Rogue-ARC

  I found a discreet agency that catered to businesses that needed flexible transport schedules. For a mildly extortionate amount of money, I bought into a pool of departure slots they kept open. There were fees for each rollover, and occasional expensive hits if no one in the pool used any of the slots, and I figure those slots were all actuarial, based on statistical planning of how many people would leave at once. A serious disaster would prong the dog, but that would be trouble for everyone.

  I assumed this pool consisted of smugglers, military recon, diplomatic protection, lobbyists wanting deniability, business shills trying to keep ahead of the competition, and at least one assassin. The group would probably make for a great bar crawl. Hell, Randall might be the assassin. There was no way to check, though.

  Someone bought our devices, all three of them, in close timing. It did make sense. They fitted each other nicely enough to make a set, and it’s not unknown for sellers to break sets up to generate more income piecemeal. We’d have to track them periodically to determine movement.

  We had three bags ready for departure. One each personal bag, brandname but low-end, worn and discreet, with clothes, one ID, phones. One full of deniable stuff we’d have to dispose of in a hurry, rigged accordingly. If they actually searched our phones we were in trouble, but we had to have data and tools. We each had a pouch with carefully camouflaged and concealed lock coders, sensors and extra currency and bullion. A detailed search would make it clear we were criminals or spies. However, the mass of stuff was small enough to not spook most border agents, who generally looked for smugglers and known criminals. Truthfully, they were more concerned about deadbeats moving into the system, and wanted to check your accommodation reservations. Only actual intel agents would care about the stuff we had. Except for the one stunner I’d broken down and packed.

  I sent a coded message to the embassy via a throwaway pocket unit, into a library and then through. It invoked a clearance, told them I needed a worm into the Earth nets to draw data, and a code I could use to pull said information. The code would be left on a node with nothing to ID what it was for, buried in an inane post. This message went straight to the intel branch, not through any diplomatic staff, so I had a reasonable expectation that would be accomplished and ready wherever I went.

  We were busy as hell, tracking what data we could, trying to determine if he might go off planet or pick another target, and who might have bankrolled the hit. We didn’t get much. He didn’t seem to communicate directly with employers, though he had at least once. I also had to drive around and look busy for my neighbors’ benefit.

  I wanted to interrogate people from the major factions who might have leads, but it would take time to develop a source, and I could not attach myself to anyone at the embassy, nor at this juncture, the Caledonians. It would point right at me. I had to infer everything from secondary data.

  I did find out the locals were very agitated at the number of drones and platforms, and the discovery of “several types” of espionage devices. We weren’t the only ones intruding. Mister Schinck claimed anguish and denial of our unethical hiring of his actors for deceitful purposes, and claimed he’d had to pay them out of pocket. Naturally, the cash I’d delivered was not going on his taxes, and he was going to claim the loss on insurance and taxes as well. More power to him.

  Silver managed her analysis with chemicals, charts and a number of inquiries. Some explosive had tagged molecules for this purpose, but not all, and I assumed the trail would not lead conveniently from manufacturer to him.

  She did find something, though. After hours buried at her screen, taking in nothing but water and cursing periodically, she looked up and caught me.

  She said, “The explosive on Mtali was sourced by a company called Chongu Chemical.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re widely believed to be a public arm of the mob in Novaja Rossia.”

  “Then that’s who I need to talk to if this doesn’t go through.”

  Serendipity struck. A message popped up and she glanced at it.

  “Guess where our little devices are?”

  I quivered alert. “Starport?”

  “Yes.”

  I said, “We need to be on the next lift.”

  She already had her coat and bug-out bag. Anything else we could leave behind. We pulled on pants and shirts, since we weren’t going to be locals. We bounded down the stairs, jumped in the van and rolled.

  “I’m disposing of hard evidence,” she said, while running the window down. She held up a large duffel. “Say when.”

  “As clear as it’s going to get,” I said.

  She pulled a striker, ensured the fuse caught in a cracking puff of sulfur over the spark of voltage, and shoved the bag out into the alley. In seconds it was a roaring inferno of flame. Any data or ID should be effectively fried in two ways.

  Once again, discretion was gone. I drove quickly, we reached the port and didn’t bother locking the vehicle. I even left the key in plain sight, because if it got stolen it was one less piece of evidence to point to us. We hopped on the tram as it rolled past, entered the station with only our bailouts, walked briskly to the counter, I slapped down a card, and we had boarding passes. After being scanned, harassed and ignored by security, we boarded the shuttle.

  Silver sat next to me. She smelled a lot better than the stale, musty fabric of the seats. It couldn’t have been cleaned in months to be that saturated with sweat and grime on modern duralon.

  She leaned close and said, “Kamu bisa bicara bahasa?” Do you speak Indonesian?

  “Lumayan.” Reasonably well. She kept her voice quiet. I wasn’t sure if she knew there was a small community of Indonesian Sunni on Mtali.

  “Kita harus segera naik kapal. Kita harus cepat.” We can just make it aboard. We’ll have to run.

  “Kemana?” Where?

  “Kapal selanjutnya menujui ke NovRos.” The next ship is forNovaja Rossia.

  “Kamu yakin dia dikapal itu?” Are we sure he’s on it?

  “Tidak. Tapi kita yakin karena dua dari peralatan kita menuju ke arah itu. Saya dapat mengecek kalau ada waktu. Bila kedua peralatan itu menuju kearah yang sama, berarti seseorang menguasainya. Mudah-mudahan dia.” No. We’re sure two of our devices are heading that way. I may be able to check in orbit if there’s time. If they’re both going the same way, then someone has them, hopefully still him.

  I did not want to be on the wrong starship while he laughed at us.

  Docking seemed to be interminable. I could see the station, alongside. I could see the gangtube. The mating arms swung out, and paused. Some minor software issue kept us sitting.

  Then the arms banged down and we were secure. It swung us to horizontal relative to the spin of the station. I waited, gripping the safety harness, staring slantwise at Silver, for the whuf of the airlock.There it was, and I was on my feet in the centrifugal G, clutching bag and ready to move. The people ahead weren’t moving fast enough to suit me, but there was nothing I could do.

  I joined the shuffle down the aisle and through the gangtube, pent up and coiled like a spring. As soon as we burst into the station and fanned apart, I went to a brisk stride around and between people, bounding in the .5 G until I got it under control, and headed for a Comm Cubby. Silver went past me and sat down, I blocked the entrance with my bulk.

  She pulled out her tracker, built into a standard pocket roll, and brought the system up.

  “Still here,” she said, and I exhaled in relief. Ironic. Relieved that I was about to go face-to-face into combat.

  “Talk to me.”

  “He’s nowhere near anything at the moment,” she said. “Far side of the station is all I get.”

  “Well, let’s perambulate.”

  “Do you actually use words like that?”

  “For emphasis.”

  “Should I leave it open?”

  “Can you keep it hot and stop the signal until we need it?”

  “I already am.”
/>
  “Do that.”

  “I already am.”

  “Less talk, more walk,” I said, though I smiled.

  We took the high speed slideway, which went around in quarters. From the low speed between gates, we took the midrange between termini, to the fast one, that even at 25km/h was not fast enough for me.

  We debarked at the quarter, stepping onto the deceleration ramp and then to solid deck. We moved to one side to avoid other travelers, and she brought the signal up again.

  “About an eighth more. He’s taking a slow one.”

  “So we’ll take this again.”

  I was twitchy. This was it. It was probably far too public. Still, his retreats being limited was a good advantage. Or it was, until we finished the next leg.

  “Pulled ahead. He’s on a fast one now,” she said.

  “Are you sure? Can you read enough for station width?”

  “No, I have to deduce. Too many echoes off these surfaces.”

  “Dammit. I’ll go the other way. Slip me that item.”

  Her eyebrows flared, but she bent down as I did, lowered a bag, fumbled with another, and when we stood we’d swapped nondescript personal bags. Mine had the disassembled stunner in it, of a sort.

  I said, “Okay, I’ll catch you at the gate. Wait a moment.” Then I dragged her into a kiss. It was partly for show for cover, and partly because if I might be about to die, I wanted something to take with me. Her mouth was spicy, hot, fluttery sweet, and she played along almost too well.

  I broke, waved and started quickly back. She waved with a sad smile.

  Great. All I needed.

  I wished we’d had time and resources for two weapons and two trackers, but each was a security risk. We’d have to make do. I got off the walk at the next terminus, went into a restroom and found a stall. I latched the door, hung the bag, ignored the huge, stinking grumbly someone had left that the system hadn’t flushed yet. Nothing here worked right. With my body shielding things, I reached into the bag, slipped several components together, and twisted the locking knob by hand. I had a two-shot, handheld flashbang, basically. It would crack, light off two thousand lumens, and direct forward in a large arc. All I had to do was blink as I shot. I figured more to use it to stun bystanders.

  I got it into a pocket, made a show of reaching for my pants, said, “Ugh. Damn!” as I “noticed” the filth—always make use of free resources—and walked out of the stall. Checking my phone, I muttered and headed for the door quickly.

  I didn’t know that they had cameras in there, but I was going to assume they did and protect myself accordingly.

  Outside, I flipped a phone, called Silver’s code. She said, “Yes?” and I said, “Where?”

  “Radius eight seven.”

  I was at seventy-two.

  I walked along next to the slides, ready to jump over the barrier when I saw him. Faces . . . rule out the females, the very short or tall, the young, quick scans of families, focus on the singles. Had I missed him?

  I raised the phone. “Where?”

  “Eight zero. I’m at one two zero.”

  I was at seventy-nine.

  He could have changed skin color, had minor surgery, be wearing makeup. I checked people with hats or keffiyeh.

  I didn’t want to turn too soon, but I should be right on him. There were only a few people. None looked like him. Only five males, none a close match.

  Had he passed the bags off on a shill?

  I caught the buzz, raised phone, and said, “Yes.”

  “He’s at seventy, slowed down, on foot now.”

  “I didn’t see him. Seventy?”

  “Yes, right at the gate for NRS.”

  Dammit. Now he was going to board.

  “Go there now.”

  I started jogging, working the low G against the gentle arc of the deck for an efficient but quick gait.

  There was a cluster of people boarding. They’d been boarding for an hour. We had only a little time left.

  Silver came up behind me.

  “Are we sure?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He could be lurking and waiting for us to board.”

  She looked frightened.

  I said, “Buy the tickets. If we have to fight our way off we can.”

  She nodded, switched panes and pushed a button.

  “Ready,” she said. She stepped over to a kiosk and pulled two keys from the printer.

  “Let’s go.”

  We made our way across the arc. It was amazing how immense even a third rate space station could be. Five hundred years ago this type of construction would be unthinkable.

  “Time frame?” I asked, checking my phone.

  “Nineteen minutes,” she said.

  “We’re pushing it, but that hems him in. Still got him?”

  “He’s at the ship, if that’s him.”

  “It would be great to see him right here,” I said. “That would conclude things easily.”

  We were almost home. I could feel it.

  She said, “He’s not boarding. He’s in the downward waiting area.”

  “Slow, then. I don’t want to spook him. If he misses and is stuck here, good. If he misses us and we get aboard after him, better. It gives me days.”

  “We can duck into that shop,” she said.

  “Good.”

  Twelve minutes. He was cutting it really close.

  “He’s not moving,” she said. “I’ve got him that way, two hundred meters.”

  “Luggage transfer. Dammit.”

  I dithered. Was he there? Or just the bags? Those were good transponders, but they were active now . . .

  “Let’s get him.”

  She split with me, keeping enough distance to expand our net, and to be backup, and to be able to give hand signals, without being so close as to make us a unit for tactical purposes.

  “Within meters,” she said

  Dammit. He wasn’t here, and we needed to get to the ship. Except, if he was, and we were aboard . . .

  I started opening lockers. I worked around one side of an island and found nothing but some food wrappers.

  There was nothing to be lost by multiple pings, so she dialed in, and pointed.

  “In this locker.”

  It was locked. I shrugged. She fished into her pockets and pulled out tools.

  In a few seconds she had it open. Sure enough, luggage.

  “He abandoned his bags,” I said, uselessly. “Run.”

  This was an old game, and I was furious. He’d wandered around waiting, almost certainly observing us, able to dodge either way, as I was now doing.

  We had tickets. All we had to do was board. All we had to do was get there. We were at a full sprint, and I was about to Boost, when I saw it was too late. The hatch was closed, and the lines dropped.

  If he was aboard, he was gone.

  I thought about an insystem ship and transfer at the jump point, but this Mesolithic hellhole didn’t have the infrastructure. Ships went directly.

  I was incandescent in impotent rage. Brilliant misdirection. Now we had to play catch up again.

  “He’s bound for Novaja Rossia, assuming he is aboard. Find us a workaround.”

  She nodded, looking frustrated and worried. Was I scaring her? I might be. I forced calm. The situation was what it was and nothing I could do about it now.

  She strode over to the public terminal and logged in. Ships didn’t leave here often, but there were a couple.

  “Got one leaving for Celadon space, in nine hours. We can disembark at the jump point, take a cross-system shuttle to the far side for Alsace, then across there and to Novaja Rossia.”

  “Time frame?”

  “Twenty days.”

  “And he’s going to be there in fourteen. Blast. He could even light out again before we get there.”

  “Do you want to try to hold at one of the stations for him?”

  “I am not holding. I am intercepting, one way or another.”

/>   “I’ll book them. Can we try to get the ship stopped at the jump point?”

  “Citing what grounds? We’d need to persuade a UN judge, then he’d be in a ship full of hostages.”

  “Understood. Passage through is thirty-seven thousand and change.”

  “And comes with capsaicin lube?”

  “That’s what we have, okay?” she snapped in a whisper.

  “Aggravated. Not you.”

  “Sorry,” she said. She was taking this personally. He’d defeated her trackers.

  I said, “Those were excellent devices. It happens.”

  “He’s better than me.”

  “He knows he’s being followed. Remember, he only has to make one mistake.”

  “As opposed to the tens we’re making?”

  She was steamed.

  She was even angrier a moment later.

  “Dammit, this line has a purchase window. We can’t get on that one, either.”

  “Yes we can,” I said. I motioned and started walking. That line’s office was only a hundred meters down.

  The counter clerk didn’t seem very interested as we approached.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “We missed our flight, and are trying to rebook now. Family emergency. But we’re inside the cutoff window.”

  He shrugged.

  “You will need to get on the next flight.”

  “We really need to hurry,” I said.

  He shrugged again. “What kind of emergency?”

  Silver gushed tears.

  “M-my father,” she said. “Please?”

  I was impressed. She really looked as if someone had died, rather than that someone was about to die if she didn’t get her way.

  Grudgingly, as if he had other, pressing matters, he leaned over to his comm, tapped in a few characters, filled in a couple of blanks, and said, “There is a ten percent surcharge for flights booked within the window.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. I turned to Silver. “Hang in there, Meg. We’ll get there.”

  He took our info and my card, which would once again be disposed of. Shortly we’d have to funnel all those loose funds somewhere we could use them.