Rogue-ARC (18 page)

I clicked off.

There was a very brief mix-up at the boarding desk. The clerk said, “Mister Arun, there seems to be a flag on your name.”

“Yes?” I prompted.

He looked at something on his screen, then said, “It’s nothing. Please proceed at once, sir. Have a good flight.”

“Thank you.”

Apparently, if you punch a bureaucrat in the face hard enough, the message does get through.

We made it through the gangtube and aboard with no further incidents. We had a small stateroom with bare amenities and use of the passenger diner. It was perfect for our needs, even if overpriced due to the urgency.

We still could be harassed en route, but that should be an easier fix. I still had the Royal Warrant, and I intended to destroy it as soon as we cleared system. It probably wasn’t of much use now, but one never knows. Assets are kept until mission parameters dictate destruction.

I went past the passenger galley and acquired one triple of a good rum for medicinal purposes, and sat back to de-stress. There would be lots more of it in the future.

I felt a beep and checked my phone.

Re: Your suggestion. Yes. Should have.

I knew what he wasn’t saying. Why hadn’t they tracked me? All those files must have been corrupted during the war. They were now trying to reassemble them as best they could. That also explained why I’d not been found. They had no reason to look for any individual, and no reason to attempt to reconstruct a database on information they didn’t want to admit existed, for future operational security needs. Oh, joy. What else had he learned?

It was a short flight as such go. The craft was fast. Eight days instead of ten doesn’t seem like a huge improvement until you try it. I had to work to stay busy.

Because I can be a vindictive bastard, I kept a search out for Security Agent Radernan and the station. Sure enough, I found a note about his “Hurried transfer” due to “minor personal issues” and that support was appreciated but there was no cause for concern. A PR lie if I’d ever seen one.

I coded a follow-up text for the Captain, thanking him for the resolution. I didn’t know if the clown was a plant, but he was definitely an ass and it seemed he was suited for different work. He responded that if they determined anything from debriefing him, they’d let me know.

CHAPTER 10

The rest of the trip
was uneventful until the last leg, switching from shipboard to station cabin and back, with two jumps to twist the brain. We searched for possible targets on Mtali (not “in”—there’s very little off surface development), but there are so many factions and clans and interests, all interconnected, I had little hope of accomplishing much before arrival. We figured there were a hundred or so probables targets for Randall. We’d rule about half of them out after arrival, and add about the same number back after new intel.

The tramp we rode was actually quite nice. It was Freehold flagged, as most are, and also Freehold crewed. That’s a good combination. Our flag of convenience often means someone trying to shirk inspections and safety to save money. Our crew means potential massive lawsuit for failing to comply, for which we had precedent only a couple of decades before. It was a family-owned hauler trying to make a few credits. They had three couples besides us, and one family of four as passangers.

Space travel is culturally distorting. You’re looking at several months’ income per person, so only the upper class ever do it, or middle class people bent on permanent relocation who have sold most of their belongings. Passengers are almost always honest and beyond petty crime. The most you’re likely to encounter is a loud drunk. There are occasional stowaways, and a few poor people who scrape up one-way funds but often run short.

The Travers had three wonderful kids from four to ten our years, who’d grown up in space and well knew the handling of ships. The father, Thor Travers, was former Freehold Military Forces Space Branch. He’d bought a salvaged UN support boat after the War and fitted it out himself. His wife Lari had been a groundside volunteer for medical support.

I felt comfortable.

We made a point to join them once a day for drinks, and for meals. The galley was small but clean, aft of the controls but before the cabins. A good buffer zone. They were gracious hosts and the food was commercial but Lari spiced it up a little and improved it. No complaints.

The third day out from Alsace, we talked business a little. I’d allowed that I was a veteran, and admitted to knowing emergency procedures for space.

Thor limited himself to a single beer. “I can’t drink much so I only drink good stuff,” he said. He had quite a chill rack of real glass bottles with a hundred or so types on hand. He sat back with a very classic reproduction firearm—a handgun with a revolving cylinder—in a thigh holster.

“This is an unusual leg for us,” he said. “Not many people go to Mtali, and not much cargo. I gather this isn’t your honeymoon, Mister Dahl,” he said to me.

I grinned. “No, we’re doing research on some of the geologic formations for my wife’s thesis paper, and because I like colored rocks.”

Silver said, “I prefer the green, translucent kind with flowery inclusions.”

Everyone laughed.

Lari Travers asked, “Are their formations unusual?”

“Generally boring,” I said. “Lapis is common, which is ironic given the culture. There are various corunda and some interesting limestones. Not much in the way of gems or others.”

“There are some odd impact formations,” Silver said. I hadn’t heard that, and hoped it was true. Cover lies have to be solid.

“Really?” I asked in hint.

“Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you? A large one in the southern bay. We need cores from there.”

That sounded quite feasible. Good.

“I learn more all the time. And if it’s the bay, maybe we can go diving.”

Travers turned to the familyof passangers. “And you folks?”

“We’re missionaries,” Mr. Terry said. “There are many people in need of help.”

I let a little more background slip out.

“I was here with our forces some years back. I do hope you’ve got a secure mission. Most of the people are quite nice, but a few make up for it.” Their kids were cute. I’d hate to hear of them suffering.

His wife said, “Yes, that’s a concern. We trust in God, but have strong walls.”

“Good,” I said. I hoped they did. Then, “What of you, Captain? You have cargo on this leg?”

“I do. Mostly weapon-related support equipment, I’m afraid. Stuff the UN will allow in for various enclaves to use for defense and support, without actually being lethal. It’s the only thing that really gets imported here, except for occasional donations of infrastructure gear that usually doesn’t last.”

“That sounds like what I remember.” And I suddenly wanted very badly to look at his manifests and get into his cargo holds. The odds were slim but possible that something was tagged for Randall.

I paid enough attention to the chatter of the other passangers to find out the Roulet’s were going to the Alsatian embassy, and Mister Merkel was a consultant for the fusion plant upgrade in the capital, with his ladyfriend along for company.

“Dinner was good,” I said, “and the beer is excellent. Thank you very much.”

“You are most welcome,” Travers said. “If you’d like to try a couple of rounds in the Colt Special Police, I may fire a couple in the bay tomorrow before dinner. There’s a solid backstop and these rounds won’t penetrate the hull armor.”

“That would be quite exciting. Please.”

I wasn’t lying. But I was still more interested in his cargo.

I made an official but badly acted show of shoving Silver against the hatch to our stateroom, just in case anyone was looking. I did not grope her or kiss her because there was no need to and I would have enjoyed it too much and not enough. She giggled as we fell through, then we both resumed professional masks.

She said, “You want to see the cargo.”

“I do. It’s all but impossible.”

“You can’t get back there?”

“I can. Doing so without leaving some kind of trace in a manifest this small is very unlikely. That kind of breech would not be discreet or acceptable. Can we find anything through the nodes?”

“I doubt they’re even active at this point. We’re light hours from either the jump point or orbitals. Unless you ask them to activate it, which means they’ll know we’re on, and any traces will be hard to cover with an oops.”

“Do it when we hit the orbitals, and do it fast.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything high tech or sexy.”

“I’ll try to set some protocols. We won’t have long. Will you try to intercept?”

“No, but I’d like to know what to expect, and any official destinations.”

“Understood.”

There were no professional escorts on this ship.

However, I did get to shoot the reproduction Colt. I knew their function, but we covered it in a couple of segs in training. It was unlikely we’d ever encounter one in operations. They handle differently from regular pistols, and require a lot of hand fitting, but they do have nice lines and decent accuracy. I’d never want one as an actual arm, but it would make a lovely recreational piece. Shooting one in emgee aboard a starship was anachronistic and amusing. Echoes came back from the spaces between cargo pods, tinny and phasing in texture. Those cans were a taunt, so close, but utterly unreachable. I fired three rounds.

The recoil was surprisingly mild considering there was no recoil mechanism. The old guns don’t pack the power of modern workhorses. This one barely pushed 300 joules. I was used to pistols with four times that power.

“Classy gun,” I said. “I can see why you like it.”

“It does have good lines.”

“Thanks for letting me shoot it.”

“No problem. I enjoy showing the old stuff.”

I went back to our cabin, and found that Silver had acquired a signal.

“It’s still slow at the moment,” she said. “I’ve started the search, though.”

We closed into orbit in a fast pass, but “fast” still meant another full day at G. I’ve always enjoyed watching a planet appear as a spark and grow to an orb. It was even more fun in that our small port let me watch it directly, if at a very acute angle.

After dinner, Silver suddenly said, “Mining explosive, which would normally be produced locally under license,” she said.

“Mtali is so screwed up that doesn’t surprise me.”

She scrolled more files while I leaned over her shoulder. She said, “Some isotope clocks.”

“Go on.” I could feel her breath, her hair, the warmth of her skin . . . dammit.

“Nano-tolerance bearings for several applications.”

“Anything else?”

“Security cameras and sensors.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I have stock numbers but they’re for assemblies and kits.”

“Yeah, I know how that works.” Each “assembly” would consist of several components. The numbers might or might not match the actual components. The kits were put together by packagers. Researching those would take time and require either personal inquiry, or a transmission.

I said, “Well, keep track of it and we’ll see if anything suggests itself.”

***

We docked at the only orbital station. It was overly modern for a backwater, and was administered by the UN, since the locals couldn’t decide who had authority over what. Our papers were in order, though I got the impression it was largely a formality. They were more concerned that we not be transporting any weapons, because one more knife or gun on a planet of a half billion population just might break the balance of power between factions.

There are laws against segregation and “profiling” in the UN. I can only assume it was pure coincidence that the robed Shia wound up in one section, the Sunni in another, the two Amala at the rear with the off-worlders separating them, and the Christian sects on the other side of the aisle, with the missionaries as a buffer. I thought it a good and useful coincidence, though. The whole planet is like that.

We landed, rolled out and then debarked down steps to the surface, rather than through an umbilicus. It was hot and bright despite the star—GRN 86 is a K0; we were closer, and the higher ratio of land mass made it drier. We headed for cover, and waited for our baggage. It was brought on a cart and left to us to sort through, under the eyes of a couple of stunner-armed guards. I felt sorry for them. They were the least armed combatants on the planet.

Mtali was still the chaotic, bizarre nightmare it had been a decade and more past. In fact, trouble started there within a decade of settlement, and never ended. It had an African name from discovery, then was sold to an African Muslim national confederation. From there, various power groups within Islam licensed plots and transport. Some peripheral groups like the Sufi and Baha’i came along, and some Christian groups believing the story of a cheap paradise with religious tolerance. Then a few nontolerant ones moved in to “secure a virgin planet against the rape of Islam.” Then the Muslim nutjobs made themselves known, and it turned into something like the Balkans on Earth had been for a millennia.

One found a mix of garb, from skirts and bonnets to robes to dishdashas and jellabas, and T-shirts and shorts. Religious services ran Thursday to Tuesday depending on sect, and the gunfire and bombs added to the festivities at random intervals. Various settlements were monocultural, the capital was a mishmash, though currently in a truce with no major violence, just street gangs and midnight kneecappings.

The problem I faced was that there were far too many targets worthy of assassination, and even more people willing to spend the money to do so. The planet exported a lot of semi-precious minerals and some gorgeous woods, so they had a steady economy with the ultrarich.

I recalled this was where my life had turned. I’d arrived a trained expert with no combat experience. Before I left, I had experience of combat, atrocities from all sides including myself, a hatred for the human race including myself, and a realization that some people will refuse to respond to any logical argument even if it means their death.