And as the man died, he was still smiling.
8
The good news about the afternoon’s excitement was that a terrorist attack had obviously been thwarted, but the bad news was starting to stack up fast. Kaspar was sitting in the conference room with Voss and a Justice Directorate liaison officer called Devon Salisbury. And Ms Salisbury was not happy, to say the least.
‘It really isn’t acceptable, having suspects die like that during deployments.’ She said the word ‘die’ as if it needed handling with tongs. ‘On top of which’ – she turned narrowed eyes to Kaspar – ‘it wasn’t even an authorized deployment. Tell me, Guardian Wilding, just how you managed to convert a visit to a primary school into an unprovoked assault on two farmers, an unauthorized entry into a secure communications facility and the avoidable death of a suspect?’
Kaspar’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure which part of that pile of crap he should tackle first. Maybe he should just throw the pen-pushing harpy out of the window.
‘Avoidable?’ he asked. ‘In what way was it avoidable? I walked into the room, he stabbed himself. He didn’t ask for my permission.’
‘He should have been rendered unconscious by means of your standard issue mark six neuro-paralyser rifle,’ she replied in a please-slap-my-face tone of voice.
‘Well, I didn’t have my mark six neuro-paralyser rifle with me, Ms Salisbury. It was confiscated by the Media Affairs department on the grounds of health and safety.’
Voss shook his head. ‘Stow the sarcasm, Wilding. Just tell us how you got involved.’
Kaspar pressed his thumb and index finger together just as hard as he could, a technique he used whenever he needed to take control of himself.
‘I recognized the truck, sir. It belongs to Ned Robson from Robson’s Farm, near to where I grew up. I’ve known him all my life. I learned to drive in that truck. Anyway, I know all Ned’s workers and I didn’t know those two. And Robson’s have had an exclusive contract with a super market chain for the last two years. No way should they have been making deliveries in a suburban street.’
‘The photographs from the scene show the truck was from Old Bob’s,’ frowned Voss.
‘Yeah,’ said Kaspar ruefully. ‘When I asked them if Old Bob still ran the company, they said yes. That was the clincher.’
‘Explain,’ prompted Voss.
‘The company is run by Ned, always has been. But it isn’t named after him. Old Bob was Ned’s dog, and that dog has been dead for six years.’
The computer on Voss’s desk chirped and he turned to look at the screen. After a few seconds he turned back.
‘Well, that’s confirmed then. We found the driver out cold and trussed up in the back of the truck. He’s going to be fine. Apparently he was hijacked on the way back from collecting a new pump from an engineering depot this morning.’
‘And as for unauthorized entry,’ Kaspar resumed, ‘I don’t think that it was my presence there that was the real problem. A better question would be how did the terrorists get in? In fact, how did the terrorists even find the place?’
Devon Salisbury’s lips pinched together with annoyance.
Yeah, got you there! Kaspar thought with satisfaction.
‘Commander Voss, I hope I don’t have to remind you of the absolute moral necessity for the Guardians to act non-lethally? The Council is very clear on this. We can’t have anyone’ – and she glanced sideways at Kaspar as if he were a pool of vomit – ‘thinking that one dead terrorist is a “good start”. Am I clear?’
Kaspar opened his mouth to say something cutting or sarcastic or obscene or all three, but Voss silenced him with a gesture.
‘We all know our duty, Ms Salisbury. Thanks for dropping by.’ Voss stood up and opened the conference room door, signalling that the meeting was now over.
Devon Salisbury got to her feet, her lips pursed into a fair approximation of an outraged duck’s face. She took the unsubtle hint and departed without saying another word. Voss quietly closed the door before heading back to the high-backed chair at the head of the conference table. Kaspar stood before him, his hands behind his back, wondering if he was supposed to leave too.
‘Sir . . .’
‘Guardian Wilding, in spite of my better judgement, I actually like you,’ said Voss. ‘You have the makings of an excellent Guardian.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Kaspar, surprised.
‘But you have a really annoying habit of drawing attention to yourself – and not always in a good way,’ Voss continued.
Kaspar knew it was too good to be true. An unqualified compliment from Voss? Yeah, right!
‘Now let’s have the whole full story and not just the edited highlights you gave to that twig-necked civilian,’ ordered Voss.
‘That was the whole story, sir. I entered the comms building, forgetting I wasn’t properly armed, and before I could get to the Insurgent he turned his knife on himself.’
‘What did you do when he dropped?’
‘I checked for a pulse, but there wasn’t one,’ Kaspar replied.
‘What was he after? Did you check the data screens?’
Kaspar hesitated; only for a moment, but it was more than long enough for Voss to pounce. ‘Spit it out, Guardian. And don’t make the mistake of treating me like a civilian.’
‘No, sir.’ As if! ‘I did look at the data screen the terrorist had been using, sir. He’d called up the blueprints of a number of underground tunnels far beyond Capital City’s boundaries. Tunnels that haven’t been used in years, sir. And he’d also retrieved info on a number of out-of-the-way places, like Pelham Forest, which is even further away than the Badlands.’
Voss frowned. ‘Did he have some kind of recording or transmitting device on him?’
‘No, sir. I checked. One of his colleagues I pacified outside the building did, but the guy who killed himself didn’t get the chance to pass on the information.’
‘Listen, Guardian, this is important.’ Voss leaned forward, the look in his dark eyes intense. ‘Are you absolutely certain he had no way of passing on any information?’
‘Positive, sir.’
‘Hmmm. Good work, Guardian Wilding,’ Voss said, sitting back. ‘Let’s keep this between ourselves, OK? He must have failed in his mission if he was only looking at some locations of no importance, so there’s no need to mention the blueprints and scenery in your official report. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kaspar didn’t understand, but he wasn’t about to question his boss’s motives.
‘Dismissed, Guardian.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Kaspar made sure he was out of the room with the door shut firmly behind him before he allowed a smile to take up residence.
Wonder of wonders! His boss liked him!
9
Unarmed combat practice was in full swing in the gym when Kaspar got back from seeing Voss. Everyone was paired up and going through knife-disarming drills. Just as he arrived, Trey, a new transfer, was holding a knife and circling the diminutive Mariska. He feigned leaping towards her but constantly drew back, a supercilious smile plastered across his face. Mariska stood watching him, her body very still. Uh-oh! Trey came loping in to close the distance, swinging the knife down in a lazy overhand before dancing away from Mariska, who still hadn’t moved, though her eyes never left Trey’s.
Kaspar winced.
He knew what was coming from painful experience. His first week at the Academy, Kaspar had been paired with Mariska for unarmed combat. Being brought up by his uncle to respect ‘those of the female persuasion’, he had held back. Despite Mariska’s repeated demands that he ‘get with the programme’ and ‘get serious’, he had soft-pedalled. Finally she had screamed. Not a girlie scream. Actually, not like any scream he’d ever heard. It was more of a psycho mental death howl. She’d launched herself at him, kicked him in the groin, swept his feet out from under him with a calf-high spinning kick, split his lip by smashing his head into the mat and then knelt on his
back and put him in a choke hold.
‘Don’t ever patronize me again, you lanky piece of shit,’ she had hissed in his ear. ‘You come at me with anything less than one hundred per cent and I will tear your balls off and use your scrotum as a change purse.’
Point made.
Later, as he was applying an ice pack to his lip and a bag of frozen peas to his genitals, Janna had been her characteristically sympathetic self.
‘Serves you right, Kas. We’re all training to be Guardians, you know. Even us delicate girlies. We all have to handle the same stuff,’ she said. ‘You don’t do anyone any favours by going easy on ’em in training. If someone can’t handle the rough stuff, it’s better they find out now in the gym, ’cause later on, out there, it’ll be too late.’
‘Yeah, I hear you,’ Kaspar muttered. ‘And I’m not lanky, I’m lean.’
‘Man, couldn’t you apply the ice pack to your tenders and the peas to your lip?’ moaned Dillon. ‘I’m on catering attachment this month and I was going to use those peas in a shepherd’s pie later.’
‘You still can,’ said Kaspar, peeved. ‘It’s not like I’ve taken them out of the packet.’
‘Are you off your nut?’ Dillon replied, scandalized. ‘No way is even one of those going anywhere near my lips.’
‘Your loss,’ Kaspar replied, unconcerned, readjusting the packet of peas before he got frostbite.
Next session, Kaspar had broken one of Mariska’s ribs with an elbow strike. It wasn’t intentional; it wasn’t payback in any way. It was just what happened sometimes when you committed fully.
‘That’s more like it,’ she had grunted, and actually smiled as he had tried to get her to breathe.
As he regarded Trey, who was still dancing around his opponent, Kaspar shook his head pityingly. Should he shout a warning? He’d just opened his mouth when, ‘Hey, Kas. I was looking for you,’ said Dillon, who had just emerged from the changing rooms.
‘I’ve never seen anyone, male or female, spend so long in the shower,’ said Kaspar.
‘Those of us not born on farms like to be clean,’ Dillon said loftily.
Kaspar shook his head, ‘But you take it to a whole new neurotic level.’
There was a blood-curdling scream, and out of the corner of his eye Kaspar saw the unconscious Trey hit the deck like a sackful of hammers.
‘Anyway, welcome back to the real world,’ said Dillon, ignoring the unconscious heap on the gym mat. ‘How come you aren’t being exhibited around Capital City today?’
‘Oh, that is so over,’ replied Kaspar with some delight. ‘I guess being involved with a death put a severe dent in my ability to act as a walking advertisement for non-lethal law enforcement. So I am done for good with Media Liaison.’
‘I hear you decked a couple of farmhand impersonators.’
‘Yep.’
‘Nice one, mate. And is it true that terrorist boy stabbed himself?’ Dillon asked.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Why?’
‘Oh, you know . . . some of the guys were thinking that maybe . . .’
‘Maybe what?’
‘Well, maybe you . . . kind of . . . took him out?’
Kaspar looked around. A number of his mates were watching him, their gaze speculative. Kaspar turned back to Dillon.
‘No, Dillon, I did not take him out. I stood watching while he took himself out.’
‘Then you must be one scary bugger,’ approved Dillon. ‘Like a taller version of Mariska!’
And they both laughed. They were still laughing when Trey was carried past them unconscious on a stretcher to the infirmary.
Later, Kaspar lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Normally he went out like a light after a session in the gym, but tonight sleep was a stranger. He sat up, switched on his light and grabbed his datapad from the bedside table. Maybe the questions buzzing around his head would make more sense written down.
1. Why suicide?
2. Why the massive interest by the Insurgents in totally isolated locations?
3. Why don’t they equip themselves with any kind of radio or CommLink?
4. Why didn’t they kill the truck driver?
5. WHAT DO THEY WANT???
The last question he double underlined, but it didn’t help. He was no closer to finding an answer. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he got up, crossed to the desk and turned on the datalink. If I can’t sleep, I may as well do some research, he thought.
The back of his neck began to prickle. Maybe he should just leave well enough alone? But he wanted answers.
Funny, then, how the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’ kept dancing about in his head.
10
Kaspar started the research engine on his screen and spent the next half-hour failing to understand a single word. He knew the engine was a brilliant tool for doing research and spotting patterns in data, but you needed a brain the size of a planet just to read the online instruction manual. Sections headed ‘Heuristic Contextualization’ and ‘Para-Linguistic Hybridization Factors’ simply bounced off his skull without a hope of penetrating.
He finally admitted defeat, grabbed his jacket and took the short walk to Library Services. Through the door, Kaspar could see the duty librarian seated behind a desk. She wore her purple hair in a choppy hairstyle and the red ID Badge at the end of the lanyard prominently displayed around her neck meant she had the highest security clearance. She was scrutinizing data on a holo-screen to her right, a slight smile on her lips. Kaspar was surprised at how young she looked, not much older than him. And best of all she didn’t look too nerdy. He knocked once and went in.
She smiled the moment she saw him. ‘Hello. I’m Mackenzie, call me Mac. You’re up late. Are you a night owl like me or are you on some kind of punishment detail? Hang on! Aren’t you the cadet who’s been all over the news recently? Milding? Rilding? Something like that? Sorry, I’m rambling! How can I help?’
Kaspar blinked at the verbal barrage. Wow! And his first impression of her had been correct. She couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than him. She had full lips, the largest almond-shaped brown eyes he’d ever seen and long, dark lashes. Kaspar wondered what had driven her to work at the research centre of the Guardian Academy. And how on earth had she managed to get such a high security clearance at her age? Surely proof positive that she had to be considerably older than she looked?
‘Hi,’ he replied. ‘It’s Wilding, actually. Can you help me? I’m trying to use the research engine but I can’t understand a word of it.’
Mac gave him a quick assessing glance. ‘Sure thing. I spend half my life explaining that manual. Grab a chair and come round.’
Kaspar wheeled over a chair from the nearest table and placed it behind Mac’s desk next to hers.
‘So what is it you want to know?’
‘OK, I get the basics,’ Kaspar began. ‘You describe what you want, the areas you are interested in, the timespan you want to examine and so forth. Once you’ve done that, a bunch of semi-intelligent databots are launched off into cyberspace. Right?’
‘Right,’ replied Mac. ‘They interrogate systems, access archives and they negotiate with each other in order to produce a comprehensive response to your query.’
‘Well, I get that bit. So far, so good,’ said Kaspar. ‘But what about the rest? All that contextual . . . linguistic . . . hybrid doodah factor stuff?’
‘OK,’ laughed Mac. ‘Suppose you were to launch a search on . . . let’s say – “farm”.’
Damnit! Had everyone on the planet read his biography?
‘So most of the databots will go haring down what you might call the obvious route. Farm, farmer, farming, agriculture, hydroponics, food production, pesticides and so on. But some of them will find other linkages – like “ant farm”, and start researching insects. And some will recognize that “farm” is phonetically similar to “pharm”, and that will lead off towards pharmacology, drugs, addiction. Now depending on what you are try
ing to achieve, that will either be a waste of time and resources, or it’ll be a breakthrough into a whole new area of investigation – a light bulb moment. Your various doodah factors control how narrowly focused the search is. You can impose a real straitjacket on the databots, or you can let ’em off the leash and see where they take you. Any clearer?’
‘Yes,’ said Kaspar. ‘Finally!’ Human talk, instead of pretentious academic guff. ‘Go on.’
Forty-five minutes later, he was all set. Mac had shown him how to use a small but powerful subset of the available features and he was ready to launch the bots. If he could get the bots to figure out the pattern to the Insurgents’ attacks and unauthorized computer breaches, then maybe he would be able to work out exactly what they were after and in that way predict where and when the next attacks might come. For once the Guardians would be one jump ahead instead of the other way round.
There was just one question left to answer. Security code.
Kaspar started to type in his personal access code – the one he used for accessing his bank account and personal data. This was private research, after all. But then he stopped. He was trying to understand the terrorist threat better, trying to learn how to defeat the killers in their midst. That sounded like work to him. So he deleted his personal passcode and typed in his Guardian access code instead.
The first data came back almost immediately. Kaspar eagerly leaned forward.
‘Best to let it stew for a while,’ Mac advised. ‘Think of the bots as painting a picture. They start off by drawing a few lines, blocking out the composition, sketching. Then they start filling in a detail over here, reshaping something that isn’t working over there. If you look too soon, you’ll see construction lines and false starts. Give the picture a while to develop before you start appreciating the art.’