The zone booth image vanished, and Sid stepped out into Office3 to face the team. Ralph Stevens was also there, going over their results. Like a proper spook he’d simply been in the Market Street station when Sid arrived first thing that morning. There was no sign of Scrupsis yet, so Sid guessed Ralph and the HDA were winning the turf war.
“That was good detective work,” Sid told Ari.
“Thanks, boss.”
“So the only image we have of his face so far is the one from the receptionist’s retinal log?” Sid asked.
“I’ve been working on it,” Abner said. “There’s a lot of AI enhancement, but it should be enough, especially as we have his height and weight.”
The suspect’s face appeared on the office wallscreen. Sid guessed he was midforties, with a bulbous nose, dark hair receding from his forehead, small ears, and a wide mouth. It looked too much like a digital representation for Sid, but he knew that Abner had worked wonders building this from the distant snatched glimpse Vicky Thellwell had accidentally given them.
The team members were all looking at him, waiting expectantly.
“Okay, let’s run it,” Sid said.
Abner made a show of flicking an icon in his keyspace.
Even Sid didn’t expect a confirmed identity quite so fast. But eighteen seconds later it flashed up on the wall screen. The AI hadn’t even begun to access the GE’s main citizen database; their suspect was already stored in the Market Street network, entered by the gang task force.
Ernie Reinert, age forty-one, a known midlevel Red Shield gang member. Previous employment with Securitar, a legitimate GE-licensed paramilitary agency. He’d been let go in 2134 after a tour in Greece. Securitar was contracted to “investigate” political dissidents. Reinert was dismissed for improper conduct on duty, which included a lot of missing company equipment, and using excessive force against two detainees who subsequently spent three months in hospital because of him—Securitar had to pick up the bill. The gang task force had an address for him in South Shields. His legitimate business was a commercial repair and service garage in Jarrow that also dealt in secondhand cars, which the task force noted was an ideal cover for gang activity. There were official records—his court appearances for minor charges, extensive juvenile record, charges filed but never prosecuted.
Sid looked up at the wallscreen where the details of Ernie’s broken life continued to roll down. “Hello, Ernie, my name’s Sid, and I’m coming for a little visit.”
Sid immediately sent Ian and Eva around to the garage on Western Road. It was a confirmation mission. They were to act as a couple looking to buy a car, taking their time viewing everything Ernie had on his lot, and checking he was there while Sid organized the arrest. Abner ran electronic cover, placing limiters in the transnet cells on Western Road. Sid called in NorthernMetroServices to provide fifty armored constables for an arrest and site securement team.
They rode in convoy, with the team in squad cars, leading eight BMW GroundKings over the Tyne Bridge, then eastward to Jarrow on the A104. A couple of agency helicopters flew cover overhead, equipped with sensors for ground tracking. The city traffic management AI kept their route clear, changing lights at each junction so they just rolled through without a stop. When they were a kilometer and a half from the garage they split into three teams, approaching from every direction.
Sid sat in the passenger seat of the lead car with Ari driving, and closed his eyes so he could receive the direct feed from Ian’s iris smartcells. He and Eva were standing beside a two-year-old Volvo estate with Ernie Reinert himself, talking about power cell efficiency and service costs.
“One minute out,” Sid told Ian. “Get ready.”
Through Ian’s eyes, Sid saw Ernie stumble in the middle of extolling the durability of the winter tires fitted on the Volvo. He frowned and looked out along Western Road.
“Boss,” Abner said. “There’s a lot of traffic going to the target’s e-i. I can’t block it all without isolating him completely.”
Ari turned the squad car into Weston Street, three hundred meters from the garage. “Gun it, man!” Sid ordered. The siren came on, and acceleration shoved him back into the seat. “Airborne: Down and target-lock. Ground team: Move in now!”
Ernie took a step away from the Volvo as the siren wail washed over the garage. He turned and—
“Don’t!” Ian warned. His pistol was out, laser dot playing on Ernie’s gray sweater. Eva had also drawn her weapon, covering the mechanics peering out of the garage maintenance shop.
Ernie’s flight to freedom never even got started. He was on his knees, hands behind his head, when Sid’s squad car came to a screeching halt in the garage forecourt. The chopper was hovering at rooftop height directly overhead, its downwash forcing everyone to lean into the howling air. GroundKings blocked the road on either side of the garage. Agency constables in light body armor fanned out, ordering civilians to get clear. Two armed teams rushed into the garage.
“Get in here,” Sid ordered the armored prisoner van. They bundled Ernie into the back, informing him of his rights as they went. Sid didn’t care, just wanted to get him out of plain sight where a sniper could pick him off. The van also had an efficient netjam. Ian and Eva stared to search him, doing a pat-down and running a scan.
The helicopter lifted. Four garage staff were hauled out by the constables and made to kneel on the forecourt. Ari went along the line, putting handcuffs on.
Ralph came over to the back of the prisoner van and looked at a silently glowering Ernie on the other side of the internal mesh gate. “Good job, Sid.”
“Thanks.”
“Really, we appreciate it. But … sorry. Gotta be done.”
Sid frowned. “What?”
Three huge dark military-style helicopters swooped in low over the industrial estate behind the garage. One landed fast on Western Road between the GroundKings, its rotors barely missing the corner of the garage. Three suited men jumped out of the side door and ran toward the prisoner van. The other two helicopters hung overhead, weapons pods unfolding from the short forward fins, to rotate menacingly.
“With all respect, our interrogation will be a lot more thorough,” Ralph shouted above the roar of the turbines and rotors. “We don’t have to worry about lawyers and rights.”
“You can’t do this,” Sid yelled back furiously.
“We’re HDA, and this is our field. Hand him over, please, Sid.”
The three suited men had arrived to stand behind Ralph. With a sinking heart Sid knew there was no point in even trying to argue. He beckoned a stony-faced Ian. “Bring him out.”
Ernie’s defiance had vanished. He looked badly worried as his HDA escorts grabbed both arms and hustled him toward the helicopter.
“Now what?” Sid shouted.
“Keep the investigation going,” Ralph said. “Find out what went on at the St. James singletown. I’ll keep you in the loop about the information we extract.”
That single chilling phrase stalled anything else Sid was going to say. He stood there among Ernie’s crappy used cars with Eva on one side and Ian on the other, the rest of the team scattered around the forecourt, watching their triumph vanish into the helicopter. The rotors spun up to full speed, and it tugged itself off the ground.
“Bastard!” Ian bellowed into the thunderous wash of air.
Sid looked around helplessly. Then he realized he’d have to call O’Rouke, who was standing by for the confirmation of a successful arrest so he could have his press conference. “Oh crap on it,” he groaned.
S
ATURDAY,
M
ARCH 16, 2143
“Where are you?” Lieutenant Paresh Evitts’s voice was flush with misery and desperation.
“Incoming,” Ravi Hendrik assured him. Pulling data from the navigation graphics was second nature—no e-i analysis required for that. “Five minutes now.”
Thick warm rain lashed against the Berlin’s broad windshield as Ravi flew the heavy machine low and hard across the jungle in answer to the research convoy’s frantic call for help. Wipers made very little difference. The waterwash over the curving transparency blurred his view of the dense undulating tree canopy fifty meters below. Most of his imagery was coming from iris smartcells interfacing with his netlens visor, the helicopter’s network blending the data from specialist optical sensors in the nose, fuselage smartdust meshes, and radar. Natural vision was almost a distraction. Except Ravi had been flying long enough to know you never relied on software-enhanced visuals alone; eyes were still a pilot’s greatest asset.
The long strands of mist rolling around the hill slopes were almost invisible to the electronics; without the thickness to register as cloud, but opaque enough to conceal surprises. Ravi was always watching out for St. Libra’s taller tree specimens, the bullwhips or metacoyas or vampspires, soaring out of the canopy to snag the unwary. A few weeks back he’d seen a vampspire well over a hundred meters high.
Today, fifty kilometers from Wukang, amid a rumpled countryside of steep hills and sharp ravines, he was especially vigilant. It was gloomy that morning, with Sirius invisible behind dark clouds that piled high up into the sky, bringing an early dusk to the valleys and rivers. Humidity was degrading the turbine efficiency. This was bad weather to be flying in. Worse for those on the ground, though. His e-i was accessing the link between the convoy and Wukang—everyone was close to panic and shouting a lot. It made for a confusing babble in his ears. Doc Coniff was trying to talk Angela Tramelo and Leora Fawkes through a procedure to seal up a deep wound with equipment in their emergency pack. From the description, poor Marty O’Riley had finished up with some kind of jagged branch impaling his thigh. It was all high-pitched shouts interspaced by Marty’s screams. Then Juanitar Sakur was also demanding the doc’s attention as he tried to stabilize Dave Guzman’s spine. Ravi thought that was telling: the convoy’s paramedic concentrating on Dave’s broken back rather than Marty, who as far as he could make out was pumping blood everywhere. All those urgent voices actually made Ravi glad he couldn’t afford to receive visual feeds from Angela, the way she was linking them back to the doc.
“We can hear you now,” Paresh Evitts said.
“Good for you,” Ravi muttered as lightning flickered somewhere through the rain and cloud.
The Berlin cleared a long ridge and turned into a valley, where the slopes were covered in unbroken vegetation. Sensors immediately locked on to the convoy vehicles. The biolab and two Land Rover Tropics were perched on top of a steep ravine, just visible in the muddy landscape of tall bushes, wild trees, and rock outcrops, while radar painted the Multi-Terrain Jeep halfway down the ravine side. Ravi winced. It must have rolled many times before slamming into a clump of rocks amid the waving gray-green fronds of tiwillow bushes. They should never have been traveling so close to the edge—but that was for Colonel Elston to sort out later.
Ravi scanned the area, looking for any open land. He knew he wasn’t going to find any, but St. Libra was a world of surprises, that was sure. Maybe ten people were lined up along the top of the ravine, their ponchos slick with rainwater. Tiny purple and scarlet climbing ropes threaded the gulf between them and the beat-up MTJ. More people were crawling around the wreck, soaking wet and smothered in mud.
“Can you put it down?” Paresh asked.
Ravi circled the crash site, studying the sloping ground, the closely packed trees. There was enough distance between the trunks for the convoy vehicles to worm their way through the jungle, but landing something as big as the Berlin?
“Not going to happen,” Ravi told him. “Not here, or anywhere close.”
“My people are hurt down there.”
“I know. I’ll hover. We’re going to have to winch them up.”
“Ho shit. Okay.”
Ravi swung the Berlin around again while back in the main cabin Tork Ericson got Leif Davdia, Mohammed Anwar, and Mark Chitty into their harnesses. Mark would help with the triage, while both the winch-qualified Legionnaires would strap the injured into the Berlin’s medevac stretcher.
The Berlin nosed its way forward through the deluge, sending out a cyclone of high-velocity rain to slash at the vegetation. Ravi was at the same level as the vehicles on top of the ravine now, inching closer, compensating for the valley’s random microbursts and the surges of rain. Dead ahead he could see Antrinell Viana and Marvin Trambi, close enough to make out their grim faces. Lightning flashed again, somewhere behind the helicopter. Visuals from the fuselage mesh showed him he was directly over the MTJ. Tork opened the fuselage side doors. Ravi locked down the ranging sensors, alert for the Berlin being shoved around by the weather.
“Cleared for winch descent,” he told Tork.
The first two men slipped out on the end of tough carbon wire, sliding with arachnid agility down to the accident below. Watching them go, Ravi knew it was going to take an hour to get the five seriously injured Legionnaires up to the Berlin. An hour spent holding position perfectly in the deluge and fickle gusts. He could do that. An hour in these conditions was nothing to an ex-Thunderthorn pilot who’d flown swarm duty.
Back in 2119 Ravi had been stationed at Groom Lake in southern Nevada, one of the two US Tactical Aerospace Force front-line bases on Earth tasked with exospheric defense. At the time he was thirteen months’ qualified to fly the new Lockheed SF-100 Thunderthorns, which were America’s major contribution to the HDA.
When the preliminary Zanthswarm alert came through he was engaged in some serious downtiming in Vegas, busy losing most of his six-month flight bonus. The base commander’s response was immediate and impressive, dispatching a fleet of helicopters out to the gaudy desert jewel town to pick up her service personnel. Everyone was back on station and sobered up within two hours, just as Groom Lake’s war gateway technicians opened a trans-space connection to New Florida.
Ravi and his copilot, Bombardier First Class Dunham Walsh, were in the pre-flight briefing room along with the rest of the Wild Valkyrie pilots, reviewing New Florida’s basic geographic layout. The American world had nine major continents, of which only three—Oakland, Tampa, and Longdade—were developed enough to have states, with senators appointed to sit in Washington. HDA command assigned the Wild Valkyries to defend northern Oakland, an area covering more than eight million square kilometers. The base commander wished them Godspeed, and ordered them to status red.