Rogue-ARC (16 page)

That wasn’t the problem. Nor was the volume of people a problem. A few thousand a day left the system. However, tens of thousands only left the planet, and went through the same ports. They used different lines, but he could easily change from one to another at one of the orbitals.

Silver’s training was impressive. A good Special Projects troop is a better grade of spy than most actual agents, because of their training. We never had enough of either them, or Operatives or even Blazers, because there just weren’t enough people with the combination of high intellect—top .5 percentile—psychology and fitness.

She helped me set up search parameters around his photo; with enough slack we started getting hits at once. We tightened it slightly, and left it to run. I scanned through the faces it had captured, and we set up five more patterns, hoping for gait, physical proportions, ID types and unusual itineraries.

I was most concerned about appearance. ID was probably a waste of time, as was itinerary, and gait and proportions were very unreliable without recent video to work from.

I had a face every few minutes; the estimate was several hundred for the day. This could continue for some time, and I had to rest in there. To my advantage was that once I knew where he was, I could call for backup at the far end. In theory.

Silver worked backward toward my encounter with him. There was no guarantee he’d fired the rocket. It could have been a remote system set days before, or he could have consulted for someone else. I hoped to find out which, but didn’t know at present.

I worked in realtime, and she occasionally pinged one to me to double check. We got nothing all day.

We took shifts for showers, restroom, food runs, kept the “Do Not Disturb” sign lit, reinforced with an occasional step outside to nod and greet the housekeepers, and offer occasional tips. We took turns doing calisthenics, and she went to the hotel gym every day for a brief run. I prefer calisthenics. That is to say, I prefer me doing calisthenics. She’d take breaks for pushups and crunches to keep awake and burn off nervous energy. When she did I got to listen to her “Uh!” and “Urh!” once she passed forty. It sounded deliciously sexual, and I could only compensate with louder music and trying very hard not to look at her.

I’d look at the images that registered, and the ones she forwarded. Some were close. Some I had to squint to define. None were he, that I could tell. I saved a few for further review, and overlaied the two images. Some things are very hard to change, even with surgery—eye spacing, forehead height, cheekbones. Most people won’t go through that kind of surgery, even in our field. None were quite right, but some were close enough to make me second guess myself.

It was tedious, tiring intel work. With ten operators it would be easy. We had two. My eyes got gritty, hers got red. My ass got sore, so I stood, then my feet got sore. I was utterly revolted by more tasteless sandwiches, better than the prison’s but reminiscent of them. I took sleep in combat naps once a day, with a two-div rest at night. Then I found I was off the local clock and running on Freehold time again, a much longer day cycle than theirs.

On top of that we had to track the news, intel reports from the embassy, and attempt to run periodic DNA scans.

We got lucky. It was only three days before he left. When the image came up, I jerked in my seat. Yes, that was definitely him, a decade later. I ran an overlay to be sure, and it was perfect. He was aboard a shuttle, and if I had someone on the receiving end I could stop him. I contemplated that contact code, and decided I owed Her Majesty Queen Annette the courtesy of a warning.

We were on the road in less than three minutes, me driving while Silver rammed through seats for us on the soonest shuttle we could conceivably make. I violated many traffic laws, and had the Royal Warrant handy in case anyone saw me. I lucked out.

Tickets arranged, I hit voice, called the code, and got a very neutral response.

“Palace Reception, may I help you?” a man asked.

“My name is Kenneth Chinran.”

“Please stand by, I will transfer you. It might take several minutes.”

“It needs to take a lot less, sir. Whatever code you have for me needs to be raised a level.”

“Sir, you are already at the highest code possible. Please stand by. Connecting.”

The Queen’s voice said, “What do you have, Ken?”

“He’s leaving. You can possibly stop him at the orbital. My assistant has the information.”

She fairly shouted, “Chief Watson, get online now. Go ahead.”

Silver spoke. “Caledonian Elegance
Firebird Aurora. Boarding at Sapphire Station at one four two nine Capital Time.”

I added, “We are in pursuit.”

She asked, “Do you need to make the apprehension?”

That was a very diplomatic way of asking, “Dead or alive?” If I needed to make the kill, they’d hold him for me.

“However you can best apprehend him is fine, ma’am.”

“Understood. You will be waved through security.”

“Roger. Chinran out.”

Silver asked, “Ken Chinran?”

“Me.”

She looked confused.

She said, “You know, I don’t think I was ever told your real name.”

“Not even regarding Earth?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Black Ops Seven, but no names. Still secret.”

Shit. But it made sense. Why tell anyone? There hadn’t been any, wasn’t any, reason to. And our IDs as Operatives were always secret.

“Yeah, that was my real name once.”

She looked at me a bit oddly. She thought she knew me after all this time together, but which parts of me were real? Which were cause, effect, or just cover?

Did I know, anymore? I felt much more “Dan” than “Ken.”

We parked the car in the drop-off zone, and I flashed the warrant at the constable on duty, and handed him the keys. He raised his eyebrows, but nodded. We strode quickly through the door, found another duty officer, showed him the warrant.

“Sir, we need to board as quickly as possible. This is an emergency.”

He nodded, walked us right to the front of the line, and we checked in. There were a few mutters but more inquisitive sounds. A powered cart awaited us, and we rolled through the crowd and right to the flashing security cordon. A flash and a scan of the warrant and we were through, and then aboard.

I contemplated ordering the pilot to lift early, but that would mess with astrogation, and there was nothing I could do at this end. Docking issues would take time.

The crew ran through the launch procedures. Decades ago, I’m told, all craft were similar and one could ignore the briefings. These days, with vertical launch, air launch, catapult, skywhip and other methods of getting to orbit, one does have to pay attention. This was an air launch, from high efficiency compression jet to nuclear-chemical rocket. We rose and kept rising, the sky changing color out the ports to cloud, bright sky blue, brilliant deep blue, then to violet, and then black with a misty pale blue layer far below us. In an hour we were in low orbit and approaching Sapphire Station.

Docking was straightforward and smooth. Good pilot, even with massive AI power in the loop. I got ready to debark. We were docked at right angles and under centrifugal G.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a security issue in the gate area that necessitates a short wait. Please remain seated, and we’ll keep you informed.”

Oh, shit.

I looked at Silver, she at me. She nodded, I unbuckled and we moved forward fast, bumping between couches.

The purser said, “Sir, madam, I need—”

I cut her off with both the Royal Warrant and my “Citizen’s Council” ID.

“Ma’am, that security issue pertains to us. We have to debark right now. Please contact whoever you need to.”

She twisted her mouth, nodded, and called the captain via a hush screen. There was some negotiation, she showed our IDs, and then there was an interminable pause, while passengers stared and commented some more. Eventually, she turned and said, “There’s someone waiting to meet you on the other side of the lock.”

“Thank you very much,” I said.

The lock opened, and we were in the dead space between hatches. There was minor leakage. I could hear a faint hiss. If we were in here too long there’d be a problem. There was an emergency O2 supply mounted on the forward bulkhead. I watched it with one eye and the hatch with the other.

The hatch ahead swung open, and we crossed into the station. We still had the inner door ahead. Silver hit the bar, closed the outer door, and then we waited for whoever manned the inner door to open it.

It swung, and we were face to muzzle with an entire squad of troops, fingers on trigger. They were agitated and sweating in full armor.

I raised hands, said, “I have Royal and Freehold ID.”

“Slowly,” a uniformed captain said.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed, and carefully drew the documents again. I could smell residue and blood nearby. There had been some ugliness.

He’d apparently already called down planetside and confirmed. He waved us in and the weapons lowered.

I said, “May I ask for an update? We’ve heard nothing since lifting.”

His expression was both disgusted and annoyed.

“Apparently, he smuggled weapons through, or already had them stashed aboard. We tried to cordon him off and lock him, but he saw that coming. So we tried a public standoff, betting on our marksmen versus him. We were under the impression he didn’t like collateral casualties.”

“I had hoped he wouldn’t,” I said. Oh, damn, what had he done?

“Apparently, he doesn’t. He was quite willing to bet we didn’t either, and he had the offensive position. His shooting was quite good, and even his misses didn’t hit any civilians. I had six troops go down, the crowd scattered and hindered us, then he blew his way through a bulkhead. We locked the station down for departures, but we can’t do that for long.”

“I can eyeball every passenger, if that will help,” I said. “You’ll have to check cargo, et cetera, and search in detail. Cynthia, advise them on search procedures, please.”

“I do know how to conduct a reconnaissance, sir,” he said, sounding put upon.

“I’m sure you do. We know how to conduct one for our people.”

“Understood,” he said. He gestured and several of his troops came over. Silver took control comfortably and directed them.

I asked, “Where do you need me?”

“We have a ship waiting to leave now. Can you check that one first?”

“I can. Depressurize the hold and the cargo compartment, then cycle back. Manually inspect anything larger than a personal bag. Where are the passengers?”

“Through here.” He indicated a gate lock to the side. Number X-1.

I followed him through, and stood back at a gesture from him. His troops slipped past me as I stood aside, and filed around the area. It had crosshatched windows on one half, to reassure the human mind that it wasn’t a drop off into space. The other half had murals on the bulkhead. Nice facility.

He spoke clearly and loudly, “Pay attention!”

The passengers stared at us, a combination of annoyed, eager, and wanting any distraction from the tedium of waiting. There’s only so much most people can do with the nodes and vid while waiting for a flight.

“We will be able to board you in a moment. We are conducting a search of all bags, and all persons. I need you to form a queue here, regardless of your flight zone or class.”

Someone, of course, objected. I can’t blame the man. I like encountering people who don’t think like sheep.

“Do you have a warrant for this search?” he asked. I didn’t recognize his accent, and while I might approve of his attitude, it would hinder us.

The captain pulled out a chit and said, “I have a Royal Warrant and a Royal Commission. If you wish not to have your luggage searched, you may make other arrangements to transport it. If you wish not to let me compare your face to your passport, you may elect to remain in the station until you do.”

Fortunately, the man looked amused.

“I guess that’s reasonable enough,” he said. “I should be less irritable next time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll go first then,” he said, and made his way to the front of the line.

I looked him over. He was nothing like Randall in build, color, shape or mannerism. I nodded faintly and continued.

I walked down the line and scanned the passengers. It took seventy seconds at most.

“They’re fine,” I said.

“That fast? Are you positive?”

“He’s not female, not a child, doesn’t fit certain body types, has visible racial markers. He’s not in here.”

The captain leaned in and said, “Sir, you can’t mention profiles here. Someone will sue.”

“You asked. I told you. He can’t be female, a child, a scrawny Caucasian, a fat Asian, or several others. No one on this flight is remotely close.”

“Very well, then.” He looked at his phone. “The ship’s been evacuated and purged as you asked, and the cargo has been pulled. They’re repacking it now, and they’ll check the luggage.” He led us to a tram station.

I said, “Before repacking, get hands on ID and two people to vouch for every cargo handler, then lock that area off if you can.”

“Noted. Thank you.”

There were thousands of people awaiting transit. We rode trams in broad arcs between gates and I looked at them and saw nothing. They were grateful to be released, but I knew they’d be aggravated again at the cargo search and related delays.

More troops arrived on station from their moon Ness and from planetside.

“You’ll need to do an EVA for him in case he’s suited. I’d start evacuating any compartments not in use. Check on manifests for anything that requires life support. He’d hide in a kennel to get down.”

“Seriously?” the captain asked me. “You’d really do all this to exfiltrate?”

“I shouldn’t be sharing this much with you, but yes.”

“There’s no bloody way we can search every craft and every station to this level after every arrival or departure. It’s an impossible level of security.”

“Welcome to my game,” I said.

We, and they, searched cargo, evacuated containers, checked passengers, manifests, contractors and restaurants, engineering spaces, station crew, station lodging. We weren’t going to find him, but I had to go through the motions and we might get lucky. Meantime, we might find a trace elsewhere.