Origins (12 page)

The backing of the most powerful man in human space
, I considered.
That's some currency.

“You said that the Assassin was linked to the Massacre of
Liberty Point
,” I said. “How so?”

“An intelligence package was due to be delivered to Mili-Intel in the hours leading up to the fall of
Liberty Point
,” said Dr Storemberg.

“Are you telling me that the Directorate were after this intelligence package?” I asked, putting the pieces together for myself. “That this was the reason for their attack on the
Point
?”

Cole nodded. “That's exactly what we're saying.”

“I'd be very interested in knowing what was worth that loss,” I said, without thinking about my words.

Cole just laughed. It was an expression about as pleasant as Storemberg's smile. “I'd say that it was worth it,” he said.

Ah shit.

A lance of hope speared me, and I felt my pulse beginning to race.

“It's the whereabouts of the
Endeavour
, isn't it?” I asked.

“We would probably have figured it out anyway,” Storemberg said, between mouthfuls of steak. His knife noisily scraped across the ceramic plate, pulled me back to reality. “The UAS
Colossus
has been thoroughly examined by our technical teams, and her data-core has been of specific interest.”

“Although it wasn't exactly easy,” Cole said, “because it appears that the journey through the Shard Gate caused significant electromagnetic damage to several of the flight systems.”

“Loeb did tell me,” I said. “More than once.”

“This will be your greatest gift to the war,” Storemberg said. “You have discovered a network of gateways that will allow instantaneous travel between the stars. It will allow us, given the appropriate access to the Shard Network, to stab into the very heart of the Krell Empire.”

“Which is exactly what we are going to do,” Sunsam said.

The map shifted again, green indicators popping up as a tide of Alliance Navy assets sailed in from the Core Systems. Despite myself – despite the revelation that I could actually
Christo-damned follow Elena!
– the soldier in me was excited by the plan. My mechanical hand clamped shut, noisily, as the animation progressed. The Navy moved through the old QZ, jumping through flashing icons that I assumed represented Shard Gates: other relics left over by the machines when they had abandoned the Maelstrom.

“This will be the largest counter-attack that we can muster,” Sunsam said. He was smiling, the jittering light of the tri-D throwing his unhandsome face into a strange rictus. “We will destroy the Krell once and for all.”

“How does the
Endeavour
fit into this?” I asked.

“We'll get to that,” said Storemberg.

“From what data we could recover, we've been able to plot the course trajectory – which has allowed us to see exactly where the
Colossus
went,” Cole said. “By triangulating the acquired military intelligence package with the flight path taken by the
Colossus
, we've been able to pinpoint the coordinates of the
Endeavour
.”

Finally.
This was the biggest, most certain breakthrough that I'd ever been privy to. Elena was still out there, and now we had the data to follow her.

“This is probably the single most important mission of the war,” Cole interrupted. “You need to know what is at stake here; that you simply cannot fail to do what we are about to task you with. This attack will not succeed unless we have some assistance.”

In the distance, somewhere out in the corridor, a dog began to bark.

The room was quiet and still, and the dog's lonely howl cut through the background hum of the air-recycler.

Where have the serving staff gone?
Previously so attentive, they were nowhere to be seen.
And only the security force on Calico have dogs…

“To answer your question,” Cole said, “as to how the
Endeavour
fits into this…”

His words trailed off and he frowned at me, aware of my change in presentation, misunderstanding the reason for my alert status. The rest of High Command were oblivious. Leonovich sipped at her glass of red white; Storemberg sat with a ceramic coffee cup poised between both hands, tendrils of steam climbing up his face.

They were all old, too damned old.

All caught in time.

Frozen.

About to be shattered.

The two Military Police officers – Nico and his associate – circled the table. Both were still dressed head-to-toe in their flak-suits, completely anonymous. Nico moved behind Cole, the other beside me.

Where did the MPs come from?

The dog barked on and on and on…

The MP behind Cole started to speak. “We're experiencing a security alert, sir,” he said. “For your safety, this room will be going into lockdown.”

But Sergeant Nico's words didn't fit his actions. He had something in his gloved hands: a spider-web cord, so thin that it was only visible by the light that it reflected. Drawn tight. Ready for use.

Mono-filament
, a memory screamed to me.
A garrotte.

The storm was about to break.

“Down!” I yelled at Cole.

The MP behind him moved inhumanly fast.

The cord was over Cole's head in a heartbeat – now frightening visible against the flesh of his neck, just above his collar. The general reacted in slow motion, hands to his neck. His expression still spoke of a minor inconvenience – the temporary interruption of an important briefing – rather than what this was: an assassination. The mono-filament made a tiny sound – a sickening
click
– as it sliced through the tips of his right index and forefinger. When it met his neck, the wire glowed red with blood. Gore splattered the tablecloth and the plates, sprayed across the face of the nearest MI officer. All in silence: happening too fast for any of them to respond.

Cole – general of the Alliance Army, commanding officer of the combined military forces ranged against the Krell Empire – was
out
. Not just extracted, but really dead.

Every molecule of my tired body screamed to me that I had to
move move move!

The tall MP beside me had a pistol in his hands. The barrel was extended, fitted with a silencer. He aimed the pistol at me—

Assassination. Planned. Directorate. Here.

No time to think.

I arched my back, knees against the edge of the table. My chair toppled backwards, and I went with it: away from the weapon's arc. I rapidly considered the gun's capability. A kinetic, a semi-automatic service pistol. Limited range and clip size, but at this range – and in my real skin – as lethal as a nuke.

The traitor-MP fired. Three shots, just to be sure.
Phut-phut-phut.

Missing me, the volley of shots stitched Leonovich's body. She looked surprised as her chest ruptured across the table, and she too pitched forward.

I scanned the room in a split second. Considered possible escape routes, potential cover, items that I could use as a weapon.

Weapon. Need weapon.

My holster was an empty weight across my chest; useless. The MPs – whoever they really were – had taken my pistol on the way in.

“Oh dear…” Storemberg said.

The pistol fired again, and Storemberg was ended. He collapsed, arms sprawled over the table, sending tableware crashing. The remains of his plate went the same way: meat rind, gravy, his fork and—

Knife.

I lurched for it. The dead scientist was to my left, and I swiped with my bionic hand—

Delay. Not my hand.

The metal fingers closed around the hilt of the knife. It was a silver steak knife, the blade slightly serrated. Certainly no mono-knife, not powered, but it would have to do.

Cole crashed. Almost decapitated by the mono-filament garrotte, he slid back into his chair. Blood bubbled at the slit in his throat and he let out a gasp: the autonomic expulsion of air from deceased lungs. The MP threw the used mono-filament to the floor, and swung an M400 carbine from over his shoulder. Unlike the pistol, this was a proper weapon.

Got to get out of here.

The door was metres away from me – sealed, the red MEETING IN PROGRESS lock flashing.

“Pl… please no!” an officer wearing Military Intelligence uniform stammered.

“Yeah, man,” the MP who had just killed Cole said over his suit speaker. His voice reminded me of someone's, but I couldn't quite remember whose. “Just a security issue.”

The officer – a man whom Cole hadn't even named – threw his hands up to his face. “I know things!”

“Sure you do. Just not enough.”

A horrifying, precise calm descended over me.

I rose from my crouch. Less than a metre from the nearest MP, I flipped the knife blade down. Felt the motors of the bionic hand flex. The knife handle deformed with the force of my grip. I recalled Dr Hunt's words: “You won't know your own strength.”

Let's hope.

Metal trays and cutlery clattered to the floor. Another of the female officers started screaming, pushing back across the room. It would do no good. These people were used to fighting wars on view-screens, hiding behind those with dirty hands. Well, I was the man with dirty hands, and I wasn't going to die in here. Not while Elena and the
Endeavour
waited in the Maelstrom.

The bigger MP had his pistol up and was already shooting across the room: picking off the stunned officers. He fired again and again. Every shot hit a target. Bodies bloomed like red flowers.

I doubted that I could measure my continued existence in much more than seconds. I had to think fast. There was a seam between flak-plates on the soldier's thigh. The suit was meant to protect the wearer from frag and debris, and I reckoned that a cutting edge would pierce it. I aimed there in the hope that it was the weakest point. A downward stabbing motion.

The blade sank into the MP's leg.

I heard the servos of the bionic hand whining, and planted the knife with all of my strength. Blood welled from between the flak-plates.

The MP let out a gut-wrenching yelp.

“He fucking shanked me!” he yelled. He spoke with a deep Martian burr; the accent of a Marina Valley low-lander. “Lazarus got me!”

Which meant…?

“Didn't I tell you to do him first?” said the Nico MP.

The injured MP stumbled back, dropped his pistol. Both hands were to his leg, clutched around the shattered hilt of the steak knife.

“I'm bleeding out!” he yelped. He dragged his leg back with him, away from the table, crimson dripping freely from the wound. I hoped that I'd hit an artery, but doubted that I'd be so lucky.

“Quit making such a meal out of it,” said Nico. Nice to see that the murderer still had a sense of humour. “I'll see to it.”

“No! I can get it out—”

“You started this with the malfunctioning collar, Corporal.”

Nico discharged the carbine. A single round punched through the second MP's head, his helmet no protection at this range. The contents of his skull made a quick evacuation, plastering a nearby table, and he crumpled to the floor.

I'd finally placed that voice.

Captain Lance Williams.

I reached several conclusions from what had happened. None of them good, all of them terrifying. The Directorate had a simulant-farm – a facility to produce more sims for Williams' Warfighters. There were none left, that I knew of, from the
Colossus
. I'd destroyed most of the Warfighter's skins myself, and the remainder had been seized by Military Intelligence.

And yet here Williams is.

High Command: Cole, Storemberg, Leonovich – every other non-combatant asshole who had directed this war from start to finish? They were all dead. Gone. Snubbed out. Really dead. The will to survive drove me on; stopped me from dwelling on that fact and the implications that flowed from it.

Williams brazenly unclipped the lower portion of his face-mask, let his respirator dangle loose at his throat. He looked exactly the same as when I'd seen him last, down to the sprinkling of blond stubble on his chin. Exactly as he did on the playing card at the immigration gate. Service record clean.

The Ace of Spades.

He was using a next-gen simulant – a copy of his real body – rather than a combat-sim. A combat-sim was physically much bigger, wouldn't be passable for a normal human. A next-gen sim would've been much more difficult to detect; suited up, he would be almost undetectable. What about the security dogs?

“Long time no see, man,” Williams said.

“Not long enough,” I said. “I killed you once, and I can do it again.”

“You got lucky, was all,” Williams said, setting his jaw.

The next-gen sim moved fast. Carbine up, fire stitched the room. Cutlery, plates and other irrelevant shit was scattered. I darted beneath a nearby table, the carpet igniting behind me. I was now reasonably sure that the second MP – the bigger, stockier one – had been the Martian.

Diemtz Osaka: the King of Clubs—

He had a gun
, I remembered.

His service pistol lay beside his body. Though it was only three metres away, it might as well have been back in the Core. It was an M4 – a peashooter – but a damn sight better than no gun at all.

Moving again, I was under another table. Williams sprayed the room with gunfire, his back to the obs window. I tipped the table up, rolled behind it and grabbed for Osaka's pistol—

“It's no use running,” Williams said. “Like I said, Damascus was a fluke.”

Rounds punched a line of fine holes in the far wall. The fish tank set into it exploded: spilling enormous aquatic life-forms and alien coral-formations. Water gushed across the floor.

I filtered out everything non-essential to my survival. Noise, light: everything fell away. Getting that gun, shooting Williams, escaping the room. Those were my objectives. I was now a metre from the service pistol. Williams stalked on through the room, crunching debris underfoot…

I braced against the floor with my left hand, reached for the gun with my right – fingers ready to close on the pistol grip…

Williams swivelled around, pounding towards me.

He fired his carbine – not the disciplined reaction of a soldier, but frenzied and uncoordinated.

My hand closed on the pistol, my real palm touching the warm plastic grip. I brought it up. Gunfire slashing the air all around me, I returned fire.

How many shots did the gun have left? I didn't know. In truth, I didn't care. The probability of me escaping this chamber was zero, or a fraction near enough. The game was stacked phenomenally in Williams' favour. He was bigger, faster, just plain better than me. I almost envied the speed of his reactions.

The pistol was a muted jackhammer in the enclosed environment. A round hit Williams in the shoulder: a neat hole right through the flak-plating. Another hit him in the chest; failed to penetrate his armour.

But he kept coming. He just damned well kept coming. Inside a simulant, he didn't care. I could probably have emptied the whole clip into him, and it would have barely slowed him down.

Zero odds.

“Don't you get it?” Williams roared. “It's over, Harris. This is the part where I smash your fucking face in, and the Alliance gets what's coming to it.”

He crashed into me, and we collapsed into another table. The simulant was much heavier than a man, and in his armour Williams was even more cumbersome. The carbine and service pistol were lost somewhere between us – bodies rolling across the floor.

I felt a heavy, gloved fist impact with my head. My vision wavered, and the dissociation that comes with cranial injury swept over me. Williams grabbed my head with both hands, slammed it into the floor again and again—

Shit. I'm going to pass out.

He was getting the better of me.
Not getting; he always had it.
I would've liked to think that in our real skins, I could've taken Williams on. But even that was optimistic: he was younger, fitter and just as hungry as me. Who knew what drove the traitorous bastard? Was there an Elena for him out there somewhere, some motivation for his betrayal of the Alliance? Blow after blow connected: my face, chest, abdomen, everywhere. The force of each impact was thunderous. My hands scrabbled against the floor, searching for a weapon –
anything
– that I could use against him.

“See the black, Harris,” Williams said, wet spittle lining his lips. “Go for it. Don't fight it any more—”

There was a noise from somewhere behind me. The hum of the door opening, boots against the deck and carpet—

Rescue?

“Jesus, sir! What's happening in here?”

Ostrow.
I recognised the voice: an annoyance in any other circumstance, an opportunity for survival, a sudden reprieve, in these.

Williams' eyes flittered past me, to the chamber door. They flared with anger and surprise.

“Fucking shoot him!” I shouted. “Do it!”

Williams went to roll sideways, faster than Ostrow could shoot.

Pistol shots rang out across the chamber, aimed at Williams. Some may even have hit him, but not enough to put him down. He was an alert, moving target: a head shot was too much to ask for.

I stumbled to my feet, and felt the wave of anger and hate crashing around me, the white noise building in my ears. I summoned it, let it come to me. The rage was just waiting to be released.