The remaining two days of the trip from the transit station to Notosia passed uneventfully. Clay stayed in his berth for the most part, drilling himself on key names in the ruling government, the major crime organizations, the dozen corporations under their control, and the top resistance and terrorist factions. Any one of them could be on the verge of buying a newtech weapon. None should be allowed to touch one.
Locke’s yacht arrived on schedule, thirty minutes behind Clay and Ness, and parked on the most remote berth. Clay watched it from the terminal window while Ness unpacked and assembled the portable scanning station in their hotel room. No one approached or left La Terreur while she brought the rig online. Everything Clay needed fit in a medium shoulder bag Ness had arranged to have waiting.
A low rumble shivered through the floor. The lights flickered. An attention alarm sounded throughout the starport as a calm voice ordered everyone to proceed to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion. Clay watched vehicles roll toward the main terminal from nearby administration buildings.
“We’re online. Full-spectrum scanners up,” Ness reported in his ear.
“What just happened?”
“Bomb in the west wing of the terminal opposite you. Don’t worry. Happens all the time.” Her voice was calm and collected.
“You can’t be serious,” Clay said, keeping his voice even. No one nearby seemed concerned.
“Welcome to Notosia.”
So, it was as advertised. “Any idea who did it?”
“Unlikely it was one of the Syndicate. They use the port like everyone else. Maybe a street gang. Factions pay them to do stuff like that to make the government look incompetent. It’s good for recruiting, and every bomb they use is one more the factions get to sell them back to replenish their arsenal.” Her tone was flat, clinical. “Strategically, however, the blast pulls Spaceport Authority and the Tokusha to the other side of the building from you. Security’s already thin where you are. Bribes do the rest.”
“So, Klein arranged all this as a distraction,” Clay said. “He killed civilians to save his own skin from being arrested.”
“I told you, there are no civilians on Notosia.”
“Non-combatants, then. No matter what side they took, they don’t deserve to die in the crossfire.”
“Either way, we need you to be moving.”
His ocular implant flickered; a new menu appeared containing everything Ness’s array saw from the balcony, overlaid on his natural vision. Portions of Locke’s ship glowed. Labels hovered, ready to expand with a thought.[ It’s more the Terminator’s eye than Steve Austin’s, on second thought. Now, you may ask why he doesn’t have a bionic ear with his transmitter built into it, to which I say … I thought of that, but decided it was impractical to the story and in real life.]
“Stay with passive scans for now,” Clay said. “Just look for unusual power signatures.”
The glow shifted and crawled to other sections of the ship.
“No shields. No sensors,” Ness said. “No tight-beam transmissions in or out. He isn’t moored or tied into port systems. He’s off the grid.”
“He’s venting air, though,” Clay noted. The topside decks were open, and people were walking along the railings. “That’s my way in.”
“Sure,” Ness said. “Just a 30-meter climb on ice with a slick hull. You won’t make it.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ve got magnetic gauntlets. I’ll make the climb.”
“And if the man who allegedly killed several executives and two dozen of his own employees catches you clinging to his ship? You won’t have a hand free to draw.”
“The idea is not to get caught.”
“Oh, is that all? What about the half-kilometer of open ground between you and the yacht? Locke cleared customs, restocked at the jump station, and refused port maintenance. He doesn’t want visitors. He can sit there for months as long as he pays his fees.”
“I’m sure Spaceport Authority loves that,” Clay said, scanning the grounds.
“Let’s see.” Ness switched to active, and in his vision, the sky was painted with color. Beams lanced between the tower and La Terreur. “Oh yeah, they’re watching him.”
“At least our extra sweeps won’t stand out. You can risk active scanning.” New options popped into Clay’s view. “Headcount?”
A wireframe of the ship’s interior overlaid the outer hull in his vision. A tactical summary indicated twenty-five biosignatures scattered across five decks and a large cargo/loading bay at ground level.
“Good,” Clay said. “At least there’s room to move around in there. What about that hold? Any odd power signatures, radiation, chemicals, shielding?”
Colors cycled in his vision for half a minute. “Nothing,” Ness said. “No anomalies, no unusual shielding. Maybe Keraunos is just a design or something benign.”
“A design’s a bluff half the time and not worth murdering competitors over. He could redact key components when he shows it. They’d get the point, and the information would be useless.”
“Maybe Division 5 has this wrong. Maybe the meetings aren’t about tech.”
“Only one way to end the speculation. I need to get on that ship.”
“He’s not ordering carry-out, and Port Authority’s happy to sit and watch. No one’s getting near him tonight.”
“Where’s a billy or a door-to-door salesman when you need one?”
“That’s it,” Ness said. “Great idea.”
“What is?”
“Be at the east security gate in two hours. I’m sending a sales team.”
One hour and fifty-five minutes later, the sun was down, and a bitter wind had blown in. Clay waited in a hangar entryway near the east gate and watched as twenty guards swarmed a hoverbus that had just pulled up to the security gate.
“Ness, what did you do?”
“Just a little impersonation. I called in a favor and ordered a welcome package for Locke’s crew. If their pitch works, that bus rolls straight to his door.”
One by one, twenty of the most beautiful men and women Clay had ever seen stepped out and let guards frisk them excitedly. They were dressed far too lightly for the cold, though none seemed to notice. Within minutes, the area was a cacophony of flirting and laughter. More personnel trickled out to join the party.
“It’s a nice distraction, but didn’t someone try to blow this place up a couple of hours ago? How bad is security?”
“Good salespeople trump bad security every time,” Ness said. “Right now, you could shake every guard’s hand and sit with the driver, but I imagine you’ll prefer subtle.”
Clay eased into the crowd as an ache grew in his gut. The exuberance, the disregard for the cold, how quickly they had been assembled by Ness, none of it felt right. Their presense might have been completely legitimate, but a nagging itch told him to look for himself; otherwise, it would gnaw at him for the rest of the mission..
He took the risk. He stopped a girl, hands gentle on her shoulders. A veil hid the lower half of her face, but her eyes told him everything. Her body temperature was warmer than it should have been in the cold, and her pupils were dilated more than they should be, lagging a beat as he turned her head towards the lights. It was as he feared: conditioning of some form. A memory painted in the rest—a girl not yet twenty on a faraway world.
When he didn’t release her, her eyes sharpened, suddenly lucid. She studied him, waiting. Clay flinched and let go, afraid she might scream. She stepped back, face returning to calm again. She looked down, in practice embarrassment, then drifted back into the crowd, as if trained to know her place.
“What is this, Ness?”
“You needed a distraction. I gave you a distraction.”
“They’re slaves.”
“Hardly. They’re yorohito. They’re resources, Clay. Don’t get sentimental.”
“I don’t use civilians,” he said.
“You can keep on using that word,” Ness snapped, “but, if Keraunos kills millions next week because you got sentimental over a few dozen who got asked to help by doing something they were going to be doing anyway, was it worth arguing semantics with me over this? I assure you, I did not coerce or force anyone to be there. I merely asked nicely and spent a bit of your expense account.”
He watched the girl. Whatever brought her here, consent or coercion, he could neither judge nor pity her. She showed no sign he’d frightened her and was now laughing with friends, her palm flirtily tracing a guard’s bicep. This wasn’t over, he promised himself.
“They’re reloading the bus and heading to La Terreur with or without you,” Ness warned. “Start moving.”
Clay found the rear cargo hatch control and popped it. Three large crates filled the compartment. They contained unmarked green bottles and a mix of legal and dubious recreational consumables. He tried to shift them to find a few crucial centimeters to hide in, but they were too heavy to budge.
“You’ve got twenty seconds,” Ness said. “And ninety before the tower sweep hits your quadrant.”
Thinking fast, he leaned around the corner, gave two guards a winning smile, and silently offered them one crate. They grinned and hauled it out, leaving just enough room for him to slip inside and close the hatch unseen.
“My God, you’re smooth,” Ness said, laughing.
It was the last bit of fun he had. Twenty minutes later, after slipping away in the chaos as the yacht’s guards tried to shut down a party of thirty beautiful gate-crashers, Clay clung to the side of La Terreur, 15 meters above the tarmac, magnetic gauntlets biting into a skin-numbing hull.
“Heads up,” Ness said. “As expected, the guards declined my gift and resumed patrols.”
Clay said nothing and inched along the hull to get underneath the protrusion of a lateral maneuvering thruster just as the patrol passed underneath him. The hull’s curvature would hide him until the last three or four meters if a topside guard glanced over the rail. The guards chatted underneath him but never looked up.
He exhaled and climbed. By the time he reached the open deck, the wind and freezing metal had numbed him to the knees. He wasn’t sure his legs would work when he needed them.
“Nice work,” Ness said. “Forward hatch three meters left. One guard at the bow, back to the hatch. Two to your right, talking. From the hatch down to the forward stateroom looks clear.”
Clay flicked on his HUD, briefly to align himself with her description. Satisfied, he sent a silent acknowledgment and killed the feed. The guards continued to talk among themselves, oblivious. He waited a few more seconds to make sure they hadn’t detected him. There was no sensor ping or change in posture.
He hauled himself over the rail, hugged the bulkhead, and crouch-walked to the forward hatch, still propped open to cycle local air through the ship. The bow guard leaned on the rail, rubbing his hands. Clay drew his sidearm and backed through the hatch without looking away. He took the stairs fast and stepped into an ornate stateroom.
Unused. Drawers and closets were empty. “This one’s a bust,” he whispered. The room was likely sound-insulated.
“The other stateroom is aft on this level,” Ness said. “Four inside. Bridge is one level up and halfway back—four in there. Looks like a maintenance room on the bottom level is the main security center, judging by the—” She cut off.
“Ness?”
“Oh, crap.”
“What happened?”
“There were five people in that room a minute ago. They’re gone now.”
“Not good. How did they spot me? Where are they now?”
“No, clay. Gone. They show on thermal, but there are no life signs or movement. I think they’re dead. No idea of how, though. They weren’t near each other, and I didn’t see any energy discharge to indicate a weapon or explosion.”
Clay eased to the door. Silence in the hall. “Clear?”
“Clear to midship dining. Galley left, dining right—empty. Stairs up to the bridge, down to a rec area. Keep quiet, stay in shadow.”
He slipped down the corridor and into the dining area, keeping to the perimeter of the room and out of the long sightline that ran the ship’s length. Twin stairs rose and fell.
“Clay,” Ness said, urgent. “Two more down on Deck Five, aft.”
“What is happening?”
“Now one in the fore section just dropped while I was watching.”
An alarm broke the silence. Lights instantly came on and flooded the room.
“Two more down,” Ness said. “Deck Five and everything below it is clear.”
Two guards, rifles up, sprinted in from aft. Clay dropped behind the table as they thundered past and down the stairs. He set his plaser to full load, stood, and moved steadily down the hall toward the aft stateroom.
Sylvester Locke sat behind an ornate desk, as if receiving a visitor. A micro-shift in his gaze gave Clay what he needed. Without breaking eye contact, Clay fired twice into the right corner of the room and was rewarded with the heavy collapse of a third guard. He hated killing in cold blood and hated guns more—but not enough to compromise a mission.
He leveled the plaser at Locke. “Don’t bother with the silent alarm under the desk. Your men are busy. The only way you’re getting off this ship alive is if you trust me.”
“Really?” Locke’s voice was calm, hands still below the desktop. “You want to help me? Yet, you just killed my…” He flicked a glance at the body. “Whom do you represent?”
“Mother and Father back home are very disappointed that you won’t share your new toy.”
“The Directorate.” Disgust curled his lip. “I’m surprised they found the budget to send a human asset. Why not just blow my ship up at Midway?”
“Clay,” Ness cut in, panicked. “He’s lost over half his men. Whoever it is, they’re on Deck Three, right beneath you.”
Clay’s pulse spiked. “Asset or not, what matters is that someone has quite handily dispatched half your people and is on their way to this office to kill you. I’m improvising; they’re not. You have five seconds to grab Keraunos and let me get you away from here.”
Locke stepped over to the opposite wall and pressed two fingers in three places. A panel slid back, revealing a small black case and a plaser. He took both and offered the gun to Clay, butt first, in a careful, non-hostile manner.
“Keep the gun. I have a feeling we’re going to need it,” Clay said. Give me the case, though. If I double-cross you, then you have my permission to shoot me.”
Locke looked genuinely shocked. He extended a cable from a slot near the handle, and jacked it into the port behind his left ear. A click and chime. He unplugged, drew the gun, and handed over the case in one smooth motion. “It’s neuro-sealed with a memory lock. It only opens if I think of the correct memory. It won’t open if I’m dead, and if you try to force it, you’ll destroy Keraunos. Mother and Father would do well to keep me alive until I can explain myself.” His eyes showed absolute confidence without a trace of fear or concern.
“We can worry about that once I’ve gotten you someplace safe, okay?”
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Locke said. “Everyone who touches that dies. It seems now is my turn.”
“Vengeance has a way of collecting debts at inconvenient times, I’m sure.”
“Vengeance?” For the first time, Clay saw genuine surprise on the man’s face. “The directorate seriously thinks I murdered my own business partners, and now they’re coming after me?”
Clay paused, shifted the case to his gun hand, and began fumbling in his pocket with the other. He shifted the case back to his free hand and affixed a wafer-thin adhesive tag under the handle’s flange.
A glint spun in his peripheral vision and buried itself in the wall to his left. He ducked on reflex and turned to see a shuriken jutted three centimeters deep into the wall. A straight line of blood painted a neat arrow for anyone slow to notice. Locke instantly collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat where the blade had neatly passed through. Blood gushed between his fingers. He tried to speak, but only a faint wheezing sound came out as he fell over.
Clay pivoted toward the door, raising the plaser only to have it wrenched from his hand. A figure in a black tactical suit, balaclava, and combat goggles stood where there had been empty space a split second ago. It regarded his weapon in silence. Clay stumbled back two steps, throwing up a makeshift guard. Whoever this was moved inhumanly fast and made no sound. There was no doubt it was the same ghost who had cleared the decks and killed one of the wealthiest men on Earth in minutes.
Unarmed and expecting to join the rest of the unfortunate damned, Clay swung the case at the figure’s head. The figure leaned back, letting it whistle past. Anticipating the follow-up to his ribs, Clay cut the arc short and batted the incoming punch aside with the case. Smart to anticipate. Lucky to catch it. Off-balance now, and wrong-footed, he took the other fist under the chin and felt his feet being kicked out from under him.
He woke fifteen minutes later to Ness screaming in his ear. “Clay! Answer me!”
“Ness?”
“Thank God. Are you hurt? Anything broken?”
He ran a quick check. A lump on the back of his head; arms and knees aching—from the climb as much as the fight. No obvious breaks. On a nearby side table, his plaser lay neatly disassembled. The attaché was gone.
“What happened?” Ness asked.
“If I had to guess? Ninja.”
“Ninja?”
“Shuriken, balaclava, very fast, very quiet kung-fu. Yeah.”
“Hei Gezi?” Ness breathed. “Holy shit.”
“Who?”
“Independent assassin. Expensive. Obsessed with old-school martial arts. The shuriken fits his M.O. Very few have seen him and lived. You must be special.”
“I don’t feel special,” Clay said, rubbing his head. “Get me out. How’s the path to the cargo bay?”
“You’re the only person still alive on that ship,” Ness said. The line crackled—someone was trying to jam them. He had minutes left, maybe less.
“What are you talking about?”
“He started on the bottom level, went straight up to the bridge, killed everyone—twenty-five, except you—and vanished. He never showed up on my scans. I wouldn’t believe it without the shuriken.”
“Why leave me alive?”
“I don’t know. Spaceport Authority has a team staged outside the main tower, waiting for clearance to board. They’ve probably spotted the energy signature from my scanner by now. I’m clearing out. You need to get moving, too.”
“Where?”
“Down to the hold, out the rear hatch. The perimeter gate is 200 meters to your left. I’ll bring the car there. I assume our ninja friend has Keraunos?”
“Yeah,” Clay said, eyeing Locke’s body. “In a case with Locke’s neuro-seal on it. Cracking those takes weeks, even for our best, so it’s probably still secure if we can catch it.”
“Who are you kidding? We’ll never see that case again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Clay pulled a small box from his belt pouch. “Before you pack up, open a broad-spectrum scan on 2.148 GHz.”
There was a pause and a click of keys. “Yeah, some sort of repeating beacon coming from the market district, five kilometers out. Looks like a hostel. What did you do?”
“Why do you think I took the case from Locke? I tagged it—with one of Karim’s trackers.”
“You clever boy.” She actually sounded impressed.
“Strong enough to triangulate? Are we back in business?”
“Oh, I can get it to a square meter,” Ness said. “We’re back in business.”
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