Rogue-ARC

  I’d look at the images that registered, and the ones she forwarded. Some were close. Some I had to squint to define. None were he, that I could tell. I saved a few for further review, and overlaied the two images. Some things are very hard to change, even with surgery—eye spacing, forehead height, cheekbones. Most people won’t go through that kind of surgery, even in our field. None were quite right, but some were close enough to make me second guess myself.

  It was tedious, tiring intel work. With ten operators it would be easy. We had two. My eyes got gritty, hers got red. My ass got sore, so I stood, then my feet got sore. I was utterly revolted by more tasteless sandwiches, better than the prison’s but reminiscent of them. I took sleep in combat naps once a day, with a two-div rest at night. Then I found I was off the local clock and running on Freehold time again, a much longer day cycle than theirs.

  On top of that we had to track the news, intel reports from the embassy, and attempt to run periodic DNA scans.

  We got lucky. It was only three days before he left. When the image came up, I jerked in my seat. Yes, that was definitely him, a decade later. I ran an overlay to be sure, and it was perfect. He was aboard a shuttle, and if I had someone on the receiving end I could stop him. I contemplated that contact code, and decided I owed Her Majesty Queen Annette the courtesy of a warning.

  We were on the road in less than three minutes, me driving while Silver rammed through seats for us on the soonest shuttle we could conceivably make. I violated many traffic laws, and had the Royal Warrant handy in case anyone saw me. I lucked out.

  Tickets arranged, I hit voice, called the code, and got a very neutral response.

  “Palace Reception, may I help you?” a man asked.

  “My name is Kenneth Chinran.”

  “Please stand by, I will transfer you. It might take several minutes.”

  “It needs to take a lot less, sir. Whatever code you have for me needs to be raised a level.”

  “Sir, you are already at the highest code possible. Please stand by. Connecting.”

  The Queen’s voice said, “What do you have, Ken?”

  “He’s leaving. You can possibly stop him at the orbital. My assistant has the information.”

  She fairly shouted, “Chief Watson, get online now. Go ahead.”

  Silver spoke. “Caledonian Elegance Firebird Aurora. Boarding at Sapphire Station at one four two nine Capital Time.”

  I added, “We are in pursuit.”

  She asked, “Do you need to make the apprehension?”

  That was a very diplomatic way of asking, “Dead or alive?” If I needed to make the kill, they’d hold him for me.

  “However you can best apprehend him is fine, ma’am.”

  “Understood. You will be waved through security.”

  “Roger. Chinran out.”

  Silver asked, “Ken Chinran?”

  “Me.”

  She looked confused.

  She said, “You know, I don’t think I was ever told your real name.”

  “Not even regarding Earth?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Black Ops Seven, but no names. Still secret.”

  Shit. But it made sense. Why tell anyone? There hadn’t been any, wasn’t any, reason to. And our IDs as Operatives were always secret.

  “Yeah, that was my real name once.”

  She looked at me a bit oddly. She thought she knew me after all this time together, but which parts of me were real? Which were cause, effect, or just cover?

  Did I know, anymore? I felt much more “Dan” than “Ken.”

  We parked the car in the drop-off zone, and I flashed the warrant at the constable on duty, and handed him the keys. He raised his eyebrows, but nodded. We strode quickly through the door, found another duty officer, showed him the warrant.

  “Sir, we need to board as quickly as possible. This is an emergency.”

  He nodded, walked us right to the front of the line, and we checked in. There were a few mutters but more inquisitive sounds. A powered cart awaited us, and we rolled through the crowd and right to the flashing security cordon. A flash and a scan of the warrant and we were through, and then aboard.

  I contemplated ordering the pilot to lift early, but that would mess with astrogation, and there was nothing I could do at this end. Docking issues would take time.

  The crew ran through the launch procedures. Decades ago, I’m told, all craft were similar and one could ignore the briefings. These days, with vertical launch, air launch, catapult, skywhip and other methods of getting to orbit, one does have to pay attention. This was an air launch, from high efficiency compression jet to nuclear-chemical rocket. We rose and kept rising, the sky changing color out the ports to cloud, bright sky blue, brilliant deep blue, then to violet, and then black with a misty pale blue layer far below us. In an hour we were in low orbit and approaching Sapphire Station.

  Docking was straightforward and smooth. Good pilot, even with massive AI power in the loop. I got ready to debark. We were docked at right angles and under centrifugal G.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a security issue in the gate area that necessitates a short wait. Please remain seated, and we’ll keep you informed.”

  Oh, shit.

  I looked at Silver, she at me. She nodded, I unbuckled and we moved forward fast, bumping between couches.

  The purser said, “Sir, madam, I need—”

  I cut her off with both the Royal Warrant and my “Citizen’s Council” ID.

  “Ma’am, that security issue pertains to us. We have to debark right now. Please contact whoever you need to.”

  She twisted her mouth, nodded, and called the captain via a hush screen. There was some negotiation, she showed our IDs, and then there was an interminable pause, while passengers stared and commented some more. Eventually, she turned and said, “There’s someone waiting to meet you on the other side of the lock.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  The lock opened, and we were in the dead space between hatches. There was minor leakage. I could hear a faint hiss. If we were in here too long there’d be a problem. There was an emergency O2 supply mounted on the forward bulkhead. I watched it with one eye and the hatch with the other.

  The hatch ahead swung open, and we crossed into the station. We still had the inner door ahead. Silver hit the bar, closed the outer door, and then we waited for whoever manned the inner door to open it.

  It swung, and we were face to muzzle with an entire squad of troops, fingers on trigger. They were agitated and sweating in full armor.

  I raised hands, said, “I have Royal and Freehold ID.”

  “Slowly,” a uniformed captain said.

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed, and carefully drew the documents again. I could smell residue and blood nearby. There had been some ugliness.

  He’d apparently already called down planetside and confirmed. He waved us in and the weapons lowered.

  I said, “May I ask for an update? We’ve heard nothing since lifting.”

  His expression was both disgusted and annoyed.

  “Apparently, he smuggled weapons through, or already had them stashed aboard. We tried to cordon him off and lock him, but he saw that coming. So we tried a public standoff, betting on our marksmen versus him. We were under the impression he didn’t like collateral casualties.”

  “I had hoped he wouldn’t,” I said. Oh, damn, what had he done?

  “Apparently, he doesn’t. He was quite willing to bet we didn’t either, and he had the offensive position. His shooting was quite good, and even his misses didn’t hit any civilians. I had six troops go down, the crowd scattered and hindered us, then he blew his way through a bulkhead. We locked the station down for departures, but we can’t do that for long.”

  “I can eyeball every passenger, if that will help,” I said. “You’ll have to check cargo, et cetera, and search in detail. Cynthia, advise them on search procedures, please.”

  “I do know how to cond
uct a reconnaissance, sir,” he said, sounding put upon.

  “I’m sure you do. We know how to conduct one for our people.”

  “Understood,” he said. He gestured and several of his troops came over. Silver took control comfortably and directed them.

  I asked, “Where do you need me?”

  “We have a ship waiting to leave now. Can you check that one first?”

  “I can. Depressurize the hold and the cargo compartment, then cycle back. Manually inspect anything larger than a personal bag. Where are the passengers?”

  “Through here.” He indicated a gate lock to the side. Number X-1.

  I followed him through, and stood back at a gesture from him. His troops slipped past me as I stood aside, and filed around the area. It had crosshatched windows on one half, to reassure the human mind that it wasn’t a drop off into space. The other half had murals on the bulkhead. Nice facility.

  He spoke clearly and loudly, “Pay attention!”

  The passengers stared at us, a combination of annoyed, eager, and wanting any distraction from the tedium of waiting. There’s only so much most people can do with the nodes and vid while waiting for a flight.

  “We will be able to board you in a moment. We are conducting a search of all bags, and all persons. I need you to form a queue here, regardless of your flight zone or class.”

  Someone, of course, objected. I can’t blame the man. I like encountering people who don’t think like sheep.

  “Do you have a warrant for this search?” he asked. I didn’t recognize his accent, and while I might approve of his attitude, it would hinder us.

  The captain pulled out a chit and said, “I have a Royal Warrant and a Royal Commission. If you wish not to have your luggage searched, you may make other arrangements to transport it. If you wish not to let me compare your face to your passport, you may elect to remain in the station until you do.”

  Fortunately, the man looked amused.

  “I guess that’s reasonable enough,” he said. “I should be less irritable next time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll go first then,” he said, and made his way to the front of the line.

  I looked him over. He was nothing like Randall in build, color, shape or mannerism. I nodded faintly and continued.

  I walked down the line and scanned the passengers. It took seventy seconds at most.

  “They’re fine,” I said.

  “That fast? Are you positive?”

  “He’s not female, not a child, doesn’t fit certain body types, has visible racial markers. He’s not in here.”

  The captain leaned in and said, “Sir, you can’t mention profiles here. Someone will sue.”

  “You asked. I told you. He can’t be female, a child, a scrawny Caucasian, a fat Asian, or several others. No one on this flight is remotely close.”

  “Very well, then.” He looked at his phone. “The ship’s been evacuated and purged as you asked, and the cargo has been pulled. They’re repacking it now, and they’ll check the luggage.” He led us to a tram station.

  I said, “Before repacking, get hands on ID and two people to vouch for every cargo handler, then lock that area off if you can.”

  “Noted. Thank you.”

  There were thousands of people awaiting transit. We rode trams in broad arcs between gates and I looked at them and saw nothing. They were grateful to be released, but I knew they’d be aggravated again at the cargo search and related delays.

  More troops arrived on station from their moon Ness and from planetside.

  “You’ll need to do an EVA for him in case he’s suited. I’d start evacuating any compartments not in use. Check on manifests for anything that requires life support. He’d hide in a kennel to get down.”

  “Seriously?” the captain asked me. “You’d really do all this to exfiltrate?”

  “I shouldn’t be sharing this much with you, but yes.”

  “There’s no bloody way we can search every craft and every station to this level after every arrival or departure. It’s an impossible level of security.”

  “Welcome to my game,” I said.

  We, and they, searched cargo, evacuated containers, checked passengers, manifests, contractors and restaurants, engineering spaces, station crew, station lodging. We weren’t going to find him, but I had to go through the motions and we might get lucky. Meantime, we might find a trace elsewhere.

  The only positive in all this was that Her Majesty’s intel apparatus were going to be looking for him as well. He could still retire rich, but he had two systems that were harder to operate in, and a slowly closing net. It was in his best interest to sneak off quietly, but I didn’t think he would.

  I’d wanted to be in pursuit and out of the system. Instead, I was stuck in low orbit doing searches I knew wouldn’t yield anything.

  I told Silver, “My guess is he’ll board back down to the surface and will leave via another route. Or has already.”

  “Does that mean we scan another half million passengers?”

  “No, because it’s irrelevant. We need to figure where he’s going.”

  “What about the DNA traces?”

  “They’re going to be on every shuttle. Bet me.”

  “No bet,” she said with a shake. “This is tough.”

  I half-chuckled.

  “This is just warming up.”

  She didn’t look happy with that prospect.

  They found us what passed as a stationside stateroom. I’m not complaining. It was barely big enough for one, but it was a real bed and had a small shower, just big enough to stand in. We took turns cleaning up. I didn’t want to rest, but needed to, so I lay down to the sighing of the vent. I was fully dressed, next to the wall with the emergency masks. Just in case.

  I must have been tired. I wasn’t aware I went to sleep until the captain buzzed me.

  I grabbed the phone and activated the earbud.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, we’re done. He’s away.”

  “How?” I asked as I jerked awake, nervous electric tingles running through my legs.

  “One of my troops was found trussed in a locker room. We had to mix patrols, which I warned against from an operational perspective.”

  “So he rode down in uniform, unquestioned, with both elements assuming he was with the other.”

  “So it seems.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Twelve hours.”

  “Long enough he lifted back on the next shuttle and is now headed out. Or, he found a nice hole groundside. Or, he wants us to think he did, and is already on a flight out. The latter most likely. Can you check each ship as it reaches Jump Point?”

  “We can try. I’ll have to run that up the chain, of course. Is it worth it?”

  Was it worth it? Would he sneak aboard a station, a military craft, the base on Ness, a research vessel, a cargo craft, a tramp . . . ?

  “No, not really,” I said. “You don’t have enough manpower to do it, and there’s no point in a partial job. I’ll tell Her Majesty’s people that.”

  “I feel bad about it, sir. We should have checked our own.”

  “You did,” I said. “You warned them and they didn’t listen. I’ve seen a lot of that lately.”

  I didn’t want to start recriminations. I wanted to pick up a cold trail.

  I felt compelled to get a message out to a secure code to Naumann. Randall wasn’t going to search through thousands of messages for this, nor would it tell him anything if he did.

  I coded a short update. I wasn’t going to contact you but things obviously changed. He’s better than I would have expected. He’s had more training. Leads on where appreciated.

  I met up with Silver, and we moved to a hotel. We were farther from the operations area of the station, but had more room to lay out equipment. This was a nice area of the station, pretty much hotel quality from axis to rim.

  We managed a two-room suite, which took some str
ess off for a couple of days. That stress was replaced with concern over where Randall was or was going. I had nothing to work with, and just had to wait for responses to my inquiries. However, I did insist on and assist with a search of the station, through every compartment and crawlway. It was dusty, greasy, messy work. Silver got dinged up worse than me. She was younger and more nimble, but less experienced.

  Most of the station support had clearly not been touched since last overhaul, if then. A couple of areas might have been hiding places, but could have been used by illicit or playful lovers, juveniles of station staff, or both. DNA traces were insufficient to offer more.

  We got sandwiches from a kiosk, and were on our way back to the room when I got a call.

  “Jelling,” I answered with my standard cover name.

  “Sir, I’m Roger Rothdal with the Royal Security Service. I’ve some intel for you.”

  “Really. That’s most welcome. What do you have?”

  “A detailed search of Randall’s domiciles yielded little, but there are lingering traces on the hypernodes out of there.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “His comm received, and replied, to two messages with a node tag from Mtali, then a third message that he sent out to Mtali the day before he departed.”

  “Fantastic. If you find anything else, please let me know.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “That is very helpful information. Thank you.”

  I looked at Silver and said, “And that’s why we had preplanned codes we could throw on any third party forum. He’s hindered because at some point he has to communicate with a client, and he can’t do face to face unless he’s on the same planet.”

  “So we’re going to Mtali?”

  “Right now,” I said.

  I went to inquire personally and discreetly about tickets. My phone chimed again. It was a recorded outsystem message from Naumann.

  Regarding your inquiry. Subject attended and graduated Cobra Joe Tactical Training four years ago. Information recent due to investigation.