Redemption Protocol (Contact) (11 page)

“They found out on arrival?”

“Indeed.”

Havoc raised an eyebrow at that.

“My equipment?”

“At the Morvent Academy’s request, your agent on Breggalia forwarded five containers that arrived with you. It's stored in disc five with the security package. It's not been opened although let me say it's been heavily scanned and leaving it at that took an almost inhuman level of diplomatic wrangling. Ultimately though, it is my ship.”

“Where do I fit into the team?”

“I think it’s best to leave that to Tyburn. 'Respect the line' is the expression, I believe.”

Havoc mulled it over.

Darkwood was the kind of guy that could fade into the background if you weren't watching. Darkwood's agenda sounded genuine, but Darkwood choosing him was an odd choice to make. It was almost guaranteed to antagonize the Alliance. Maybe that was the point?

“And my return?”

Havoc’s implied question being, of course, how do you make sure I'm not defrosted with a noose around my neck?

Darkwood nodded.

“Don’t worry. We have all the dispensations in place for your arrival back in Hspace.”

Havoc didn’t even need to try to imagine the million things that could go wrong with that. The Alliance may not have known it was him when they shipped his Morvent Academy pod through Alliance space the first time. They certainly would on his return. Assuming he returned, of course.

Darkwood stood up.

“So there we have it. Do you mind if I...?”

“No, no, of course.”

“Besides which I think you’re due elsewhere, aren’t you?”

Tennis
.

Havoc hustled to the training hab.

 16. 

Havoc entered Sim Two of the training hab.

He stood at the bottom of a tall cylinder, on top of an eight meter wide disc that was covered in advanced fabric. The fabric could move over the disc like that of a running machine but in any direction. The disc could also tilt, rotate and move up and down the cylinder – although Havoc assumed that wouldn’t be necessary for a tennis match; at least, he hoped not.

Weaver had paired two sims together to provide the opposite sides of a tennis court. Rather than specify visual overlays, Weaver had used the sim’s holo field to project the court onto the sim itself, from the racket over the simulator wand in Havoc’s hand to the stadium packed with virtual spectators that surrounded him. Havoc could just imagine Weaver’s mischievous grin as she dialed that one in. Talking of which, a door opened in the middle of the royal box and out stepped Weaver.

Havoc did a double take. 'Baggy shorts' Weaver was wearing a crop top and a white plaid miniskirt that ended high on her slim thighs. The effect was rather startling. She grinned from ear to ear under her cap.

“You just look, don't you? When you like something, you just look rrright at it.”

The skirt had some kind of gold braid thing around her waist.

“I just...”

“Yes?”

He laughed. He actually had to look away to stop from staring. It was ridiculous. She bounced up and down, twisting her lithe body from side to side.

“You ready for this?”

“Wild horses wouldn't stop me.”

“Great. Enjoy!”

She slipped out and reappeared a moment later, projected on the wall of his sim in near perfect fidelity. She simulated the entire walk to her baseline, waving to the crowd as her disc moved invisibly beneath her. Psychological warfare, Havoc thought, hypnotized.

He hefted his racket in his hand. He'd loaded a tennis configuration, so hopefully he'd give her a match – after all, he didn't want to disappoint the audience. The crowd cheered in anticipation as Weaver prepared to serve.

“You ready?” she shouted.

No, he thought.

“Yes!”

She leaped in the air. He'd intended to watch the ball, but as Weaver reached the apogee of her jump her little white skirt floated up around her hips. The ball hurtled past him. She landed; her skirt, landed. He breathed again.

“Oooh,” said the crowd.

“Fifteen, love,” the Umpire said.

“Were you ready?” she shouted.

“No.”

“Oh.”

She bounced from side to side.

“Are you ready now?”

“Yes.”

She jumped and let out a little yelp as she struck the ball. He relaxed into the config. He stepped right and returned the ball down the sideline, way to her left. If you hit a great shot, even though the skill to line it up was coordinated using your augmentation, it still felt terrific. Great shot, he thought. Got to be fifteen-all.

Weaver came off her line like a cheetah exploding after prey. Her legs thrust almost horizontal as her arms bent at right angles, torquing her body for more speed. He was surprised to see the ball hurtle past him. The crowd went berserk.

“Thirty, love,” the Umpire said.

“Good shot,” she shouted.

“Thanks,” he shouted back, bemused.

He recalibrated to match her acceleration. She really had come off the line like a cheetah; actually, he reviewed, faster than a cheetah. She'd knock out a hundred meters in less than four seconds. He wouldn't go over that, but he didn't think she'd appreciate him being under either.

“You ready?” she shouted.

He waved his hand to say yes.

Game on.

Weaver’s play was graceful and ruthless. He could match her acceleration but he couldn't match her tennis. He was fit, willing and able. She slapped his butt until it shone.

Every time Weaver jumped, spun or reached for a shot her miniskirt flew up around her hips. 'Baggy shorts, baggy shorts' Havoc repeated to himself. When Weaver changed direction the feeble sliver of material at the front of her skirt parted to reveal another three inch slash of thigh. Balls flew in all directions. His free testosterone index climbed steadily into the red zone.

He could feel himself regressing back through geological time. He might as well be wearing a bearskin and wielding a flint spear, pointing at a woolly mammoth track and rubbing his stomach. All higher order thinking was gone as man's ultimate evolutionary purpose beat through his psyche like sixteen Taiko drummers on full tilt.

Set point came all too quickly. He made a good return. Weaver sprinted across the court, ferocious and focused, beads of fine sweat exploding away from her as she pirouetted through the air, reaching at the limit of her extension and crying out as she made yet another shot. The crowd erupted and she waved at them. He laughed at her control of the crowd to punctuate the highlights of the match. He was completely helpless and loving it, an unusual feeling; flickers of joy sparking through a blocked grate.

After she crushed him in the first two sets, she walked round to his sim for a break. She stretched out in front of him, sweat glistening all the way up her long legs.

“So what brings you here, Mr Havoc?”

He poured water over his face, trying to cool down.

“I work for Mr Darkwood.”

“Security.”

“Right.”

“You going to tie me up if I misbehave?”

“Trust me, if I was going to do that, you'd already be hanging from the ceiling.”

“Ooh, promises promises, Mr Havoc. Don't go getting a girl’s hopes up now.”

He laughed.

“So how about you? Why physics?”

She stopped to think.

“I love it. I love the elegance of it; the beauty; how things mesh perfectly together. The universe is so much more amazing than we could ever imagine. And not only that; physics makes you work. It's beautiful and seductive and entrancing but it doesn't give up anything easily; you have to earn your rewards. And when you put the work in, when you've truly earned it; you have breathtaking moments of incredible clarity; insights into how things relate to one another. The interconnectedness of things.”

“And are things truly interconnected?”

She smiled.

“Pick a flower and you move the farthest star.”

He laughed.

“Your passion is inspiring.”

“Man is only great when he acts from passion.”

He laughed again.

“A philosopher too.”

She looked whimsical.

“I'd rather have been a great physicist.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think if you’re a great physicist you get, for a fleeting moment, to glimpse the mind of God.”

“You might still get there.”

She smiled excitedly.

“Well I did score a ten on the Blue-Truvelli Optimism scale this morning.”

“Ten? Wow.”

“What did you score?”

The system hadn’t offered Havoc that test; it had offered him the Triolet-Volkov Depression and Stability test instead.

“Less than that.”

She took her cap off and pulled her hand back through her hair.

“And what about you, are you passionate about what you do?”

He felt strangely uncomfortable at the spotlight being turned on him. He didn't want to pretend, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood. He was having too much fun. For the first time he could remember, he felt like a real person.

“There are things I love. Wild places, exploration. And stories, of course – great stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Well they're all love stories, aren't they, Weaver?”

“Are they?”

“Sure. You know, will the nice guy get the screwed up girl?”

She laughed.

“But not what you do?”

He shook his head.

“No. I mean, I love performing at my potential. Who doesn't? But not what I do, not any more. It’s time for a change.”

He'd been attempting that change when the trading cruiser he’d bought on account from Pertinax had gone up in flames; another victim of the small but steady stream of bounty hunters that defined his life.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Havoc?”

He flinched at the non sequitur. He found the question staggering in its naivety. She made a face.

“I'm sorry. What a stupid question. I don't know what I was thinking. They just kind of bubble up from nowhere. I’m sorry.”

“Don't worry. I didn't mean to stop in my tracks.”

“I just find the idea so strange. I'm a pacifist at heart. I guess you're not?”

He chuckled as he shook his head.

“Pacifism is a wonderful idea until someone steals your lunch. Then your dinner. Then your breakfast. But it is a wonderful idea.”

“So what are you looking for?”

A man.

“I'm not sure.”

She looked at him playfully.

“Sometimes you're looking so hard for something, you don't realize it's right in front of you.”

He smiled.

“True.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Oh I don’t know. Intergalactic jewel thief, adventurer and savior of damsels in distress. What about you? What do you do when you're not deep in your equations?”

“I love to fly, and wild places. I used to go for walks as a girl with my dad.” Her face grew more serious. “I should have said that's one of the reasons I love physics – my dad. When I was a girl we would do proofs together. How sad is that?”

“Someone once said to me, ‘never be ashamed of the things you love’.”

“Good advice.”

“Do you still talk about physics with your dad?”

“No, we don't talk. I mean, we didn't talk.”

“I don't mean to pry.”

“Don't worry. It's just... we had a silly fight. It was a long time ago. I knew we'd sort it out eventually, you know? But then he was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Over a year ago. He disappeared. You know when you have that feeling? You can sense someone...?”

He nodded.

She looked crestfallen.

“I don't have it. I think he's really gone. I can feel it. And I never told him...”

Havoc had his confirmation. He wondered how on earth to do this, if it was even the right thing to do in the circumstances. Telling Weaver about her father's fate just before their first briefing might be insensitive to the point of heartlessness.
I met your father, Weaver. We died together.

“I never told him a lot of things, you know. I mean, people don't age now do they, not if they're lucky enough and we were. And he did theoretical physics, for goodness sake, at a university. I just never thought...”

She shook her head as she tailed off.

Havoc spoke quietly.

“I'm sure he knew you loved him.”

She stared into the middle distance.