Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada.
Owen Powell
“Major. Good timing.”
Powell always quietly gave thanks to whatever power might hear it that his job didn’t require him to get as large as some of his lads, who had to turn sideways to make it comfortably through most doors. Still, stepping into General Tremblay’s office was an easy reminder that although Powell himself was easily the smallest EV-MASS qualified man in the SOR, he was still sitting in territory normally only achieved by dedicated bodybuilders.
Next to him, even Tremblay – a brawny man whom age had only succeeded in hardening – managed to look small.
“Summat important came up I gather, sir.” He replied. Tremblay gestured to the office chair opposite him.
“Two things did.” Tremblay expanded as Powell sat down. He produced two briefings – old habits died hard, and the general preferred paper hardcopy – and slid the first over the desk.
“Last night, an STS element operating in Cairo got into a brief firefight with Hierarchy assets. They’ve confirmed the presence of a Hierarchy spaceship and biodroning operation on Earth.”
Powell scowled at the pages as he skimmed them. Smart-paper “photos” clipped to the document replayed the helmet cam footage of an invisible object shielding retreating men and women from the operator’s fire, and lifting a tarpaulin as it rose into the air.
“That doesn’t make a whole lot o’ sense.” he mused. “If they could get a ship to us, why not call in the Hunters? Or just nuke us flat?”
“Our best guess is that the ship was already here, and has neither a jump beacon nor a nanofactory.” Tremblay explained. “Anyway, that’s for me to worry about. Where the SOR comes in is that somehow an investigative journalist by the name of Simon Harvey got wind of this, and he’s booked a flight to Cairo, with his two assistants: His nephew Sean Harvey, and-”
“Ava Rìos.” Powell finished. Her face was right at the top of the second page. “Is there no escapin’ that fookin’ girl’s orbit?”
“That young woman is a bit of a rising star, Powell.” Tremblay said. “Newspaper front pages, magazine covers, the Byron Group’s whole advertising campaign for Cimbrean development… and of course she’s closely tied to two men who both know DEEP RELIC.”
Powell’s first instinct was to emphatically defend sergeant Arés and his father, but he owed it to the seriousness of the situation to think properly for a few seconds. “…I’d consider it deeply unlikely that either Gabriel Arés or his son have shared top secret information, sir.” he said carefully. “I trust ‘em both. Besides, the girl’s not stupid and she’s been a victim of the Hierarchy’s activities. Could be she put the pieces together herself.”
“Either way, we need to know. She’s under covert surveillance, and the station chief requested that the SOR send a man or two. As a courtesy.”
“Firth and Murray.” Powell agreed, promptly.
Tremblay nodded. “Rationale?”
“They can both be as subtle – or not – as any situation might require, they’ve got mission-appropriate skills that Blaczynski and the Defenders lack, and even if they were appropriate for this gig, both my Protectors are in dire need of some PT.”
“Good.” Tremblay slid over the other briefing. “On to situation two.”
Powell picked it up. What he read raised his eyebrows. “Kirk got back in touch?”
“So we hope. Sadly, we have to treat him as Orange for now, but he did feed us some intelligence which should help clean up that question. The name of a spaceship that may be in the Hierarchy’s employ, the ’Negotiable Curiosity’.”
“Cute name.”
Tremblay smiled grimly. “An exo-intel informant has it berthed on Perfection right now. I want that ship, its crew and every kilobyte in its computers.”
“No JETS assets available?” Powell asked.
“Available, yes. Appropriate, no.” Tremblay said. “I’d prefer to send a JETS-qualified Delta Force team on this if I could, but it turns out that Perfection hugely improved their anti-aircraft defense systems over the last few years in response to a terrorist attack. The only way to make a covert insertion now would be Exo-Atmospheric jump.”
“And only SOR can EA Jump.” Powell nodded. “Right. You only need the four?”
“Four should do nicely.” Tremblay agreed.
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“I believe Major Jackson’s with you?”
“She is, yeah.”
“Good. Ask her to come see me as soon as the Gaoians are safely off this planet, please. And, if you can spare them from their PT for one more day, the Beef Brothers too.”
Powell hesitated. “General… if I may?”
Tremblay sat back and folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Go ahead.”
“Burgess and Arés are remarkable lads. Hell wi’t, they’re bloody heroes, both of them, and they deserve those silver stars they’re gonna get for NOVA HOUND. And, I know they’ve both seen stuff that grown men haven’t… but they both joined at seventeen and their whole life since then has been the military. If it’s really that important to, er…” he searched for the right word. “…to capitalize on this whole viral Internet thing…”
Tremblay didn’t say anything, but a half-inch hike of his eyebrow told Powell to get to the point.
“…I’m concerned for their well-being and morale, sir. The public eye’s a battlefield I myself fear to set foot on.”
“My hope,” Tremblay said, “was that Major Jackson might mentor and advise them before they find themselves back in front of a camera, assuming they ever do. Colonel Stewart has already agreed that he can spare her, and you, I believe, have better reason than anybody to trust her.”
“Knowing they’d be in her care puts my mind at ease sir, yes.” Powell conceded.
“I sympathize.” Tremblay confessed. “But I think you and I are an old-fashioned breed, Powell. We’re too used to public relations being under control of, rather than controlling us. I’m old enough to remember mobile phones as big as bricks, and somehow I think you didn’t have one growing up.”
“No sir.”
Tremblay smiled. “Your Protectors are better-prepared than you think.” he promised. “And I’m just as concerned as you that we don’t ruin two exceptional assets. Fair?”
“Thank you sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing comes to mind, sir.”
“Carry on, then. And… Powell?”
Powell paused in turning for the door. “Sir?”
“Give my good luck to the men you send to follow Harvey and Rìos. Somehow, I think they’ll need it.”
“Change of plans, lads.”
Baseball and Warhorse straightened as Powell returned from the office complex, pausing in their preparations for the Jump Array.
“Sir?”
“General Tremblay wants to have a word. You can probably guess why.”
Both men looked at each other, and at the Gaoians. “I guess once these two are back on Cimbrean, our job’s done…” Burgess conceded. “This a PR thing, sir?”
“Major Jackson’s persuaded me that it’s important.” Powell told him. “I defer to her superior knowledge in these matters, seein’ as she’s been in the public eye a long time now.”
“Yes sir.”
“Get your charges home safe.” Powell said. “Arés. Got some private news for yer.”
The young man nodded and they strolled away from the little pile of equipment to talk in private. “I’m goin’ back wi’ the Gaoians.” Powell told him. “Soon as I get there, I’ve got a couple assignments for the lads, one of which is here on Earth. Your, er… former partner is caught up in some DEEP RELIC business down in Egypt.”
“Christ.” Arés rubbed at his forehead. “How’d she find out?”
“I’ve heard you say it yourself that she’s a smart lass.” Powell pointed out.
“Smarter’n me…” Arés agreed. “Most of the time. So… what, is she under observation?”
“Aye. And they’ve asked us to send some of ours down there. Not you.” Powell added, cutting the younger man off before he could speak. “Firth an’ Murray.”
Arés nodded. “Makes sense… thank you for telling me, sir.”
“You deserve to know.” Powell assured him. “Anyhow, I’ll let you crack on.”
“Yes sir… you’ll let me know if anything happens?”
“‘Course I bloody will.” Powell said. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
Powell treated him to a rare affectionate clap on the shoulder and jogged back to where Regaari and Ayma were waiting. “I’m afraid this is where you part ways with your Protectors.” he announced. “I hope you’re parting on good terms, Burgess?”
Baseball grinned expansively. “Still kinda annoyed at the little furry bastard, sir.” he said, though his tone was warm.
“Regaari?”
“If I live to be older than Father Fyu I’ll never understand how insulting me is meant to be affectionate.” Regaari said, though Powell judged the set of his ears to be playful and amused. “But I believe so.”
“Good, because as far as I’m concerned this trip’s been a resounding success.” Powell extended a hand, and shook both their paws in turn. “Though – and please don’t take this the wrong way – for God’s sake please never come back.”
Ayma chittered. “Once was quite sufficient.” she promised.
Powell made an amused harrumph and bid them farewell with a touch of a finger to his forehead.
He found Jackson chatting amiably with the pilot of their transport plane, who was clearly a little star-struck and trying not to show it. She beamed at him, and excused herself to the pilot. If she noticed the way the young man turned and started fanboying out to his colleague, she did a good job of not showing it.
“Guess we’re parting ways again, huh?” she asked, soon as they were out of earshot.
“‘Fraid so. Any idea when you’ll next be in Folctha?”
“I doubt it’ll be long. We’re going to want to move fast on this whole Beef Brothers thing, so I’ll be around before long to give you some more PR advice.” she smiled.
“Funny you should mention it, Tremblay wants a word with you and the lads before they head back.”
“Thought he might.” Rylee nodded, then considered him, thoughtfully.
“…What?”
“You sound like you’re gonna miss me.” she observed.
“Well of course I bloody am.” Powell chuckled. “You don’t think I’ve just been tolerating you this last week, do ya?”
She shook her head, still smiling. “You are such an easy tease.”
“Aye, you got me…“
“All to myself?”
“If you want.”
Rylee considered it. “Y’know… I like the whole friends-with-benefits thing we’ve got going…” she mused. “But I gotta admit, the older I get, the more going steady sounds like it’s got something going for it.”
“We could set a record for the longest-distance relationship. How far is Cimbrean from Earth?” Powell asked.
“Point seven kiloparsecs…”
“That sounds like a lot.”
“Yes and no…” Rylee thought about it some more, then shrugged expansively. “I like you a lot, Owen. And you bet your beautifully muscled ass I’ll be calling on you every chance I get. But being stationed in completely different systems when we’re both so career-focused…? I don’t know. How about we try it, and no hard feelings if it doesn’t work?”
“Sounds good.” Powell managed to keep his outside calm, but he was celebrating wildly on the inside, and judging from the twinkle in her eye Rylee could see right through him and sense the party in his head.
“Alright, it’s a deal you emotional volcano you.” She agreed, and then prodded him playfully in the shoulder “But you need to find yourself a friend for when I’m not around. Get yourself a dog or something.”
“A dog? That’s no substitute, come on!” Powell laughed.
“No? I can be kind of a bitch in the mornings…” Rylee chuckled with him. “But yeah. Get yourself the biggest, goofiest, smartest dog you can find – a dog worthy of the SOR. The lads’ll love him.”
“…We could do with a mascot, I suppose…” Powell mused.
“Good! I look forward to meeting him.” Rylee gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’d better go see what the general wants, anyway.”
“Rylee… take care of the Beef Brothers, will you? Seeing ‘em thrust into the spotlight like this… makes me uneasy.”
“I know.” she smiled. “I’ll look after them, promise.”
“Thanks.”
She turned and walked away with a wave. “They’re lucky to have you, Owen.”
He watched her go. “Aye.” he said, so quietly that it was only for himself to hear. “Same’s true for me.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Six
Survival skills that Six had spent several years honing proved their value because somehow he managed to avoid stumbling, staring, or even walking a little slower and getting a second glance to be certain of what – whom – he had seen.
Those were all powerful instincts, ones that his stolen human body imposed upon its Igraen squatter at every opportunity. Learning to suppress them had been the hardest task of his existence, but suppress them he did. He didn’t need to double-check, after all – he could replay imagery from his biodrone body’s optic nerve whenever he wanted, and remember anything seen by himself or any Agent whose memories he had accessed.
He ducked out of the flow of human traffic in the airport, and, on the pretense of checking his phone, reviewed what he had seen.
San Diego, the roller derby. Getting up and leaving just before his capture. Folctha, Cimbrean. Standing at the fence and weeping as Eighty-Four botched the Hierarchy’s last ditch attempt at keeping humanity from spreading to a different planet.
The same face. Older now – an adult, rather than the curly-haired teenager he’d first seen all those years ago, and wearing a kind of brittle confidence – but definitely the same person.
He didn’t know who she was, exactly, but for one human female to be present at two such important events – and now to come here, in the immediate aftermath of his successful disruption of the Hierarchy’s plans for Cairo – that was no coincidence. At least, not according to a human aphorism on the subject of happenstance, coincidence and enemy action.
There was no way that she could fail to be under observation, of course. But that was not, in fact, so much of an obstacle.
Taking care to move in as bored and straightforward a manner as he could, he rejoined the flow of humanity around the airport and kept an eye out. Sure enough, the woman and her two friends had barely gone thirty meters before a man – a burly, fit man in jeans and a loose jacket – glanced at the woman, then around at the crowd. His gaze skipped right over Six without even noticing him, and Six congratulated himself. That moment could have gone badly for him.
Loitering was not an option. While he would have loved to get more information, he was surrounded by watchers. Effecting an air of distracted, businesslike haste he weaved through the crowd right past the burly man, and out into the sweltering sunlight, where he grabbed a cab. He threw himself into the back seat, ordered the driver to a hotel, and sat back to make his plans.
Ava Rìos
“Okay.” Simon twisted to glance out of the cab’s rear windscreen. “I wasn’t expecting them to meet us off the plane…”
Sean looked up from rummaging through his carry-on luggage. “What?”
“You didn’t see the chap in the jeans and jacket tailing us?” Simon asked. When Sean frowned and sat upright, he chuckled. “Nephew mine, we need to teach you some crowd skills.”
“And the guy in the suit?” Ava asked.
It was Simon’s turn to frown at her. “There was a guy in a suit.” she elaborated, unhelpfully.
“I didn’t see him. You’re sure?” Simon asked.
“He was doing a good job of not being noticed, but yeah. He looked right at me, checked his phone and then turned around and followed us. I’m not sure if he’s with Jacket… or if Jacket made him if he’s not.”
“If he did, he didn’t show it.” Simon mused, twisting to look out the back again. “I think you’re onto something, Ava. People waiting for us before we even land? And Jacket Guy was an American if I’m any judge.”
“What does that mean?” Sean asked.
“CIA, Delta Force, SOG, who knows?” Simon sat down. “What did Suit Guy look like?”
“Arabic. Short hair, stubble. Nice suit. Like a businessman.” Ava summarized.
Simon frowned and massaged his chin. “Honestly? That probably scuppers this investigation.” he said. “Even if we’re definitely onto something, there’s no way they’ll let us publish anything top secret.”
Sean zipped up his bag “So, what do we do?”
“We investigate anyway.” Simon said. “There’s always something you can report on, even if it’s not what you’d like to. We’re here, we need to earn our living. So, we do what we came here to do and we report whatever we can report.”
“And maybe afterwards we know more than other people do.” Ava added.
“Where’s the value in knowing it if you can’t share it?” Sean frowned.
Ava shrugged. “I like knowing things.” she said. “And, maybe it’ll help us find other things we can report on.”
“Still.” Simon grumbled. “I’m not happy about the idea that maybe our followers are being followed themselves. Who watches the watchers?
“That’s easy.” Ava folded her arms. “The watched.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth.
Allison Buehler
“Look at her go.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Xiù had called her parents as soon as she’d finished signing the Byron Group paperwork, and what had ensued had been nearly an hour of alternately frantic, tired, pleading, apologetic and angry Mandarin, garnished with English and Gaori. There was something universal about an argument.
When the call had ended, Xiù had stood very still in the middle of the room for a few seconds, and had then vanished into her room. She had emerged less than a minute later having changed into her sportswear, and was now out on the grass in front of the house, punching and kicking the everloving crap out of the evening.
It was a showcase of startling speed. Allison blinked as she watched Xiù deliver three kicks to the sky in the space of a second, land on her heel and surge forward what looked like ten feet to deliver a straight-armed palm strike that Allison knew would have sent her flying with a broken sternum had she been on the receiving end.
She gave Julian a warm sideways glance. “You’re allowed to.” she said.
“Just… jeez, I’m no slouch in a fight, but the most I ever had to fight was exo-critters and ETs.” Julian mused. “She’d kick both our asses.”
“Well, she’d kick your ass.” Allison teased. ”I would have a gun.”
“…Are you two gonna have a dick-measuring contest?” Julian asked.
“Why? You wanna watch?”
“I’ve heard worse ideas.”
That drew a laugh out of Allison. “Fine, Mister Voyeur. Watch away.”
She shoved the screen door open and the harsh noise it made, in addition to setting her teeth on edge – she really needed to take some WD-40 to it – snapped Xiù out of whatever headspace she’d gone to. The fierce engine of focused violence they’d been watching for the last few minutes vanished, and in her place was, well…Xiù, who tucked some errant hair back into place and smiled cautiously.
“Sorry.” she said, completely unnecessarily.
“You are so Canadian.” Allison teased her. “You okay?”
“I am.” Xiù nodded. “I don’t blame Mama. She only just got her daughter back and here I am leaving again…”
“Hey, don’t get all melancholy on me.” Allison gave her an affectionately tomboyish hair-tousle. It didn’t achieve much with Xiù’s hair up, but it did generate the desired blush and, once Xiù had gripped her scalp defensively, a laugh.
“Sorry.”
“So Julian reckons you could kick both our asses.” Allison added conversationally as Xiù got her hair sorted out again.
“I could kick yours.” Xiù agreed, getting her revenge as Allison produced her best mock-offended jaw drop. “I bet you hit like a girl.”
“I bet you shoot like one.” Allison retorted. “I should teach you sometime.”
“You first.” Xiù told her. She shimmied her spine loose and settled into a solid, grounded stance. “Come on.”
“What, you’re gonna teach me Kung Fu?”
“No, you’re going to learn Gung Fu.”
“What’s the difference?”
Xiù gave her a challenging look. “Shut up and let your Sifu show you.” She said.
Allison glanced back at the house. Julian had leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded and a smile crawling up one side of his face as he watched.
“…Yes ma’am!” she shrugged.
Xiù beamed like she’d just won the lottery. “Good girl.” she said. “Now, this is called a Horse Stance… come on!”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Roy Vinther
Combat Controllers all knew each other. It was a law of the universe.
The corollary to that law was that any reunion between CCTs who hadn’t seen each other for more than an hour or so was foul-mouthed enough to make the Devil blush.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Walsh! By some fuckin’ miracle you’re actually lookin’ good these days.”
Walsh stood up and shared an enormous hug with his massive SOR counterpart. “Firth you asshole, I wish I could say the same. Have you gained weight?”
“Sure as shit I’m eatin’ enough.” Firth drawled. “You fuck your sister yet? Always said I would if you didn’t get there first.”
“You still toppin’ Blaczynski?”
“Motherfuckerrr!”
There was laughter, a complicated handshake and a friendly tussle that ended with Firth heaving Walsh – a man who weighed somewhere north of three hundred pounds – high into the air like a child and giving him a bear-hug that must have been difficult to breathe around.
“You boys need some alone time?” Vinther asked. Still chuckling, the two Air Force men broke it up.
“Technical Sergeant Firth, this here’s Master Sergeant Vinther.” Walsh introduced him. “Exhibit B is Pavlopoulos, and that over there is Coombes.”
“This here’s Murray.” Firth said, standing aside to reveal a man who was only marginally larger than Walsh. “He don’t talk much. Say hi, Murray.”
Murray raised a hand – there was nothing shy in his demeanour, more a sense of composure. “Hi, Murray.”
“Two whole words. Means he likes ya.” Firth grinned.
“Good to have you. How much were you told?” Vinther asked, getting down to business.
“Our buddy’s ex-girlfriend is causing trouble again.” Firth said. “You’re watching her and we’re here to… Y’know, they never actually said.”
“Help.” Murray suggested.
“Well, yeah, help. But as I understand it this here’s a courtesy call, so you use us as you see fit.”
“You don’t exactly blend in.” Pavlopoulos opined.
“Yeah, I’m more of the big dumb object.” Firth agreed. “Ain’t that right Murray?”
Vinther turned to where Murray was, only to discover that it was where Murray had been. The man himself had – apparently innocently – crossed the room without making a whisper of noise or drawing attention to himself, and was studying the map. He looked up and gave Firth an amiable nod.
“Murray might be sorta useful.” Firth added.
“And if you wanty break something.” Murray added, finally stringing together enough words for his Scottish accent to make itself known. “That big bastard’s no’ useless.”
“Why do I get the impression comin’ from you that’s high praise?” Vinther deadpanned. “Alright – callsigns. I’m BARKEEP, Pavlo’s HANGOVER, Coombes is BOUNCER, Walsh is DRINKIN’ BUDDY. I assume you get the scheme?”
“Guess I’ll go with, uh…” Firth began, but Murray interrupted him.
“LIGHTWEIGHT.” he said. Firth’s brotherly middle-finger and a ripple of laughter sealed it.
“Alright, fine.” The newly-christened ’Lightweight’ snorted. “But just for that, and because you’re not Irish, you get to be GUINNESS.”
Murray chuckled, but contrived to indicate with a smile and a motion of his head that he’d tolerate the handle.
Vinther chuckled. “Our POIs are KING – that’s Simon Harvey – QUEEN – Ava Rìos – and PRINCE: Sean Harvey.”
“And where are they now?” Firth asked. Coombes glanced up from the camera he was monitoring and indicated out the window. The room they’d commandeered had an excellent view of the hotel’s lobby and front entrance.
“Pretty sure KING and QUEEN both made me when they got off the plane.” Coombes said. “They check into their rooms last night and that’s about it. Guess they’re planning their first move.”
“No point in havin’ us tail them.” Firth said. “She knows our faces and names.”
“She does?”
“Dude, she was our buddy’s girlfriend. Movie nights, drinkin’ nights, couple’a parties…”
“What happened, exactly?” Walsh asked.
“Uh, if we were to start calling PRINCE “Jody” instead…”
“Say no more.” Walsh scowled.
The phone rang, and Pavlopoulos grabbed it with a perfunctory “Go ahead.” A silent minute of attentive listening and note-scribbling later, he was able to hang up. “KING just made a couple’a interesting phone calls.” he said, handing his handwritten note to Walsh. “He’s got a friend in El Obour City, and another in Zagazig.”
Walsh interrogated his tablet, comparing the information on it to Pavlo’s note. “…Yeah, we know them. Dude in Zagazig’s with Egypt Daily News, and the guy in El Obour’s a, uh, blogger. Fancies himself a freelance reporter. We use him as a source ourselves. Reckon they’re about to move.”
“Coombes, stay here, watch the lobby and the drone.” Vinther ordered. “Everybody gear up.”
The room was a blitz of quick, efficient activity, at the end of which a casual observer would never have guessed that each man was armed. They took the fire escape to the car park in the basement: Vinther and Pavlo took one – a nondescript Chevrolet Opta – and Walsh piled into their much less discreet SUV alongside the two SOR men.
”Comms check.” Vinther ordered. The team sounded off in quick order. “Okay. BOUNCER?”
“Think they’re… yeah, they’re heading out the front door now. Drone’s got a lock.”
Their drone was an MBG “Flycatcher”, a small UAV developed by the Byron Group that used cutting-edge forcefield tech for both the flight surfaces and the optics. Eschewing an aerodynamic fuselage, the drone flew by “flapping” its forcefield wings like a bird, while its physical fuselage was little more than a dull mottled matte silver-grey object about the size and shape of a bulky laptop. Its forcefields and the advanced power storage systems that took up most of its physical volume allowed it to remain aloft day and night, especially in clear, hot weather. They’d launched it on day one arriving in Cairo, and had never had to land it since.
Now, its sophisticated forcefield-optic systems were trained on a perfectly ordinary taxi cab – one of thousands plying the city’s streets – but given that it could reliably track thousands of different targets at once, there was no fear of losing the target.
Guided by the feed Coombes was sending them over their tablets, the teams had no trouble at all in following it, navigating around snarls and traffic jams. “El Obour.” Pavlo noted, as Vinther turned back onto the cab’s tail on the Cairo ring road. Their car was as generic as they came on Egyptian streets but still, thanks to the drone they could turn off its tail every so often so as to throw off the appearance of being followed. Certainly, either the target didn’t notice the tail, or else were unconcerned of it.
”What’s El Obour like?” Firth asked, over comms.
”Depends.” Walsh opined. It’s got some nice bits, but the if the satellite footage is anything to go by, the neighborhood of the number they called is a fuckin’ dump.”
”And they’re taking an unmarried young woman into that?” Murray asked.
“Greater Cairo’s fairly cosmopolitan.” Vinther told him. “It’s not like we’re in fuckin’ Taleb Afghanistan or whatever.”
“Besides, KING’s an experienced reporter.” Walsh added. ”I doubt he’d take two newbies into a risky situation.”
“I never heard of the guy before.” Pavlo said.
”He’s the one who blew the lid on all those accidents at Hephaestus, and that shit with those cults in Bangladesh.” Walsh said. ”Now he’s sniffing around here, in Qalqilya, in Saudi and Pakistan…”
“Hmm.” Vinther had to admit, that was a solid resumé.
“Don’t fuckin’ say it, Vinther.” Pavlo told him, not broadcasting.
“Say what?” Vinther asked him, innocently
“You were thinkin’ this was gonna be the E-word.”
Vinther chuckled. “Easy?”
“Fuck sake.” Pavlo rolled his eyes and checked the drone feed again. “One of these days you’re gonna jinx a mission beyond repair and I just pray I’m not there to suffer for it.”
“And one of these days you’re gonna figure out all these superstitions of yours don’t do shit.” Vinther joked.
”Uh, guys…” Coombes got on the line again. “Company just got in touch. One of their recon satellites picked up an atmospheric disturbance over north Africa. Somebody’s got a bird in the air doing Mach eight.”
“Whereabouts over North Africa?” Vinther asked.
”Take a wild guess, BARKEEP.” Coombes replied. ”Sat already lost track of it, so all we know is, our UFO’s around here somewhere.”
”Lost track of it?”
”It’s only the low-altitude ones that can track this shit, BARKEEP.” Coombes told him. “And they move fast. That spysat’s somewhere over Iceland by now.”
“When do we get coverage back?”
”Eighty, ninety minutes or so.”
Vinther glanced at Pavlo, who just raised an eyebrow at him. At length, he cleared his throat. “…Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” Pavlo asked, innocently.
“Don’t say ’I told you so’.”
Pavlo produced a grim laugh and checked his tablet again. “Yes, master sergeant.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, High orbit over Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds
Scott ‘Starfall’ Blaczynski
The problem with the Dominion’s general-purpose shuttle was that it looked, and flew, like a lead brick minus the actual lead brick’s lustre and frisson of danger. It was just a silvery grey cuboid with a window at one end and a ramp at the other.
It was also so large that it filled almost half Caledonia’s prep and flight deck. It was, after all, designed to be able to carry a Guvnurag or two. Humans could rattle around inside it like lottery balls.
Sikes in particular loathed it, and every time he laid eyes on it he did the same thing: He sighed and asked “When in the shit are we gonna get something human-built?”
“If it helps, you ain’t gonna have to put up with it for long.” Blaczynski told him. “Or did you forget we’re jumpin’ out of it?”
“You first, Starfall.” Titan told him.
“Lookin’ forward to it!” Blaczynski told him, and extended a gloved fist, which Titan reached out and rapped knuckles against. The EV-MASS was almost comforting nowadays, squeezing him tight and telling him that however hostile the vacuum of space might be, he had nothing to fear from it.
Plus, it added an extra heft and weight that just made him feel strong.
“Hey, Kovač?” He asked.
She looked up from testing the pH balance in his life support pack. “Yeah?”
“When the hell you gonna put on your big girl pants and make a move on ‘Horse anyway?”
“I’ve got my big girl pants on.” she replied. “Not yet.”
“No?”
“He’s not ready.” She told him.
“Yeah, quit trying to play wingman, B.” Titan agreed. “You suck at it.”
“Just tryin’a help my buddies out.”
Kovač smiled and gave him an affectionate slap on the helmet. “You’re good.” she said. “But stay out of my love life, Blaczynski. Even if it is a fucking desert right now.”
“Yes, tech sergeant.” Blaczynski smiled behind his mask. “I’m good to fly, right?”
“Good to fall.” she corrected him. “And, you get to listen to music this time.”
“Fuckin’ sweet!” The team boxed fists, gave each other ringing clouts on the helmet, performed final equipment checks and piled into the shuttle.
Then it got boring.
The idea was for the shuttle to look to Perfection traffic control like an in-system passenger transport. Absurdly, its sensor signature was an order of magnitude larger than Caledonia’s, so all it had to do was leave the bay, pulse-warp to low orbit and it would look just like one of the thousands that came and went through Perfection’s skies every day.
The EV-MASS, meanwhile, had a sensor profile so small that if Perfection’s anti-aircraft defenses detected anything, it’d look like a tiny chunk of space debris doomed to burn up on re-entry.
The bit in the middle where the shuttle pulsed across ten AUs of empty space took hardly any time at all. Even at a paltry one kilolight, the journey was over in only five seconds. It was the sublight approach vector that was the slow bit. That involved sitting around for twenty minutes, joking and fidgeting and waiting.
When the pilot called that they were about to swing through the first drop zone, there was palpable relief. Blaczynski dropped the ramp and stood behind the atmosphere retaining forcefield, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his music up, waiting for the green light.
Titan called from the front “Whatcha listenin’ to, B?”
“Highway to Hell!”
“Good choice!”
”Twenty seconds.” the pilot called.
The timing wasn’t quite perfect – he’d have preferred to jump just as the guitar solo was starting or something – but who the fuck cared? The light turned green and B paused on the end of the ramp just long enough to turn, flip a salute to his buddies, and topple theatrically back into the void.
He nosed down and applied retro thrust, accelerating down into Perfection’s gravity well.
”EARS field.” Titan called. After what had happened to Thor, they were taking no chances – everyone went through the checklist during an EA Jump.
B checked it. “On.”
”Course?”
“On target.”
”EFDS.”
“Charged.”
”EWR.”
“Ready.”
“View?”
“Fuckin’ spectacular!”
That was no understatement. Perfection filled half the sky, but that half was beautifully blue and green, both averaged slightly toward the turquoise compared to Earth, and minus Earth’s omnipresent mottling of cloud. Weather systems moved across Perfection in a leisurely, choreographed parade of predictable rainy cycles that had lasted for geological epochs.
He hit atmo and beamed at the halo of plasma as Perfection’s upper atmosphere compressed against his EARS field and ignited. A wild “YEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!” carried him across a hundred kilometers in a blaze of fire.
First step after the plasma cleared was to re-establish contact. “Post-burn checkin.” he called.
”I have you, STARFALL.” Titan told him. “Course check?”
“Still on. Entering glide phase.”
The EARS field spread out and became wings, slowing and lifting his descent. The control interface was a little tricky – it was supposed to be like wearing a wingsuit, but in practice they still hadn’t quite managed to work out some latency issues, and the result felt sluggish and imprecise, but it worked. By spreading his arms and feet out, he was easily able to steer himself and fall through the rings his HUD was displaying for him.
This was a HALO jump. The moment his parachute opened, he’d appear on Perfection’s radar, so the idea was to open it as low and as briefly as possible so as to avoid detection.
First, he had to find the right spot. Caledonia’s extreme long range survey, the microsats they’d fired into orbit and the software was all well and good, but the final step was to land on the correct rooftop. He very, very nearly missed it.
Aware that there’d be some remedial training in response to his “woah shit” and the violent corrective maneuver he made at the very end of his long drop, he twisted through the air, corkscrewed past some high-rise apartments – no doubt giving the residents something to talk about – and ripped his ‘chute at the last possible second, tensing his neck muscles to hold his head steady against the sudden snap of deceleration.
He hit hard, rolled, skidded to a halt on the edge of the roof, and then threw himself desperately onto the ‘chute before a stray wind current could pick it up and drag him off into open air.
That done, he just had to lie still for a few seconds and giggle to himself.
“That,” he told the sky, “Is never gonna get old.”
He popped the release on his ‘chute harness,folded it and weighed it down under his equipment pack, and set up on the edge of the roof overlooking the target landing platform. “REBAR, STARFALL. EA Jump complete, I’m in position.”
”Clear copy, STARFALL. Whatcha got for us?”
Blaczynski aimed his scoped rifle down at the ship and compared the alien writing on its nose to the intel on his tablet. “Got a match. November Charlie is still on the pad.”
He ran the scope over the parked ship. “Got… yeah, two Echo-Tangos. One’s a Blue-raff. Fat fucker, dead ringer for the ship’s tech… and, yup, there’s the Corti. Two out of three.”
“Intel said the pilot’s a Kwmbwrw.” Sikes pointed out.
“I don’t see ‘em. Either way, target’s in sight. You’re clear to jump.”
”Thought you’d never ask…” Titan commented.
Blaczynski used the time his buddies were jumping in to set up his spotter computer on its tripod, calibrate his gun’s smartscope and get the beacon going to guide Rebar, Titan and Snapshot onto target.
Some minutes later, the guys called in that they were through the burn phase and into glide. Their icons appeared on his tracker as the flight systems synchronized and began to guide them in.
“Still no sign of that Kwmbwrw.”
“I’ll lay a stasis trap for her when we’re down and the ship’s secured.” Rebar called.
“Gotcha… and I have you in sight.” B replied, tracking three tiny falling shapes in his HUD. “You’re-”
There was a croaking, rattling noise from behind him which, when he frowned and turned towards it, turned out to be a couple of Vzk’tk police officers, aiming guns at him.
”STARFALL, REBAR. I didn’t copy your last.”
“Local law enforcement. You’re good to finish the drop?”
”We’re good. Don’t hurt ‘em, B.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Blaczynski sent, and stood up. “Uh… Bar wheep grana wheep ninibong?”
The Vzk’tk rattled its percussive language at him again, and he finally remembered the translator clipped to his MOLLE.
He turned it on. “Howdy fellas.”
The translator gave the cops a note of desperation in their voice. “Don’t move, human! These are Irbzrkian stun guns, they were designed to be effective against your kind.”
B sighed. “Guys. Do everyone here a favor and forget you saw me, please? I’m just doin’ my job.”
“You’re under arrest for trespassing!” The shorter of the two police snapped. “Come quietly… please.”
B took a step closer. “That little zap-gun won’t do shit to me.” he said, matter-of-factly. “Now come on, go grab some donuts or whatever the fuck you guys eat, call me in as a large bird or whatever.”
They shot him. Twin arcs of crackling energy played over his EV-MASS without so much as tickling, and he sighed theatrically. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Defenders popping their ‘chutes for the final descent onto the platform.
“Okay. Fun’s over guys. Now I have to get mean.” He said. “Sorry.”