly!’

  She grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. A ladder lay beyond. He climbed up and she followed. The hatch closed behind them, leaving Pietro in total darkness.

  He went up twenty ladder rungs, counting them carefully then out onto a floor.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Password?’ said a deep male voice.

  ‘He's with me,’ Linley replied.

  There was a pause and Pietro noticed a tiny red bead of light appear on his chest.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I'm Kel,’ Pietro replied.

  ‘Unless you've been for a body shave on Quince a few days ago, you're not Kel.’ The dot went south to hover over his crotch, Pietro winced. ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Or you shoot me?’

  ‘Yeah, that's how it goes.’

  Pietro bit his lip and peered into the black, trying to locate the source of the voice, but he couldn't see anything. ‘Kel succeeded, I'm here to deliver.’

  ‘Why'd he send you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘If you want to live.’

  ‘He ran into some trouble, an Asp with weird markings on the port side.’

  The man sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘That's not possible, he—’

  Suddenly, the wall exploded inwards showering them all with sparks. Pietro dropped to the floor, his hands over his head.

  ‘Station security, nobody move!’

  Somebody did; a shower of kinetic rounds followed then a grunt and the thud of a corpse hitting the deck.

  They never learn.

  ‘Mister Devander, are you all right?’

  Torches flared into life and a hand grabbed Pietro's wrist and helped him to his feet. He recognised the reassuring black security uniform. ‘Thank you for the assist,’ he said.

  ‘We got your distress signal,’ the officer replied.

  ‘You find anyone else in here?’

  ‘Just a girl, we’re taking her in.’

  Pietro shook his head. ‘She’s with me.’

  He could feel the security officer’s frown through his Kevlar helmet. ‘She’s not an operative ...’

  ‘No, but she’s a material witness to a larger investigation,’ Pietro said, noticing her standing between two other troopers. ‘I need her.’

  ‘Okay, she’s yours,’ the officer announced. ‘We’ll finish the sweep here and release her to you.’

  ‘Thank you. Anyone else you find—’

  ‘We’ll let you know!’

  More black armoured figures moved into the breach. As they went past, Pietro caught sight of the source of the deep voice, now a bloodied corpse on the floor. Within seconds, he and the girl were alone again.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, ‘your real one, not the one on your ident.’

  She stared at him, tears ran unchecked from her purple eyes, plainly in shock.

  ‘I need your name,’ he repeated.

  ‘Gebrial,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Gebrial, your friend is dead. You’ve likely worked out I’m not Kel and I’ve considerable backing with the security forces in this system,’ Pietro tried his best reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. ‘Who hired you and your associate?’

  ‘I told you before, I don’t know anything!’

  Pietro shrugged. ‘Well, I guess I’ll give you over to station security,’ he said. ‘Likely with shots fired in here, they’ll throw the book at anyone they arrest. That’ll mean you’ll be paying for the hull damage and the squatting fines. Your credit rating good for that?’

  Gebrial wiped her face with her hand. ‘I don’t have any money,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, then help me. Who hired you?’

  ‘He never said his name to me,’ Gebrial’s eyes flicked to the body on the floor. ‘Arrik knew though.’

  Pietro frowned. ‘Did he say where he came from?’

  ‘No, but he spoke strangely, could be Imperial.’

  An Imperial? Pietro scowled. This business was getting murkier and murkier. ‘What were your instructions?’ he asked.

  ‘To pick up the chit and gun, then drop them off in a secure box.’

  ‘Where’s the box located?’

  ‘On the station,’ Gebrial said. ‘I can show you.’

  * * *

  After the initial flurry of questions, they left him alone.

  Heldaban Kel tested the restraints again. In the thirty years since he’d earned his wings, he’d visited a variety of worlds and stations. He closed his eyes, trying to judge the level of gravity. The subtle shifts associated with a space station’s rotation weren’t there. Very near Earth levels, that narrows things down to a few thousand places. He guessed he’d been out for more than a day. Leaves seven or eight possibilities in range, but it doesn’t matter that much if I can’t get loose.

  ‘Mister Kel?’ the woman’s voice again, he opened his eyes.

  ‘No freedom, no codes,’ he repeated loudly.

  A section of the wall slid away and a man walked into the room. The rubberised suit he wore covered every inch of him, including a helmet over his face, and inside he was breathing through a mask. He approached Kel. The straps on his right arm were removed and a dataslate placed under his fingers.

  ‘Codes,’ the man said in a muffled voice.

  ‘You’re going to let me go?’ Kel asked.

  The man nodded.

  Surprising. Kel tapped a memorised eight-digit sequence into the slate, then another and another. After three, he stopped and stared at the man.

  Gloved hands went to the straps on his neck.

  Kel entered a fourth sequence.

  The man removed the strap around his waist.

  Kel keyed in a fifth code and looked at him again. ‘That’s all I have.’

  The man nodded and removed the remaining straps. ‘You are free to leave,’ he said, his voice changed by a modulator in the helmet. ‘We will transport you to somewhere appropriate first.’

  Kel stood up and glared. ‘You think you could stop me if I wanted to get out of here?’ he said.

  ‘Yes we do,’ the woman’s voice from the room speakers again. The man grabbed Kel’s wrist and jabbed a needle into the back of his hand. The effect was instantaneous, the floor lurched and he found himself on his knees.

  ‘This will be a short trip,’ the woman said. The white floor tiles started to blur. Kel tried to get up, but only succeeded in falling further onto his back.

  Sure is comfortable ...

  He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  ‘Down here.’

  Gebrial led the way back to the middle of the station. Pietro elbowed past two people and followed. For a moment, he wondered if she’d try and get away, but her glance around to check he was following alleviated his fears, she plainly had nowhere to go.

  As they walked he tried to think through what he’d learned and what might be true. Atticus Nathanial Finch wasn’t a cargo hauler, but why he’d been killed remained a mystery. Kel’s assertion he was a clone suggested Imperial interference. That would mean trouble, something Federation/Empire relations could ill afford.

  They passed the busy bazaar again, heading back towards the docking area. The crowds thinned once more when they came to a small kiosk at the end of a narrow corridor. Pietro noticed the sign, TBW Investments; a massive corporation based in Andceeth. At the desk, a bespectacled man with thinning grey hair dressed in a jacket, trousers, tie and cleaned pressed shirt stood smiling at them as they approached.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said, his eyes flicking over Gebrial’s purple hair, dishevelled clothes, Pietro’s pressure suit and leather coat. ‘We don’t deal with new customers at this office.’

  ‘We’r
e here about a holding box,’ Pietro said. ‘Hired for a drop deposit?’

  ‘You have the number?’

  Pietro looked at Gebrial. ‘Six three four,’ she said.

  ‘And the identification card?’

  The girl pulled a metal wafer from her pocket and handed it over. The attendant nodded his thanks and disappeared into the vault behind the kiosk. After a few minutes he returned with a box and gave the card back.

  ‘You can manage your business in the receipt area,’ he said and pressed a button on the console in front of him. A panel in the corridor slid away to reveal a side room with two couches.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pietro said. He took the box and went inside, Gebrial a step behind and the panel slid closed.

  ‘So, what do you think it is?’ Gebrial asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pietro said, ‘but, two people have already died for this.’

  The card clicked into a slot on the front with an electronic beep and the box opened with a tiny hiss of depressurisation.

  Inside was a small drawstring bag, a set of documents and three further chits, identical to the first one.

  ‘Someone’s been busy,’ Pietro remarked. A light flashed on his comms band. ‘We need to get back to my ship.’ He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and emptied the contents into a sealed wallet. Then he resealed the box.

  ‘What happens if somebody comes and sees we’ve taken the stuff?’ Gebrial asked.

  ‘We get to have a chat,’ Pietro replied.

  * * *

  Chapter 8: The Ship

  ‘Ship Ident 376A, you are drifting in-system, please respond.’

  Heldaban Kel opened his eyes and found himself in a pressure suit, sat in a pilot’s chair. The viewscreen showed a planet and a space station at an awkward angle.

  Where am I?

  Practised instinct took his fingers over the controls. A keyed engine burst and the craft righted - Adder by the look of it. He opened the comms channel.

  ‘Responding, thanks for the tip, fell asleep at the wheel.’

  ‘Acknowledged 376A, are you in need of assistance?’

  ‘No, I’m okay.’

  Twenty seconds of manoeuvring corrected his course and had him heading back towards the space station docking portal. Kel keyed up the ship’s system information panel.

  ‘Delkar is a sparsely populated system with few trade opportunities. Merchants should look for business in exporting metal alloys ...’

  The voice rambled on, but Kel learned what he needed. Delkar? That means Feds picked me up. He smiled to himself. And they didn’t ask the right questions.

  He checked the fuel gauge and the starmap; both expanding as holoscreens in front of him. Thirty-five percent was enough, at least for Miola. Don’t fancy more time around here if that’s where they kept me. He keyed up the hyperdrive controls and turned the ship away from the planet and station, angling out into clear space.

  Heldaban Kel had been flying ships for decades. He kept a silver winged badge safe in a box in Reorte, near home.

  Lave.

  The system lay on the edge of the visible star chart and even the sight of the miniature planetary icon brought back his familiar yearning. His hand hovered over the image for a moment before he balled his fingers into a fist. Not a lot of point going there yet, not now.

  Instead, he set a course for Lave’s outer system. It would take a while, but the rest of the Phoenix Brigade needed a report. Didn’t matter that he’d been a lifelong member, they’d paid for a job and it’d been compromised. The agent might have tricked his way past some people. He had to warn them. With Solati compromised, the only option was to head out, burn the ship and go where he could find friends. A refuel stop at Miola to start, but—

  The scanner pinged, a ship, closing fast, plainly on an intercept course. Not a good sign.

  He glanced at the proximity indicator. Another ten seconds before getting clear of the planet. He keyed up the rear viewscreen and waited for the Adder’s targeter to identify the newcomer.

  An Asp Explorer, the ship ID familiar; the same ship as before …

  The proximity indicator pinged and he punched the hyperspace control. The countdown started and ticked away audibly as the Asp drew nearer. He saw weapons hatches open and the double helix on the port side.

  The stars streamed and the ship disappeared into the void.

  * * *

  Onboard the Gallant, Pietro realised quickly Gebrial hadn’t been on many spacecraft. He answered the usual questions with minimal responses. What’s it like to fly a ship? Great. Have you ever been in a dogfight? Yes. Killed anyone? Yes. No I’m not talking about it.

  Despite the inquiries, he found he was warming to the girl. She had nowhere to go and putting her at ease might get more vital information. With questions answered or deferred, he’d put her in the sleeping cabin and returned to the cockpit.

  He placed the chits, documents and gun on the console and keyed up the comms. ‘Blue Cobalt, acknowledged transmission, key waver.’

  There was a moment’s pause as the communications network orientated itself and linked up to wherever his messages had been stored in-system. Most man-made objects in space carried recorder boxes, an extension of the black box flight recorders from old Earth aircraft. They were designed to record events, log bounties and act as communications relay devices. Dedicated intersystem communication remained an expensive luxury, but when spaceships were entering and leaving the system all the time, you had a ready-made message courier network. Special boxes received data dumps on departure from a system and broadcast them on arrival. Ship commanders of all affiliations participated, because the benefit vastly outweighed the short-term gain of staying off the grid. Corporations made money securing data, promising top-level encryption, but as a Federal agent, Pietro got that anyway.

  Now, the onboard comms would link with the station and receive any messages he’d been sent from base. The record indicated two video transmissions. Pietro activated the first one. A green projector light came on and the three-dimensional image of Miranda appeared, hovering above the metal chits on the console.

  ‘Good morning Agent Cobalt,’ she said. ‘We received your last transmission and proceeded as requested. However, we didn’t expect—’

  The picture jumped a bit and Pietro frowned. An edit?

  ‘To start, we listened to your conversation comms with the suspect, Heldaban Kel. Detailed forensic analysis at the crime scene means we can confirm his assertion. The victim, one Atticus Nathanial Finch, was indeed a clone.’

  Pietro felt a little sick. He’d been meeting Finch for years and never suspected. How many times had it been a different Finch? Cloning research was illegal in Federal systems. There had been a project in Quiness, but that was shut down in 3081. Independent systems didn’t have the resources or inclination, so that meant ...

  ‘We also found his filed photograph to be a fake, looks nothing like him, typical clone cover. However, unusually, Finch’s DNA imprint does not bear any of the markings consistent with our database of Imperial manufacturing laboratories.’

  A hidden laboratory or not Imperial? Pietro frowned again. Who else could clone someone?

  ‘We looked into Finch’s records,’ Miranda went on. ‘There’s been some fairly sophisticated insertions to make him look like a normal independent trader. The family background and early registration details from Phekda were obvious signs ...’

  Pietro understood that. Phekda had been in a state of permanent hostility for more than a hundred years. An easy way to falsify records was to claim origins from a system where the background couldn’t be checked.

  ‘Notably, we found a record of a Doctor Nathanial Finch attending the Soholian Fever outbreak in seventhmonth, 3255. We managed to get an image, which I’ve also included here.’

  Miranda’s face disappeared and a blurred photograph came up. Despite the poor quality, it was unmistakeably similar to the round fac
ed ‘Finch’ Pietro had known.

  After a moment, Miranda reappeared. ‘With the origin of the victim a dead end, we turned to the assassin and began an interrogation of your passenger.’

  ‘Heldaben Kel is a hired gun with a reputation. He has accepted numerous contracts and payments for a variety of nefarious enterprises. We collated a list of incidents, but most pertain to the Riedquat and Tiliala systems.’

  Pietro knew Tiliala, everyone did, from the Tantalum rush of the 3250s. The system government collapsed as major corporations fought for control of the ore, dragging in the Empire and the Federation too. Riedquat didn’t sound familiar though. Plainly Kel was well travelled outside of the Core.

  A video recording came up; security feed showing Kel in his trademark coat grabbing a man from a quiet station plaza and dragging him off to ship, then another, securing a body in an airlock. Two more incidents, they had to be part of the same thing.

  ‘Kel gave up several pass codes, we’ve forwarded these in the transmission, hopefully they’ll reach you in time ...’

  Pietro smiled. Little late, but thanks.

  ‘We also did a substance and composition match on the object you sent us analyser data on. What you appear to have is an old merchant trade chit. They contain an encryption key that confirms a high-level business transaction and starts transmitting the instant a deal is confirmed. Planetary commissioned merchants still use them in some of the outlying systems. Seems your friend Finch worked with powerful people.’

  ‘Or he stole it,’ Pietro thought aloud, anything was possible now. The video transmission ended, so he selected the second file and Miranda reappeared.

  ‘Agent Cobalt, we received direct word from Altair to release Kel and shut down all inquiries. You’re to dispose of all evidence and return to control via an appropriate trail to ensure our covert status is preserved. Message ends.’

  Abruptly the image disappeared.

  Shut down? Pietro was astonished. He leaned back in the chair and tried to puzzle it through. Only once before had Altair Headquarters shut down an investigation he’d been working on. Before the order, Miranda hadn’t wanted him to back off; otherwise she wouldn’t have sent the pass codes or the other information.