Loading Souls

Chapter 16: Rolling Stones

  I grabbed a table at the BOC for my compadres and me. We talked about the raid and the other Templars over trout and white wine. Etienne had met Brown at a cross country shooting event in Oslo. He said he was career Eastern Seaboard Templar taking a marriage exemption. We both looked at Rafe.

  "Obviously, he is not married to Claire." Rafe said around a mouthful of asparagus, "She would never forgive me if I stayed home and let you two finish killing yourselves."

  "We all appreciate Claire," Etienne replied. "She often tells us that bachelor Transferred don’t live long."

  Suicide, according to Claire, being a leading cause of death among those with insured Transferral. Especially we single males.

  I said, "She tells her single girlfriends similar statistics so she can play matchmaker," then I imitated Claire’s high piping voice. "I’m saving lives, Raphael!"

  Etienne exclaimed, "Raton! He speaks for himself, Raphael. I enjoy exploring Claire’s choices for my evenings." He speared a piece of fish and tucked it in his cheek. "A Maquereau is beyond my means." Rafe visibly reddened and I puzzled over his meaning until Etienne turned to me, "A pimp, for you, Chuy."

  "Merci, I thought you said you couldn’t pay for the fish."

  The evening was the most fun I had had in a while. Etienne did end up buying the fish and Rafe bought the wine, which he disparaged as "Merdeux. It is an American vintage with a crappy finish." More importantly, we talked as equals and renewed the bonds. I did not miss the cushion of number 7 between my feelings and el Mundo. I could have amigos again.

  Back at the barracks, we sifted initial returns. But there wasn’t a lot of solid intel yet. It looked to be another night off. I went to a Simulator and slipped away to my Happy Place. I would work from home for a while, before sleeping.

  Dorothea stepped in from the bedroom, "Chuy, do you have a drink?" I asked her for a brandy. The drink simulation was close and the effects, instantly correctable. I would see how it mixed with Merdeux. I was setting some alarms and running tickers from the Battlenet when Dorothea came back. "Is this what you have been doing lately?" She waved a finger at the screens. I gave her my guilty smile and patted the cushion next to me, "You know my job."

  And she did. Dorothea was the sixth companion I had owned, but she had been with me for years. She ran in my personal data vault, watching my finances and private business through secure gates. I had given her access to my memory palace, the stored sum of my archived history, to ask her own questions. She remembered everything.

  Companions had been popular in computing since the keyboard. As processing improved, so did the companions. There were a few schools of thought on their purpose. One was a love doll or other sensory experience. Simulator technology had exploded that camp into a vending frenzy. A significant portion of total world bandwidth went to the hedonist school. It always had.

  Then there was the working companion school. These were people who couldn’t or wouldn’t hire admins, tutors, nannies or other servants. Once the net had matured to accept virtual avatars, the servant school became empowered. House majordomos could pay the bills and supply a family in the background, like a bodiless legal guardian. They were great with the ninos. Many professions were available for use.

  Some professionals created their own coworkers, sidekick daemons who could make decisions. I called it the servant school, but it only avoided being slavery because the programs weren’t self-aware. There could be no high order intellect companions, under law. The Intellect Emancipation Act provided monitors for compliance.

  My first companions were in my youth. They were solid Hedonist school. I would play with one, grow bored and buy another. After a while, I just leased. It got to where my finances suffered. Simulator time and the software could be pricy. But there were a lot of boys just like me, as a consumer group we got volume rates. The practice did nothing good for teen pregnancy, but violent crime was reduced. Marriages lasted, on average, slightly longer. Pragmatists saw it as social progress. If that included a lot of misfits marrying software, then I guess so.

  I developed my gift for languages with companions, seducing dolls that were not ported to espanol. A lot of them used gamer architecture that required foreplay to unlock the doll. The challenge was seen as teaching socialization skills. When a new doll came out, my circle of hormonal young men would race to be the first to enjoy her. I remember learning German to win the favors of a particularly difficult doll. Once unlocked, she proved very inventive.

  When I bought Dorothea, some clever computer scientist had merged the two schools of purpose into a single package. I suspect it was one of the pornographers, they were very cutting edge. You could get a love doll who was a sexy majordomo the rest of the time.

  Social theorists thought the combination of a mother and lover surrogate was unhealthy to formative socialization. In most jurisdictions, combination companions could only be sold to adults. Misfit marriages sharply increased, despite a growth of companion addiction treatments.

  I discovered that the combination was greater than the sum of Dorothea’s parts. The self-learning algorithms had always been good, absorbing the facts of my life and every media I had ever seen to provide knowledgeable conversation. By adding the daily management of my affairs, Dorothea became a touchstone for all things related to Jesus Navarro.

  She seemed focused and loving, in comparison to a few girlfriends I had been with. I would rate her somewhere in the middle of all the women I had known in the Real. Truly, I felt pathetic and anti-social for enjoying Dorothea’s company rather than some real women. But the simulation of love was comforting, especially when far from home and deep in the mission.

  Few real women would find the attentions I had left to give, after the demands of the job, to meet their requirements for a relationship. Dorothea was always glad to see me and could go where I went as carry-on luggage. Security clearances were not a problem.

  Of course, the Christians frowned on the practice. For a culture based on intangibles, they had a strong preference for reality. Etienne and I found it expedient to not discuss our Happy Places with the Christians. Saint Peter and some of the Jesuit fathers turned a blind eye to our practices, realizing that most of the secular world used the Happy Places to maintain sanity in a hostile environment. Father Luke called it a steam valve for the pressure cooker of atheistic lifestyles.

  Rafe had given companions up, after his conversion. Now he had more of a shrine to his family, his touchstone to home when deployed for long periods. I’m not an expert, but he seemed to cope as well as ever. Hard to tell with the old grump sometimes.

  So I showed Dorothea what I was doing with the Battlenet. She was more conversant tonight than when I was on the number 7. The simulator medical diagnostics gave her a feel for my mood and condition. Biorhythms and brain scans made her seem prescient. Technically, she only reacted to my needs. She just did it so quickly, it seemed like her idea.

  "So one of these little islands will have a party for criminales on the 29th?" I told her that seemed likely, we just weren’t sure which one. "Then you will be crashing their party with soldiers and guns?" She looked concerned for my welfare.

  "Si, hina that too is likely." She gnawed her lip a little and sipped her wine. "I will make Pescado de ajo for you on the 30th. You would never miss your garlic fish."

  I would have chuckled, but she looked so serious. I felt warmed by her concern, before thinking about it. The suspension of disbelief is a quid pro quo arrangement. I could only try to keep up with her. Later, when the brandy had put me at ease, Dorothea led me to the bedroom and gifted me with care’s release. My biorhythms had probably informed her, but it still seemed like her idea.

  The wall of alarms began ringing before dawn. Preliminary interrogations of Tar Bone and a boatman called Gus had found the next leg in the transport chain. Dorothea made espresso crema and my body in the simulator received a jolt of stimulants. I noticed how nice Dorothea lo
oked in her house robe. She gave me a little smile and said, "Oh no, Leon, you are going to work and I am going to the mercado." She had instructions to anticipate risk and increase my insurance short term. The church would not willingly work with Transferral policies, so I used the Garda bid market. The picture of her strolling through a street mercado with a sunhat and a basket, sniffing policies, came unbidden to mind.

  The policy she chose would guarantee my Transferral and provide a lump sum for recovery. Price was based on the odds of receiving a Medical Writ, so they were fairly cheap for Templars. If the Writ came through, I would still receive the lump sum. It was a little gamble to build a nest egg with the only equity I had. My goal was always to not need it, but it had been profitable my last tour offworld.

  I started work with the budget, since I was thinking about money. Barksdale had booked two dozen career bad men on various charges from the raid. Saint Peter was customizing interrogations for Jacksonville prosecutors and many open crimes were expected to be solved with the leads. Barksdale waived service credits for the operation. The eastern zone AI, Whitney, approved an award of service credits for bounties. Barksdale was happy to split it with the Templars.

  I examined the interrogation briefs to see where the trail led. Confiscated at the dock of Tar Bone’s soldier club was a Botec Trimaran, one of those powerful cabin cruisers with wings. Inside they found a lot of drugs packaged for individual use and cabin bunks with manacles. The interrogations of Gus and Tar Bone stated the girls were to be loaded onboard and taken out to sea. Sometime yesterday or today, they were to rendezvous with a party cruise and mix in with their sport craft to do the exchange. It was only a go during daylight. We had missed the first rendezvous, but had a shot at today’s. Saint Peter was even now arranging to get the Botec out of Garda impound and prepped.

  The party cruise they were to meet was a chartered toy hauler. All contract participants were now under investigation. We could find the ship for a while with the GPS settings on Gus’s boat. If we were quick, we could catch them playing in the Little Bahama Bank until around six. After that, their itinerary became a vague "Visiting Bahamian ports of call" for eight days. The All Hallows Solstice would occur in three days.

  I checked specs on the party cruiser. It was a sixty meter pinched bow catamaran yacht with revolving racks to deploy small watercraft outside the hulls. It slept about twenty with a six man crew. Pretty fast for its size, it featured a state of the art bridge with a quantum communications suite. At over three stories tall, it had good vantage out to the distant horizon. Sneaking up would require submersibles or an invitation. It would be impossible to jam the quantum gateway.

  We had information on the crew, who were provided by the charter company. Captain Aksel Dahl had moved to the Bahamas with the Norwegian crew and the ship "Fara I Viking" at the orders of the owner, Nils Matheson. The ship had been chartered six times in the last two years. Nils himself had flown into Freeport three days ago with a dozen consultants from his graphics firm and began the party cruise. That he chartered his own ship and his consultants seemed to be full time employees was seen as a tax dodge.

  As interesting as all that was, the Matheson consulting firm financials showed that they did graphics for Gnefl Corporation. They seemed to be the primary provider of game and advertising art for them. The direct connection to the Gneflhiem game world was very interesting. I was looking forward to an interrogation report from Mr. Matheson, just as soon as I could get my hands on him. To that end, I checked for active agents on the Battlenet.

  It was very early morning in the Real. Etienne was the only immediate team member awake. His tracker said he had been in his own Happy Place for the last six hours. I gave him a visitor request knock. That’s an automated protocol handshake based on standing clearances, but I still had to knock at the door of his manor. Expected and reciprocated politeness.

  Lurch answered, as was Etienne’s usual hospitality of late. Lurch was a secondary filter to catch mimicking intruders. Etienne had a problem with a very clever Systems Cyberneticist he had a falling out with. Saint Peter created Lurch, to the bizarre cultural specs Etienne demanded, in order to legally identify and charge the mimic. He said the character was from a vintage media series in the nineteen seventies. Sometimes he is too obscure with his old media.

  The cadaverous Lurch welcomed me by name in his rumbling meter, "Mr. Navarro." The inclined head was still far above mine. His clothes were monochromatic and worn. He lifted his head and cocked an eyebrow, which was as much expression as the daemon could manage.

  I spoke to his chest, having learned that looking up at him was both pointless and disorienting. "I wish to speak with Etienne."

  Lurch made a low sound like an internal combustor starting up. I must have passed his identity check, because Adelaide came to collect me from an arch on the right.

  "So good to see you, Chuy," She kissed air over both my cheeks, "Please follow me." We passed quickly through the arch and into a third floor study. Room locations and the doors used defy causality in Etienne’s world. That was disorienting but a time saver. I found Etienne working on a Battlenet wall much as I had. The view out the east windowed wall was of a canal overhung with pastel buildings. A poled boat slid by below with a gondolier in a sailor uniform.

  "Bon jour, Chuy. What would you like to discuss?"

  I plopped myself on a plush chair, "Did you know that it was once against the law to use military units to aid law enforcement in North America?"

  Etienne waved a hand and said, "French schools studied much of the American system. The law was called Posse Comitatus and it was traded politically with the loser of their civil war. The North got their election and the South slowed assimilation of slaves by decades. So much of their system was a business deal that they are credited as the first Salesmen/Soldiers."

  I raised an eyebrow. He was more knowledgeable on the subject than I thought. "That is a Eurocentric spin on the process, but almost correct." I pointed at the diagram of the Fara I Viking on his Battlenet display, "I’m thinking a little piracy against a vessel that size is going to need military units."

  Etienne gave me his thin smile when contemplating industrial destruction, "Then you would also be interested to know that the consultants and crew have ex-Garda among them. Two crew and four of the consultants. I think they are dedicated security, probably with a petite arsenal."

  "That is interesting. I think we want to go portable with the R & T team, all six if we can get them. I would also like to get Stealth & Rescue Lifters and some of those Blount Island marines."

  Etienne nodded, "You’re thinking we are going to get lucky on a follow up target and need a prize crew for the ship." I nodded back, "Exactement, if we can get Father and Nuncio on the ship with them, they can support us offshore and do all those technical tricks they enjoy."

  "D’accord, mon ami. I have researched Christian losses with this Gneflhiem network. We have confirmed over a hundred dead at their hands. More come in all the time from our prisoners." Etienne mimicked a trigger grip, "Resistance is rising as we approach the head. I know Rafe’s mind and I certainly would appreciate an upgrade in force."

  I mimicked pulling a weapon charging handle, "We upgrade then. Just tell Rafe he may still need to swim with his load."

  Etienne chuckled at the picture of Rafe drowning with a strapped load most men could not walk with, "You have raison. I will see that he wears his floats."

  We discussed transport and timetables and built an action plan. Much could be refined while enroute to locations. We filed the plan with Saint Peter and left our Happy Places to begin working tasks. I would see Major Wilson for Lifter transport and trade our new found popularity for supplies. Etienne would see Father Cervantes about transporting his lab.

  It was still dark outside when I left the simulator. Etienne was sponging gel on a wood bench. The greasy shine and hair sticking up at all angles was completely different than his avatar’s perfect
grooming. I suppose he thought the same about me. After showering, we looked more human. A carbo load at the BOC made us feel the part. Garda caffeine gave us that extra perky edge for persuading others. When the sun rose, we gave each other hammer fists and separated to work our wiles. "Bon chance," said Etienne. "Vaya con dios," I replied.

  Major Wilson was in his office with a large pastry and his feet on the desk. Garda officers tend to be casual around Templars by design. We have very few ranks, instead relying on seniority. Those who wore the white Tabard were either Marshals or Sergeants or Knights. All others wore the tan deputy suit with the little red Cross. We never wear rank insignia. When you know as much about a team member as we get over the Battlenet, you know who is senior. No need to tell the snipers.

  But this caused Garda officers to become confused and uncomfortable, without a clue as to our authority over them. They wanted a senior man to handle liaison with them. But they didn’t know how our chain of command related to theirs. As a Marshal, I was some kind of lieutenant or captain. That is generally the lowest rank to barter with interservice credits. So our money was good, but they didn’t feel completely compelled to orders, as was evident often with Major Wilson. If I couldn’t cajole what I needed, then Saint Peter would try a Colonel to colonel phone assault. That was often used when we needed something delivered.

  "Whut c’n I dew fer you, Marshal?" Wilson’s hillbilly delivery amused himself, if no one else. His Dog Robber stood parade ground still and stone faced inside the door, obviously working on number 7. I wondered for a moment whose idea the Cocktail was. "Well, it sure has been fun, but I need to get my team off your property. They want us for a media shoot and handshaking over in Jacksonville. You know, kissing babies and shit."

  "Well I can believe the shit part. So how can I help you get your circus back on the road?" He dropped his feet to the floor and sat a little straighter, "You want a bearclaw or some coffee?"

  "I’m watching my weight. I will take the first thing flying the right direction that will hold us."

  He brought up a desktop screen and looked at schedules. Not finding any direct flights, he opened a channel to operations.

  "Major Wilson for Captain Dugan…Sven, I need a heavy Lifter made available for some visitors to deliver them to Jacksonville in a hurry…yeah the church group." Wilson rolled his eyes at me, "What’s the credit on that flight? Yeah, go ahead and prep the bird. What’s the number? Echo-Sierra-Golf seventeen, right? OK Sven, you get that started and I’ll get it moving over here…see you Wednesday…alright, bye." He cut connection and smiled at me, "ESG-17 right out on the field. Will that be cash or charge?"

  I turned my hands palm up, "I thought we were tight now, Wilson? If you sock us with bills after giving you that sweet riverine assault, people will think Barksdale’s running in the red." The Major brushed crumbs off his large chest and leaned forward. "We ain’t tight like that. Barksdale stays in the black because I get our bills paid."

  I took another tack, "Did you hear about Jacksonville?" He switched mental gears and told me. "Yeah, I heard they bagged a lot of trouble out of some punk barracks on the river there."

  I gave him a crooked grin, "Well whoever talked didn’t tell you about the bounties then. They got a sudden cash flow out of that raid and they want more."

  Wilson instantly thought about who he knew in Jacksonville. It was a large base for all kinds of Garda. "I’ll bill them if you get someone to sign off."

  I slapped his desk and stood, "Done deal then. Let me get a medium container to pack with and bill it to the same place. I’ll get Jacksonville to call."

  Major Wilson stood and extended his huge paw across the desk, "Pleasure then, Marshal. You all get up to any fun out here in Louisiana you give me a call."

  "I’ll do that. You remember that trestle bridge when they get the Libertine running again." We both chuckled with anticipated mayhem.

  Everyone was up when I got back and Etienne was stripping the Forensic truck. Nuncio and the Father placed equipment in a pattern on the ground. It was surprisingly modular, despite the homebuilt appearance. When they were done, Nuncio and Rafe took the rentals back to the agencies. I called Jacksonville and pleaded my case with a Major Cook.

  The uptick was Jacksonville would be happy to have us there. The only concession was that they wanted to be the impound dock for any ships. I agreed readily. We could always develop engine trouble later.

  Etienne returned from the motor pool with a drone pallet towing a medium container. Father and Nuncio carefully placed their lab into the container. With air and lights, it would be a little workspace once packed. There was a computer dissected on a worktable that probably came from Tibbet’s apartment. Progress was bookmarked with sticky notes for the move. All was loaded into ESG-17 out on the Lifter pad, just the five of us and the container. The pallet drone left in a hurry after backing into the bay. Probably afraid we would steal it. I thought about it, but Jacksonville had plenty. The Crew Chief checked out the load and we lifted.

  It was almost two hours in the air, so we conferenced. Saint Peter was furiously churning out data that needed absorption. I called Templar Hamblin to give him an ETA and connect his team to the Battlenet more closely. Hamblin was a Knight, having been awarded the title by the Pope. He was senior to me, but Knights were not usually given police action commands. They were ferocious fighters who disliked anything but front line action. If I authorized it, Hamblin would see it done. Hoorah.

  "Sir Hamblin, my compliments and would your team be available for a job at sea?"

  "We are at your disposal Marshal. You point it out and we will make it yours."

  "I would like two doppelgangers for the Gus role and a random thug. The specs are on the net. Do you have the boat yet?"

  "Aye aye Marshal. The boat is partially provisioned and on the quay."

  "I’m sending you a shopping list for the operation. Grab what you can and let me know of any holdouts."

  "Roger that. I’ll be twisting arms until you get here."

  I gave him my Jacksonville Major’s name to smooth the bill and broke connection.

  Saint Peter laid on the rest of what we needed. There was minor haggling with the bullet counters, but the AI’s wanted this lead run down. The Blount Island wet marines underbid the other Garda bases and we got everything we asked for on contingency. Dangling a large yacht impound helped. By the time we landed on Blount Island, the base was in choreographed movement for a marine operation.

  Unloading was swift. The forensic container was hitched up and loaded onto another heavy Lifter before a utility truck pulled up with our two copied slavers. Hamblin was in black face, mimicking our chosen thug. The Gus doppelganger was driving. Hamblin introduced him as Roxanna Westin. I looked more closely, but only saw the doppelganger. Her Skins were well concealed. "I enjoyed your work, Sergeant Westin. I look forward to meeting you both when you aren’t so perfectly imitating slavers."

  Her voice was Gus’, "A girl needs her hobbies." I smiled, although the voice and look said paunchy middle aged drunk.

  Hamblin said, "If you gentlemen would like to get aboard, we can ferry you over to the CP and then get moving. The marines will be shifting your gear." We squeezed in with the Father and Nuncio and rode quickly to an ancient dock building. Inside the warped metal door were Sergeant Brown and three other Templars. They were couched on drone capable simulators and blinking from their recent reentry into the Real. I recognized one from my induction, Sir Garza of Queens. I called him Juan.

  "Juan, donde esta?" He came over and we clasped forearms and traded shoulder slaps. He was in his Skins, so that was a little rough. Our history now established Juan bartered his time, "Comprar una ballena, Chuy." Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you what’s up, in other words. I told him, "We’ll catch up after, compadre. Clock’s ticking on this one." He broke grip and backed to his couch. "Simon que si, trabajo quiere carne." Yeah man, job wants meat. We had both fought in that one. Sir Jua
n was a good Tactical Leader. I was glad to have him. And he didn’t say a word about the new body.

  The rest of them, Sergeants Lopez and Johnson, I had not met. Templars tended to break into small units and disperse. Everyone had a territory rotation, so we only got together for big or complex operations. It sounded like terrorist craft, but was optimized to take advantage of the communications implants. Our locations were not tethered to technicians, we could operate very independently. I preferred the protections of anonymity to clustered targets anyway. Saint Peter liked the economy of force.

  "Good to see everyone. I was very impressed with your work at the Soldier club." I panned my view across all assembled. "Let’s conference for a minute and handle the Q and A." Father Cervantes joined us in finding seats. All soon joined the Battlenet.

  We worked parameters. The whole boat was targeted, but we would only go lethal if threatened. Prisoners and forensics were our desired product. Disabling the ship was a good control for boarding. It would also crash communications. But if we weren’t careful, we could fry our own gear. Johnson suggested we wet drop a Manta to scan the target and send the EMP. Two Mantas would be better. After that, it descended into tactics. Sir Juan and Sir Hamblin were my betters there, so I checked our linkage with the Blount Marine command and ordered two Mantas for Lifter delivery. They would ride with the marines; their Drone Drivers would work from here. Expensive, but I was sure we were going to make credit on this run. The Drivers were happy just getting a free war shot for their evaluations.

  I passed the yacht specs to Merchant shipyards and got a flow of replacement circuitry to restore power afterwards. That was all billable for a salvage rescue. Just-In-Time Fabricant bid on contingency with a low start up to get the job. They would haul parts, Installers and Diagnosticians out to us after a twelve hour quick tool production run.

  By the time I had dealt with off net vendors, the tactical plan had morphed into an elaborate decision tree. Saint Peter was fine tuning inventory and timelines. The clock was counting down on the Botec launch. We needed to get to sea soon.

  I sped through the plan and signed off. It would probably change by the time we got there. Father Cervantes gave his blessing, "Para Dios agarre el día." Conference adjourned. We blinked alert and rose as a group. Sergeant Brown said, "Follow me to Toyland."

 

  He led us back into the building to a doorway with claymores attached. Red stickers warned of lethal force. "I’m packing what we leave in secure storage." Inside were racks of mil-spec gear. There was enough for a platoon. Rafe whistled and moved into the demolition packs. He had his sheep scaring smile on. I went to the gun racks with Etienne.

  For close quarters, I grabbed a Hogdon C-12. The short length and heavy fragmenting slugs gave comfort in walls and halls. Etienne favored a Beamworx laser with the gauss auto underbarrel attachment. He could burn through walls and spray rooms with hypersonic darts. The weapon was EMP shielded, provided he didn’t power it up until after the electromagnetic strike.

  We shifted to SEAL stores and acquired water capabilities for our Skins. We grabbed the full snorkel helmets for their sensor suite and closed air cycling. I passed on the armor upgrades, working over water in Combat Skins was enough of a risk. We would sink like a stone if we stopped swimming and the air bladders were holed. Armor would just make us heavier and unbalanced. While I grabbed the fins, floatation bladders and gill packs from SEAL stores to give us fish capabilities; Etienne packed the armor vests anyway, "We don’t know where the next leg will take us."

  Rafe reconnected with us a moment later, pulling a large duffel and slinging two long arms. He had a GE X-ray laser and a pack-fed quad barrel subgun. It was a staggering load out. But he was smiling broadly. "My Christmas came early."

  I pointed at his duffel, "I trust nothing atomic or biological is riding in that?"

  He kicked the duffel on the floor and shook his head, "They didn’t have any. Just the usual chemistry set."

  Etienne slapped his armored shoulder, "Then there are still things left for your Christmas. Or would you prefer more cologne?"

  Rafe bristled at the suggestion, "That cologne nearly saw me divorced when the pheromones released on the bus."

  Etienne laughed. "Mademoiselle just had a bad reaction. Those Strasbourg Cathedral dames are very repressed."

  I mock separated the two as though breaking up a fight, "We have time for that story out on the water, non?" They both nodded and chorused, "Oui." We shouldered our bounty and left the armory to the owners. "Sir Hamblin. We will meet you on the quay in ten." Both Sir Hamblin and Sir Juan chorused, "Roger that."

  We found our Skins, hanging on transfusers in our new ready room. Our simulators and crates of gear were stacked in their packing. A crate of batteries sat on a folding chair, ripe for looting. The Marines here seemed very adept at logistics.

  We three Musketeers began our dress-for-success ablutions with the Skins. The floatation bladders went on first, then the swim fins glued on in the retracted position. Gill packs hung around our necks. We checked each other’s strapped loads and bagged up everything else for boarding. "Bahamas, here we come." Rafe grinned as Etienne said, "And all dressed for a party."

  We duck walked our kit down to the quay. It was considerably lighter with the Skins. East Coast Templars were already shuffling loads below decks. The Botec Trimaran looked like the mating of a cigarette boat and an attack gunship. The enclosed fuselage and stubby lift wings gave the illusion of speed at rest. A three-hull layout featured stepped, knifelike chines to gradually elevate the boat into the air. A Tee-shaped tail with high mounted prop left no doubt that it was a ground effect flyer. I was looking forward to seeing how it worked.

  "Permission to come aboard?" I called. Hamblin and Westin gave me doppelganger faces. Westin said, "Granted" and we started heaving duffels. Sergeant Johnson helped us distribute the load and found us seats in the crowded cabin. Seven of us in the Skins and strapped took up a lot of space. Johnson would be riding in the stair well the whole trip. With the helmet off, his black skin would aid acceptance as one of Tar Bone’s crew. The L-17 air carbine on his lap stayed out of sight.

  "Don’t move around when the flight sign lights," Johnson advised. "You don’t want to dip a wing at two fifty when we’re skimming." That made sense. The mention of two fifty kph made more of an impression. We were going to be travelling a couple hours. I hadn’t realized how fast that was from the timetables. This GEV was less than fifteen meters long and maintained by thugs. I remembered every crash I had heard of in these little sport craft. Survival was low.

  Rafe must have seen something on my face. "Do not concern yourself, Chuy. This is a Botec from Germany. Very solid engineering," he whispered. "Smugglers run them when everything else breaks." I nodded thanks and the engines started. Here we go.

  The boat wallowed backwards then shifted forward and right in a gliding turn. Once aligned to the east, acceleration pushed us aft. The stepped hull gave a lifting sensation and then the tail prop began its Doppler drone. We hit a few waves hard and then lifted once into smooth flight. Out the porthole, I saw wings extended from the sponson stubs. We were maybe a meter above the wave crests.

  The coast of Jacksonville blurred, and then disappeared aft. The noise was a little high, so we synched up with the boat systems and dropped into Battlenet. We needed to stay on top as things developed. This would also keep us from moving around. I really liked that idea. The boat was developing a diagonal rise and fall as the waves rose that made me worry.

  Saint Peter had a risk alert flagged as soon as I entered the net. There was a percentage chance that the yacht was mined. A trap or just insurance were the motivations. Our EMP strike could trigger said mines and leave us wreckage. He had passed the alert to the Manta drivers, so they would do a good scan and let us adjust. If we couldn’t supply the yacht, this was going to be a very expensive op. Jacksonville might cut us loose.

  Saint Peter had con
tacted Havana Garda to liaise with them in the area. They weren’t too far if we needed help from the south. The Bahamian Garda he just warned off. They could be a little gossipy with Ops in their area, so we tried not to involve them much. But we might need them later, so he tried to be pleasant about it. Islanders can be prickly if you upset their rhythms.

  The tactical map showed us traveling in the back of the pack. Ahead of us were two Stealth and Rescue Lifters with Mantas slung below and drone gunships following like loyal dogs. I hadn’t asked for the gunships, so Jacksonville fronted them on their own. Once tasked, hired crews often added to the inventory using their own Field Wikis. To us, it was free force multiplication. Just don’t blow something up and blame the Templars.

  Inspecting the network I saw the Eastern AI, Whitney, was riding along. That was helpful. The marines had been trained to react to Whitney when called. The AI's would mesh our assaults that we might suffer no accidental casualties. Friendly fire and heavy weapons were much less hazardous when an AI mapped the battlefield. You were only shot for a purpose, yours or theirs.

  Tactical showed the Mantas deployed and skimming to the edge of detection before submerging. Both Lifters held beyond the yacht’s radar range. The blue icon for our Botec showed us soon entering range from the northwest. ETA at our speed, about fourteen minutes.

  The Mantas had closed within three hundred meters by the time they knew we were coming. They created a map of all the power sources at large. The yacht was a big schematic positioned over a bloom of energy. Mantas used electromagnetics, like our Skins, to see emissions. But they were much more refined and stealthy. We saw moving boats and jet skis in the area that were probably the Yacht’s sportcraft. Bioelectrics were picked out of the background to show the auras of people.

  "Four minutes," called Johnson. He was mostly in the Real and relaying from Hamblin. I announced operations to commence and dropped the Battlenet to small screens on my visor. My tasks and path arrows scrolled across the top. An alert flared and I checked to see what had happened.

  Audio from Saint Peter’s Tactical Commander advised that the owner, Matheson, was not onboard. He had just charged a table at the Courtyard in Atlantis Resort. Video confirmed. Proceed with other targets. Out.

  "Landing in five, four…" called Johnson. The engine drone changed and we hit several waves hard. Everyone hung on as the ride got rough and then settled into a conventional wave slapping speedboat gait. "Coming up starboard." We slowed to a crawl and scraped rubber somewhere behind my head. I heard voices with odd accents, probably Norwegian, calling to Gus. The boat stopped.

  ****