The Lazarus Particle (33 page)

“Hold,” Ndeeldavono said. At his command, the contingent of foot soldiers shadowing him stopped. They quickly adopted a defensive posture. “Where is your master?”

Jobosk turned. “Ptsvy regrets he cannot be present to see the deal to term. I have been authorized to act on his behalf.”

“That,” Ndeeldavono said, eyes narrowing, “is not how this transaction was to occur.”

“And yet, it is the way it shall.” At his signal, dozens of Ptsvy’s men burst forth from the lush foliage lining the interior walls, their own weapons held well at the ready. Apparently Ptsvy had learned well from his previous betrayal. Ndeeldavono’s forces were outnumbered some five-to-one at best, caught between action and inaction. Ptsvy, he saw, had even installed snipers along the various terraces and balconies of his rock-carved dwelling.

Only then did the pocket warlord reveal himself. Appearing on the main balcony, he climbed a series of concealed steps to make himself seen to those below.

“Greetings, Zj Soliorana!” he cawed triumphantly. “Ptsvy hopes you appreciate the pains to which he has gone to receive you!”

“It appears you have the advantage,” Ndeeldavono conceded. “We would not advice your men to advance any further, however. We can conclude this without bloodshed.”

“Oh, Ptsvy cannot tell you how glad he is to hear you say that, good Zj.”

“Name your terms.”

“If you pay the agreed-upon amount, and if your men relinquish their arms, Ptsvy will allow you to leave this compound with your lives as well as the intelligence you require.”

“Our men will not relinquish their arms, Ptsvy. That is nonnegotiable.”

“Ptsvy thinks you are not in the best position to name conditions.” His voice was almost musical, full of mirth and victory as he sang ‘position’ and ‘condition’ to a maniacal melody.

“Contact reports phase three complete; inbound in less than a minute.”

Ndeeldavono made a show of sighing visibly despite the welcome news only he and his own could hear. “Very well, Ptsvy.” He instructed his men to lower their arms, which they did. “We expect the information, of course.”

“And you shall have it, Zj Soliorana. Ptsvy has interest only in your money and your plasma. Your vengeance he leaves entirely to you.”

“Our vengeance,” Ndeeldavono repeated. “Yes. As it happens, you shall have a taste of it presently.”

Ptsvy’s eyes went wide with terror as he discerned the Morgenthau-Hale gunships rapidly breaking atmosphere. By the time he signaled for his men to go to ground, it was too late. Meanwhile, Ndeeldavono’s men had draped him in the cover of their bodies as the gunships assumed a tight orbit above the compound, raining all hell down upon its perimeter. Ptsvy’s men were stitched from head to toe by the heavy, high-caliber rounds; a handful managed to dive behind cover of the dense hedgerows, though a few quick passes ensured even they would not live long. One of the gunships broke away, making repeated passes at the palatial residence, blasting massive, boulder-sized chunks from the balconies and promenades.

Finally, with all possible resistance subdued and likely killed, the gunships landed. A swarm of Marines filed out, securing the perimeter. Another group stormed the manse. They emerged moments later with an ash and rubble-covered Ptsvy and Jobosk in tow.

They would prove to be among the last few survivors of the Massacre at Kalifka Bazaar. As the last of the shuttles lifted off, the riotous slaughter playing out in the narrow allies of the Bazaar beneath revealed itself. The teeming masses had finally begun to rebel against their masters.

And all because of one errant swing of a cudgel.

33 • BANSHEES

Dell couldn’t remember the last time ready room chatter had run so hot. Anticipation levels among the gathered pilots had reached a fever pitch. There were several hundred of them squeezed into
Liberator’s
ready room, a cavernous space composed of amphitheater-style seating around a single small stage and podium rising from its center. Behind it, a massive projection hub dominated the wall. Presently it displayed nothing more than the slowly rotating seal of the Coalition of Free Planetary Republics set against a flat black backdrop.

The pilots themselves hailed from no fewer than a dozen vessels gathered under the Free Planetary banner, many of varying species and dispositions. Several required translation units to make themselves intelligible outside their own kind. Under any other circumstances, such a large and disparate gathering might prove unstable. Far from monolithic, the Free Planetary Movement had united a host of peoples resisting sovereign corporate encroachment into the free systems. Many of these planets and governments had put aside long-standing disputes with others among the movement in service to the greater good. Even so, it was not unheard of for already uneasy allies to fall prey to old disputes and ungoverned passions when placed together in such close quarters.

Clearly the brass held no such concern for this gathering, though. The implications were simply too great, the occasion too momentous. And even if the pilots themselves were not yet privy to its substance, they knew from experience that the buzz surrounding it was no bullshit.
 

“This is so wild,” Ohana said, her normal voice reduced to little more than a stage whisper against the din. Her head was on a swivel, taking in the eclectic mix of peoples just as Dell had back in Kalifka Bazaar.

“Morgenthau-Hale not exactly known for its diversity, huh?”

“Not one of their strong suits, no,” she confirmed.

Dell took the fact she had taken to referring to her former employers in the third person as a positive sign. He still hoped she might decide to enlist. Even if she didn’t, she was doing them a huge service by agreeing to help teach their pilots to handle their shiny new tech.

At the fore of the ready room, a side door opened. The officer manning it stiffened visibly.

“Admiral on deck!”

All at once the chatter fell away. The roomful of pilots took to their feet in unison, the deck shivering under the collective weight of so many pairs of boots.

A woman Dell assumed could only be Fleet Admiral Ily Ily E’te strode confidently into the room. She was followed in turn by Commander Harm and a handful of other officers. Together, they represented only a handful of the combined force of the joint fleet. Many others would be watching via holocast.

Last but not least came a figure Dell did recognize, that of Major Fenton Wilkes, uniformed and all. The look of discomfort on his face was so profoundly comical Dell found it difficult to maintain his composure, but somehow he managed.

The Admiral’s path took her straight to the dais. Commander Harm and the rest seated themselves in the handful of vacant seats in the first row. Obviously they had been reserved for just such a purpose.

Admiral E’te mounted the dais. She was a sharp-edged woman, a veteran of dozens of conflicts, yet spry and unyielding in spite of her long service. Her face was lean and vixen-like. Soft platinum blonde fur lined her cheeks and brow, as well as the backs of her hands and wrists. Sharp gray eyes swept the assembled mass of pilots, still rigid as statues, approvingly.

“At ease,” she finally said. She paused a beat, allowing for the shuffling produced as they reclaimed their seats before continuing. “I consider myself a woman of few words. Therefore I shall I say only that those who would seek to eradicate us, to subjugate us to their will, have been sent a very powerful message: the Free Planetary Movement is alive and well. Indeed, we grow stronger everyday through the selfless service and actions of yourselves and those like you. My pride in our mission is eclipsed only by the humility I feel to serve with such fine and capable individuals as ever I have known in my career.” She nodded once, simply, before adding, “And now I will turn this briefing over to Flight Commander Vichante Harm. Commander?”

They exchanged places on the dais as Commander Harm stepped up to the podium.

“Thank you, Admiral E’te, for that stirring introduction,” he said soberly. “I think it fair to say yours is a sentiment shared by everyone in this room. I know it’s certainly one I hold close to my own heart.” The weight of the moment pressed close upon each of them as he took a moment to survey the room. “Now, what happened to all the pasty bastards who fly my wing?” he finally asked, casting his eyes here, there, and everywhere, as if his own people were strangers to him. “All I see is a bunch of tanned, well rested badasses.”

A few scattered chuckles among Gold Wing broke the tension. Before long the whole room shook with laughter, human and otherwise. Even Admiral E’te seemed amused. Not so much at the Commander’s quip, but the larger truth it represented: there was no greater boost for morale than a hard fought victory.
 

Though the spoils certainly had their place, too.

“Alright, alright.” He waved them down, first to a dull roar, then absolute silence. “First, a little housekeeping. Obviously, we won big back on Oviddia. We’ve had our R and R, and believe me when I say I know as well as any of you how deserved it was. But that doesn’t mean we can afford to get sloppy. In fact, it means exactly the opposite. They may be licking their wounds now, but the Tyroshi are not exactly known for their forgive and forget attitude. Rest assured, they will try to hit us again,
hard
.

“Which brings me to the second order of business, and the reason you’re all here today.” Lifting his eyes to the very back of the room, the Commander said only, “Lights.”

The lights in the room dimmed. Commander Harm turned to watch as the Coalition’s seal dissolved on the projection behind him. In its place, the projection quartered. The top left and bottom right were obviously first-person cockpit footage. The top right showed a long distance shot of open space, while the bottom left seemed to suggest footage from a follow-on vessel. Based on the synchronized time stamps beneath each feed, the footage they were viewing had been recorded within the last twenty-four hours.

“Banshee One, report,”
came the disembodied voice of a control tower operator.

“Banshee One ready.”

“Gold Two, report.”

“Gold Two ready.”

“Roger. On my mark.”
The line hissed briefly with static before the countdown began.
“Three… two… one… mark!”

The video was over almost as quickly as it began. Banshee One shot forward visibly in the long distance footage. It easily closed the distance to Gold Two, who had only covered slightly less than two thirds the space in the same amount of time. The cockpit footage, previously level, suddenly became frenetic as the two broke to engage. The follow-on footage could barely keep time with Banshee One, snatching only the briefest glimpses as it chased and menaced the obviously harried Gold Two. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what move he deployed, he simply could not shake the faster, more aggressive Banshee One. With one last series of jukes and rolls Gold Two desperately tried to confuse and gain the advantage on his pursuer. Instead, he wound up square in her sights. Harmless tracer lasers flared soundlessly in the follow-on footage.

“Sensors call that a fatal hit,”
the tower operator reported.
“Sorry, Gold Two. You’re dead.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Better luck next time, Gold Two,”
Banshee One said as she sidled up alongside him, tipping her wings. It was the only close-up of the exotic, sharply angled bird the follow-on vessel was able to capture during the entire seventy-two second runtime of the projection.

The other three feeds disappeared, replaced by the enlarged still of Banshee One as the lights were raised once more. Pilots of every stripe and species gawped open-mouthed, unable to process exactly what they had just seen. Many had scooted to the edges of their seats during the pitched, frenzied chase; those in the far back had taken to their feet, white-knuckling the unused chair backs of those in the row before them. Even Dell and Ohana, who had actually flown the mock skirmish, looked on with shock and wonder. It was one thing to experience it real time, where you had only a split second to process what was happening and react. Even knowing the outcome in advance, to watch it from a remove was something else entirely.

Commander Harm smiled broadly as the feed came to an end. “Any questions?”

The room erupted as if only just realizing the video had ended. A cacophony of questions rained down upon Commander Harm. He stood his ground, waiting for the storm to die down before taking the first question.

“Yes, Commander Duval?”

“Thank you, Commander.” He opened his mouth as if prepared to ask a very carefully constructed question, only to find all words had failed him. “What the hell did we just see?” was all he finally managed.

For all intents and purposes, it was the only question on anyone’s lips.

Once again, Commander Harm simply smiled. “The future, my friend.
Our
future.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, come meet the new love of your life.”

Two days after the general briefing, the men and women of Gold Wing were finally given the chance at an up-close-and-personal look at the Banshee prototype. It was as much a work of art as state of the art tech: the perfect marriage of form and function. Sleek and angled like the multi-faceted surface of a diamond, the matte black, arrow-shaped hull was designed to greatly enhance the vehicle’s stealth and maneuverability. Atop the vehicle, between the swept-back struts emerging aft of it, a geodesic dome concealed one of the most sophisticated communications and sensor array packages in the known galaxy. And within the framing of those struts rested a bank of the celebrated Morgenthau-Hale ultralight ceramic engines, undisputedly
the
most sophisticated engine platform ever conceived.

Rishi Mon Claire waved them in closer and closer still, reassuring them in that peculiar accent of his that their new paramour, as he put it, was anything but shy. “But,” he warned them sharply, “this is not your grandfather’s flying machines, this is not your father’s flying machines, this is barely even
your
flying machines. This is the real fucking deal. I’m here to tell you now, if you think you have ever handled anything like this before, you’re just trying to convince yourself your jock is bigger than it actually is.”