Authors: Bennett R. Coles
Katja Emmes wasn’t going to be a distraction though. She was just another element of the overall plan Kete drew together, another subject for consideration as he hijacked the badly secured, omnidimensional government communications channels that burned so hot through the Terran proto-Cloud, a Centauri child could have tapped into them.
He had spent several weeks sifting through these channels, studying the Terran mood as the war faded quickly from the collective consciousness, searching through those details of Astral Force personnel records that were free to the public. He pieced together hypotheses about the behavior of critical State offices and individuals, and ran scenarios to try and predict the various outcomes.
This stage now complete, he found himself strolling toward a deli located just off one of the main pedestrian boulevards in downtown Longreach. Sunlight sparkled off the waves on Lake Sapphire, the reservoir disturbed by dozens of pleasure craft. He noted the straight, utilitarian State bureaucracy buildings, located just beyond the bustling boardwalk, and wondered if they might serve well for the first strike.
The ultimate goal was easy to see.
His clothes were new that morning from one of the most exclusive men’s stores in the district. Subtle, even unremarkable to the casual observer, they spoke of easy confidence and extremely deep pockets to those in the know—and his target was in the know.
The deli was popular with the well-paid professionals of the downtown core, but it also attracted its share of Astral Force personnel. As Kete stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant, he cast a slow, casual gaze right-to-left across the room, immediately spotting the person who was innocently enjoying lunch in the same corner of the deli as usual, at the same time as usual. He bought a drink at the counter and leisurely wove his way through the tables, taking a moment to observe his target in the flesh for the first time.
In official images she was attractive, but in person even Kete had to admit that she was quite striking. She had the soft, smooth features so characteristic of her native France, with long, dark-brown hair that had been cut shorter and made straighter than recent photos suggested. Her small movements were confident and graceful, with a practiced ease that came from a lifetime of knowing that she was watched.
Kete doubted that she even noticed his gaze on her, so accustomed was she to enjoying the attention of men. In her stylish civilian clothes she gave no hint that she was anything other than one of the many successful women in their prime who graced the elite districts of Longreach.
In fact, she was a senior officer in Astral Intelligence, astonishingly successful in her career even after coming to it late from a series of interesting adventures in her youth. She was a veteran of the recent invasion of Kete’s homeworld, the current project director of top-secret research into a new killer weapon, and a former cabin mate of Katja Emmes. Thirty-four years old as of last Wednesday, unmarried, well-educated, well-connected: Commander Charity Brittany Delaine Marie Brisebois.
He sat down at the table in front of her, not looking at her but instead casting his gaze out through the windows to the boulevard, before retrieving a brand-new personal media device from his satchel and making a subtle show of manipulating its screen with apparent difficulty. The entire device was laughably simple—and mildly disturbing for being so completely external—but he continued his illusion of struggle.
Finally he frowned, then sighed softly, and laid the device down on the table. He took a sip of his drink and looked out the window again, then glanced in mock frustration at the device.
Then he pretended to notice that Commander Brisebois was watching him. He flicked his eyes toward her, but instead of averting her gaze like most people might have, she held his eyes with an easy confidence that, even though he expected it, impressed him.
“Having trouble with your Baryon?” Her tone was neutral, her eyes still assessing whether he was worth her attention. He gave a slight self-deprecating laugh.
“No, no trouble at all,” he said. “I’ve learned to expect that each time I come home, Quantum will have launched a new device that yet again ‘redefines society.’” He hefted the razor-thin screen and rolled it into a cylinder. “The flexibility I figured out pretty quick, but the brains I’m still working on.”
She arched an eyebrow, but otherwise gave no acknowledgement beyond taking a sip of her drink while she seemed to tap her fingers randomly on the table.
A moment later, his Baryon pulsated with three gentle, green glows to indicate that he had a message. He unrolled it and looked at the screen. It was from her—a standard message showing him where to find the Help Menu, followed by a smile.
He chuckled and shook his head before tossing her an amused glance. She said nothing, but was smiling behind her glass as she raised her own Baryon, which had been lying flat on the table.
Establishing contact with the target was always the hardest part of an op. Being a spy gave new meaning to the expression, “one chance to make a first impression.” While Kete had faith in his ability to roll with any encounter, no matter how many bad turns it took, succeeding on the first attempt was very satisfying.
In this case he’d used the fact that Brisebois had just received a new Baryon for her birthday. Waves of data had been streaming to and from the device, indicating that she loved her new toy.
His expensive clothes had helped him catch her eye, and she would have been intrigued by the fact that he had completely ignored her upon sitting down at his table. Still, it was the Baryon that had given her the excuse to speak.
Textbook procedure. It was as if they’d been reading from a script. Now he needed to move things along just a little bit faster.
“So if I wanted to send a message on this thing…” He flicked at the Baryon. “…other than line of sight to the table next to mine, how would I find the right address?”
Her eyes danced. “You’d just look in the directory, and locate the name of the person you wanted to message. It’s in the Help File.”
He smiled slightly. “And what if my device is new, and my directory is empty?”
“Completely empty?”
“Completely.”
The intensity of her stare as she rushed to a decision was actually quite intoxicating. Her blue eyes became, if possible, even more vivid, and while he didn’t fear that she could read him any more clearly, he felt as if her soul was illuminated to him.
“Charity Brisebois,” she said suddenly. “But call me Breeze.”
“Kit Moro,” he answered. “I get called all kinds of things. Your choice.”
“Kitten?”
“Maybe not.”
She laughed—truly, letting her guard down.
He was in.
* * *
It was certainly easy to get sucked into the appeal of Terran society, Kete admitted to himself. In order to ensure access to the right people, he’d had to create his identity as one of the privileged. A government or military background would have held the highest status, but it would have been too difficult to fake, and he would have been exposed to potential run-ins with “former” workmates.
“Teacher” would have offered a very high position, but that was a closely watched, well-regulated profession that didn’t serve anonymity.
While Kete had created a privileged identity, and easily enough, he had no illusions about where the real power lay. Wealth. His journalist alter-ego operated outside the regular economic channels, so Kit Moro’s lifestyle was lavish enough that he was placed above the realm where potentially embarrassing questions might be asked.
He’d made himself so rich that he was above reproach.
There was nothing like this sort of divide in Centauria, but as he slipped on the jacket of his designer suit and strolled down through the warm, desert evening to the waiting cab, Kete understood the lure of Terran wealth and the power that came with it. He uploaded Breeze’s directions to the cab’s automatic pilot, then sat back in comfort as the smooth, silent vehicle cut across traffic to the VIP lane. It flashed through the checkpoints without even slowing down, his identity transmitted and cleared by security in the blink of an eye.
Longreach was a prosperous city by Terran standards, its size and culture comparing even to the oldest cities on Mars. While it certainly didn’t have the thousands of years of history some of Earth’s cities possessed, it had weathered the Gray Death better than most, and due to its central role as a spaceport it had recovered faster than the rest.
Even so, it had its secure wards. Kete had rented his apartment in the Astral ward in order to stay close to his military targets, but he’d learned that the very exclusive actually preferred the Highland ward, which was on the western outskirts of the metropolis. Breeze lived in the Astral ward, he knew, but her invitation to dinner was at a bistro in Highland. She hadn’t actually revealed her address to him—he wondered if she was hoping he’d think that she lived out here.
Once through the final checkpoint, the cab increased speed and rose up to follow the transit lane through one of the dim residential wards. High-rise buildings flashed by on either side too fast for him to focus on them, but as he looked out toward the horizon he saw kilometer after kilometer of apartments, interspersed regularly with shopping and mass entertainment districts. He shook his head, marveling again at the human ability to ignore the lessons of the past.
By the most recent census, more than five million people were crammed into Longreach, all sucking up the same water, polluting the same air, and draining the weak Australian soil of any life. With energy as cheap and plentiful as it was, and planetary transport as easy and extensive as it was, there was no reason why these inhabitants couldn’t live spread over an area radiating a thousand kilometers in every direction. Less congestion, less crowding, and less impact on the still-delicate environment.
Less risk of another outbreak.
The high-rises eventually gave way to dark greenhouses, and Kete watched with curiosity as the bright lights on the low hill ahead grew distinctly into a central core of streets surrounded by individual houses, all nestled spaciously among the dark woodlands. The retreat of the rich. His cab slowed and lowered into the traffic lane, slipping into the light stream of private cars moving into the core.
The exclusive district was bathed in a diffuse, ambient light as bright as a cloudy day, and Kete almost had to shield his eyes after the darkness of his plebian transit. All along the broad sidewalks, the well-to-do strolled past the boutiques and restaurants.
The cab slid to a stop outside one particular establishment. It was a highly rated Ethiopian, and Kete wondered if Breeze was trying to appeal to his African heritage. Supposedly his ancestors were West African, but had lived on Abeona for so many generations that any connection to Earth was purely of academic interest. Still, as he climbed out of the cab, he reminded himself that he was playing a role that required him to
be
African, which apparently in Terra meant a jealous affinity for any cultural aspect of the Continent of Light.
The face of the restaurant was made of real wood, he noticed, and the rich smell of nature was a welcome reprieve from the city. The transparent polyglass doors slid open silently at his approach, and as he entered the smell of wood was surpassed by the rich scents of fine cuisine. The gentle murmur of conversations mixed with background music through the softly lit space, and Kete barely had time to scan the tables before he was greeted by a handsome, smiling young man in traditional Ethiopian dress.
“Good evening, Mr. Moro. Commander Brisebois has just arrived—may I show you to your table?”
Kete nodded without deigning to speak, as was appropriate for a man of his wealth, and followed the young man past tables hemmed by beautifully decorated, low screens that provided privacy for those seated while maintaining the feel of airy openness overall. He was led to a table in the middle of the floor, where no doubt any passer-by would be able to see the fact that Breeze was dining with an African.
She was good, he admitted, and very subtle.
“Good evening, Kit.” Breeze stood as he approached, offering a welcoming smile and reaching out to clasp his elbows. They exchanged kisses on both cheeks, then Kete gestured for her to take her seat again.
“You look beautiful, Charity.”
As he took his seat and let the napkin be placed in his lap, he took a moment to reflect on just how true his statement was. Her form-fitting black dress was enticing while not revealing, with matching sapphire necklace and earrings bringing out the vivid blue of her eyes. It was hard to believe that this was a military officer sitting across from him, but from what he’d learned from her past, Breeze was never one to do things the regular way.
Their conversation over drinks was little more than light banter, and Kete could tell he was being probed. He made no effort to tease hidden information out of her, however, focusing instead on a delicate game of revealing enough about “Kit Moro” to ease her curiosity, but being wittily evasive enough to keep her intrigued.
A selection of shared entrées shifted their chatter toward food, wine, and travel, and as he poured Breeze her third glass of chianti, Kete made his first real foray of the evening.
“At least travel here on Earth is never more dangerous than an overdue booster shot,” he commented. “Things certainly got hairy in the colonies a while back.”
Breeze casually mopped up the last of the sauce on her plate with some flatbread, but he saw her expression flicker for a moment. She lifted wide eyes to him, her face the perfect imitation of awe.
“Did you do filming during the troubles?”
He shrugged modestly. “It was hard to get close to the real action, but I captured a few images.”
“Which colony were you in?”
“Centauria.” Real images of the horror threatened to seep into his conscious mind, and he locked them down. “Our troops really did a number on Abeona.”
She took a sip of wine, suddenly examining him with real interest.