Authors: Bennett R. Coles
She glanced at Soren, then whispered to him. He nodded.
“The first one,” she said. “The one with all the experience.”
“Good answer.”
Michael leaned forward wearily. “Father, please…”
“So naturally, if having an experienced director is important for a film, I’d say that it’s important to have an experienced leader when you’re sending soldiers in to die.”
Katja could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, and she stared intently at her food. She should have seen this coming.
“You see, Hong, the Army trains its leaders from the bottom. I started out as a stormtrooper, just like Soren, and through years of experience I worked my way up to a position of authority—and there are soldiers who are even higher than me. Every one of them deserves their rank. The United Army was founded forty-seven years ago on principles developed over six thousand years of warfare. We are the pinnacle of military thought, unmatched in history.
“But the Astral Force hung on to the old ways,” he continued. “They retained the class system that crippled our planet’s armies for millennia. Most of the Astral Force are good, hard-working troopers and sailors, but they’re held enslaved to an aristocracy who call themselves officers. Fresh out of school, having never seen blood, these officers are supposed to lead their battle-hardened troops into combat. Does that make sense to you?”
Hong was speechless, frozen in her chair.
Soren nodded eagerly. “I’m so glad we got rid of officers,” he agreed. “Bunch of idiots.”
“This Astral Force trial all over the news is just another example of how inexperienced officers get people killed. He should receive the death penalty—but thanks to the lawyers, justice is perverted once again.”
“Ohh-kay.” Merje pushed back her chair and stood. “That’s enough for one year. Mom, thanks for dinner as always. Sorry I can’t stay.”
“Merje.” The Voice deepened dangerously. “Do not disrespect your mother by leaving again.”
“I’m not the one showing disrespect here, you arrogant prick.”
Deathly silence fell over the table.
Merje turned to Hong. “Tart, you better enjoy your pretty little soldier while you can, because if we go to war he’ll be the first one blown to pieces. Just make sure you marry him and get knocked up before he goes. It’s better, legally.”
Soren leapt to his feet, his arm lashing out across the table.
Finally.
Katja exploded from her chair. She grabbed the narrowest part of his wrist and redirected his blow past Merje. She rolled his arm and smashed down her free hand on his exposed elbow. Her palm bounced off the cracked joint and snapped back into his jaw.
Soren stepped back, more stunned than injured. Michael and Rachel grabbed the children and fled to the courtyard. Their mother rose from her chair and left. Hong sat motionless, mouth hanging open. Merje stepped behind Katja.
Storm Banner Leader Emmes stood.
“Stop fighting in my house, you pair of apes,” he roared. “Soren, you get distracted too easily. Don’t lose sight of where the real threat lies. Merje’s annoying, but she can’t hurt you. Katja can kill you.” His voice lowered even further. “If you want to survive in combat, learn that lesson.
“Katja,” he said, “you’re too instinctive—you don’t think. You broadened the conflict and put yourself at risk for no good reason. God help you if you ever have to lead troops in real combat.
“Merje,” he continued, “get out of my house.”
Katja felt Merje’s hand squeeze her arm as she started to leave. “See you at the funeral.” Then she listened to her sister’s deliberately leisurely stride. To the high heels clicking on the stone floor of the foyer. To the door shutting.
She sighed.
Her father had already returned to his meal, and wasn’t looking up. Soren’s smirk was fast returning as he wrapped an arm around Hong. Michael and his family were outside, and their mother had disappeared to the kitchen.
Just your average family get-together.
Her sister wouldn’t wait for long, she knew, so she hurried into the kitchen.
“Mom, I’m sorry about that,” she said quickly. “I’ll go and get Merje.”
Her mother stood very still, both hands leaning against the counter. She stared off into the distance.
“Please stay away from me.”
Katja’s heart tore in half. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m so afraid of that gala.”
Katja nodded. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Goodbye, darling.”
And that was that, she knew. Katja turned and left.
The auto cab had already pulled up by the time she dashed out to the street. Merje glanced over her shoulder as she climbed in, leaving the door open. Katja jumped in and shut the door. She stared at her sister for a long moment, searching for her mood as the cab started to move.
Merje gave her a dangerous smile. “You still have a place in Longreach?”
Katja thought back to the transient officers’ quarters, just inside the gates of the complex that housed the space elevator.
“Not permanent,” she replied cautiously, “but I can get a place. Why?”
Merje pulled a wafer-thin device out of her purse. “The next flight to Longreach is in forty minutes.” She studied the screen. “Let’s go.”
“You want to go to Australia…
tonight
?”
“You have something better to do here?”
“Right now I’d like to just hide away and sleep for a few months.” Katja looked out at the dark Santa Fe streets rushing past. She pulled off her shoes one at a time and rubbed the sore spots on her heels.
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Merje uplinked and confirmed their tickets.
The cab delivered them to the skyport within minutes, and Merje climbed out with renewed energy. “Now come on. I want to get good and drunk on the flight. We can sleep when we get to your place. Then I have to buy an outfit—Longreach shopping is awesome.”
Katja felt a smile tug at her lips.
* * *
She followed her sister onto the skyjet and straight to the on-board lounge. Merje ordered them some fancy cocktails and Katja leaned back to watch the lights of North America fall away as the skyjet soared upward. It was more than two hours to Australia.
She drank every cocktail Merje gave her, and soon was giggling almost non-stop at her sister’s steady banter about daily life in the big city.
Then, with the blinking lights of the Australian space elevators just peeking over the horizon ahead, there was a sudden, long silence at the table. She looked away from the window, wondering if Merje had drunk herself into a stupor.
Her sister was watching her carefully. “Enough about me, Katty,” she said, and her eyes were surprisingly clear. “How are you?”
“Me? Uhh, fine.” She was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. The liquor dulled any ready response.
Merje took a sip of her drink, but kept watch over the wide rim of the glass.
“The media hasn’t told us much, but I get the feeling things were pretty hairy out there. Were you in Sirius, or Centauria?”
Hearing the names of the two rebellious colonies drew forth images of smoke and fire, shattered buildings, burning spaceships, bullets flying overhead… and the dead. Sirians, Centauris, her own troops, everywhere the dead. Her spine and ribs began to burn. Centauri slugs struck her torso. Her head hit the deck in front of Sirian rapists. Orbital bombardment blinded her. The utter blackness of the abyss froze her.
“Katty?”
She blinked, and focused. “What?”
Merje reached over the table and took her hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”
What was she supposed to say? Her lip quivered. She shut her eyes tight to hold in the tears. Lowering her chin, she squeezed Merje’s hand as tightly as she could. What in the worlds could she say?
She pressed her fist against her forehead, tears trickling down her cheeks. What could she say that anyone would understand?
The weapon was clear plastic, difficult for any sensor to detect, but hard enough to shatter human bone. It was easy to conceal, but in this part of Longreach most people knew how to spot unusual bulges.
Kete Obadele had never been to Earth before, and even years of training hadn’t prepared him for the squalor of a Terran working-class city. Tired pedestrians made their silent ways along the chipped sidewalk, hardly noticing their fellow citizens under the hoods held tight against the dust of the latest sandstorm. The red buildings towered on either side of the street, hemming in what had once been part of the endless expanse known as the Outback, creating a narrow valley of artificial, wind-blasted walls, stray trash swirling in the eddies, and public busses hissing by with little regard for pedestrian safety.
Power was mostly reliable, but so many lights had been broken that as evening settled over Longreach, the street drifted into dusty shadows. Perfect for a murder.
The target alighted from the next bus, stopping by the corner where Kete stood idly with the waiting commuters. In the shuffle of off-loading and loading passengers, Kete merged into the crowd of people moving away from the vehicle, slipping easily into the wake of his target.
The object of his attention was thin and frail under his coat, Kete knew, but moved with considerable vigor in his step. No doubt his mood was buoyed by a day working for the rich and famous, and by dreams of one day leaving behind this ragged community in favor of the opulence of one of the protected wards. He was surprisingly young, meaning he was either very lucky or—more likely—very talented and hard working.
Inspired by hope and dreams. It was a good way for an ambitious young man to die, Kete told himself.
The target strode two blocks along the main thoroughfare before turning onto one of the side streets. Residential blocks towered up on both sides, but the dark forms of sleeping bums suggested that even these massive apartment complexes were insufficient for all the poor souls seeking a home in one of Earth’s greatest cities. Kete increased his pace, closing the distance. The shadows deepened as they left the bus route farther behind, but still there were too many witnesses out here in the open. Kete had studied the target’s routine, and knew that his window of opportunity would be small.
The doors to the apartment block were hanging slightly ajar, the security system long in need of repair. The target pushed one door aside, holding it open as Kete hurried to slip in behind him. That morning the lobby had been lit by a single overhead light, but Kete had smashed it around noon, and now only the knee-high emergency lights cast their dim, red glow. The target made straight for the glowing lights of the elevator controls.
There was no one else in the lobby.
Kete pulled a dagger free from his sleeve. In three long strides he reached the target, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around, the open front of the coat flying free and revealing the unprotected, skinny torso. The dagger punched through the thin fabric of the shirt, through the ribs and into the target’s beating heart. Kete slapped his free hand over the target’s mouth to silence any noise, twisting the dagger sharply to ensure a clean kill.
Within seconds the target slumped forward. Kete took the weight and, dagger still embedded, dragged the body over to the maintenance closet he knew was on the left side of the lobby. Pushing open the door, he lay the body down among the dusty equipment and pulled out a powerful headlamp to wrap around his own head. The door slid shut again with only a few rusted squeaks, cocooning Kete for the last phase of his task.
The target’s shirt tore away easily enough, but his young ribs were strong. Trying to crack them by leverage from within proved impossible. Kete pulled the dagger free, wiped the blood off his hand on the target’s coat and steadied his grip for a hard strike. He slammed the blade down against the center of the chest, feeling the breastbone crack. Two more strikes and the central portion had broken free from the ribcage. Some precision cutting of flesh, and the lump of bone came loose in his hand.
Digging through the marrow was delicate work, but Kete’s enhanced eyesight let him guide the tip of the dagger at a micro level. He could glean the presence of the identification chip inside the bone, and used his extra sensors to guide his eyes and hands as he searched for the tiny device.
Finally, his blade emerged with the prize. Perhaps a tenth the size of a small fingernail, it was primitive to Kete’s eyes, but it represented one of the most advanced elements of Terran security. It was Kete’s ticket into the rarefied central realm of the enemy.
Slipping the identification chip into a stealth bag and then deep into one of his hidden pockets, Kete replaced the broken breastbone in the gouged chest cavity and laid the shredded shirt across it. With no identity chip to check, the local law enforcement would have great difficulty learning the identity of this victim. Certainly they wouldn’t expect anyone in this neighborhood to have had top-level security clearance.
It was a well-known, brutal fact that Terran citizens did occasionally “disappear” if they displeased their political masters, and not even local law enforcement would have an appetite to investigate too far into a dead-end death like this. The truth would very likely be lost.
Just as Kete had planned.
* * *
Less than an hour later, he emerged from the shower in his luxury apartment, any last trace of his mission scrubbed clean. Donning a set of comfortable lounge wear he settled down at his dining table—made of real wood—and pulled the stolen identity chip from its stealth bag.
Blending seamlessly into the Terran State net was neither a quick nor easy thing to do. Terran citizens were tracked from cradle to grave, and inserting an entire, full-blown life into the net without raising any alarms was akin to balancing a very large series of pins while moving via tightrope between spinning tops.
Choosing a profession with exceptional independence had been essential, as was an origin shrouded in mystery. Thus Kete Obadele had become Kit Moro, raised in the ashes of a West African shantytown, with an unknown father and a mother who was one of thousands who had withered away during one of the later MAS outbreaks. According to the records he had attended several charity schools, where few graduates could be easily traced, and then received a degree from a massive State institution where tens of thousands were processed in anonymity each year.