Clay relaxed in a chair in the Maguro’s passenger lounge, sipping a bourbon and reading a novel he’d started back on Midway station to pass the time. Oddly enough, this was the third time he’d flipped back to skim the half of the story he’d already finished. He seemed to be forgetting key plot points, characters, and locations.
Ness sat on a couch opposite him, writing items down on a notepad. She glanced over at Clay with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Something bothering you?” she asked, obviously already knowing the answer.
Clay shook his head. “Either I’ve grabbed the wrong book, or I’m remembering it wrong. I could have sworn the main characters were in Oakland about two hundred years ago, but it turns out they’re in some place called Oakyard several decades later.”
Ness chuckled. “You plugged your pad into the ship’s network.”
Clay nodded. “I wanted to check for any updates on Locke’s past contacts, see if there was any unusual activity on Notosia indicating someone is gearing up to buy a newtech weapon. At the very least, I thought I’d get a feel for the climate down there.”
“It’s winter in Nakano City,” Ness said dryly. “They’re notoriously brutal.”
Clay rolled his eyes. “Not helpful.”
“Neither is your datapad now. What are the headlines?”
Clay ignored her and skimmed half a dozen feeds, most of which ran the same stories. He mentally filed them into four categories: praise of Supreme Chancellor Prevo; boasts about the Notosian economy compared to other independent systems; triumphant reports of authorities crushing “mentally disturbed” anti-government forces; and pieces sowing distrust of other systems—especially the Sol Directorate, Thurin’s president, and the King of Auria.
His stomach turned. “Fascist playbook 101. No wonder your Supreme Chancellor has held on for almost a decade. Looks like he has everything firmly locked down.”
“Technically, if you believe the rumors and your memory, ‘this Prevo’ is a decoy they swapped in six years ago after the original was assassinated, ” Ness said.
“I never heard that one,” Clay said. “I don’t suppose it will do any good to look it up.”
“Definitely do not do that, you’ve already got her attention. Don’t feed it by becoming interesting.”
“Her?”
“Mother Eye,” Ness said, glancing around in a half-serious conspiratorial fashion.
“She was in the briefing. Prevo’s corrupt propaganda SI that controls all the official government broadcasts and publications.”
“A lot more than that, I assure you.”
“How do you mean?”
Ness took a deep breath and leaned toward Clay. “Your novel. ’Oakyard’ isn’t a typo. It’s one of the six landing sites for the original Notosian Colony.”
Clay pulled up the book again and began skimming. Sure enough, the setting and timeframe had been altered. The story, a crime drama in Oakland, California, had been rewritten as the exact same crime drama in Oakyard, Notosia about a century later. He thumbed through his library and checked two more books at random. They had both been altered in a similar manner.
“How do people allow this?”
“They don’t get a choice. All public networks are owned by the Office of Communications, which can kill or edit whatever it disapproves of. If you’re a journalist, you learn to only pitch stories ‘of interest to the public.’ If you are a writer, musician, or any other type of artist, your work needs to be Notosian-focused or have a distinctly Notosian quality. Otherwise, you are branded a troublemaker and marginalized.”
“Surely the people see this, though. They just accept it?!”
“There’s never been what you’d call a free press on Notosia, Clay. Truth has always been what the people in power say it is. No one has known any other way. Besides, Mother Eye gives each of them their very own truth that’s more comfortable and easier to digest than reality. She’s very good at controlling those masses.”
“It still sounds unbelievable. You can’t just gaslight an SI into abandoning ethics. It’s built into the root code. What happened?”
“No idea, but his control is absolute because of her, and now she’s noticed you.” Ness nodded toward the holodisplay on the foreward wall of the room, which was currently playing a public service message in the midst of a news broadcast.
“… in the past three years alone. As citizens, we should always be on the lookout for co-workers whose behavior changes or who begin keeping odd hours. Be wary of neighbors and friends who come into sudden wealth. Above all, make it a point to watch for strangers who loiter in public places or have access to restricted areas. There are many governments that hate what we have here on Notosia, and some of them will do anything to ruin the peace we have enjoyed for so long.” The image concluded with the image of Supreme Chancellor Oron Prevo saluting the Notosian flag on the steps of Government Center.
Clay looked at Ness. He was about to protest that it could easily have been a coincidence when a rumble ran through the cabin. Outside the lounge windows, the docking arm retracted, and the Maguro slowly drifted away from the station. The captain’s image replaced Prevo’s on the holodisplay. After a bit of ceremony, he ordered the ship out. The trip from the Gate Station, four AU above the system plane, “down” to Notosia orbiting Iota Excipio at roughly 160 million kilometers would take slightly less than two days.
“Is that why Notosia only has one gate and no backup?” Clay asked. “Prevo sees outside commerce and tourism as a threat to his version of the truth?”
“Maybe. There are rumors he’s building new gates to secretly push into the frontier and form colonies. Of course, it’s decades before the other end reaches even the nearest stars, and decades more to terraform anything. What tyrant doesn’t expect to live forever, though?”
“Notosia isn’t the be-all, end-all of the Excipio system, though, surely.”
“The other settlements are small corporate colonies on the outer moons of a couple of the gas giants. All in-system governments co-own the Gate Station, but the others simply tolerate Notosia. To Prevo, they’re too small to matter as long as they stay out of his hair.”
Clay almost joked about a tyrant’s need to find new enemies, but stopped himself. He realized he had no idea what Ness’ loyalty was. It wasn’t uncommon for Division to buy off an enemy to act as a temporary ally. It’s often cheaper than earning loyalty and training themselves. His brief said nothing about Ness’ personal opinions, but Division 5 often kept personal details as “need to know.”
“What about off-book gates?” he said. “I’m surprised Locke is traveling openly. Surely smugglers, or some oligarch, have built at least one hidden off-book private gate.”
“They found one of the Sol Directorate’s a few decades back and blew it up. Cerberus might have one, and Prevo may have a back door out if his empire falls, but those are tightly held secrets that you only use when you have to. Locke made a show of parking his luxury yacht at Gate Station. Either he hasn’t cut a deal with the government or Cerberus yet, or he’s playing them against each other.”
Clay nodded.
“On the other hand,” Ness murmured, lowering her voice, “see those two by the exit?”
Clay glanced. Two men in clean coveralls: one had a mop of dark red hair and a full beard; the other was heavyset, with longer hair and a cybernetic arm. “That arm’s out of place for someone wearing a working-class uniform. Nice brass work inlays, though. Probably more valuable as an antique than anything practical. Otherwise, they read normally.”
“The fat one with the arm is Markus Klein, head of Jade Shield—half crime family, half fringe cult. A minor player overall, but recently had a few good turns, made a small fortune off them, and has channeled that into picking up a few hundred new followers. Discretion obviously isn’t his defining characteristic. The other one I don’t know. Might be a lackey or new recruit.”
The pair got up and left. No one paid any notice except for two men in matching blue suits who sat at the bar.
“Who are they?” Clay asked, tipping his head toward the suits.
“Tokusha,” she said without thinking. “Prevo’s elite government police squad. They get free rein to harass anyone who looks wrong. Best practice is to stay small and stay clear of them.”
Clay rose.
Ness arched a brow. “You disagree?”
“You’ve made Klein sound fascinating. I should meet him.” Clay smiled. “I doubt he and Locke are here at the same time by chance.”
“You’re going to provoke him? Here? Now?”
“We’re not going to learn anything sitting here skimming Mother Eye’s truth, and it’s better to confront someone like him off-guard and unexpectedly than it is to ask for an appointment in advance. Trust me.”
“Be careful. The Ministry of Transportation doesn’t love incidents on public flights.”
Clay nodded and left the lounge. The Tokusha talked among themselves and ignored him. He headed aft past the dining room and spotted Klein and his companion slipping into the storage hold in the aft quarter.
He waited about a minute, then followed. The hold spanned two levels and a quarter of the ship’s length. A narrow stair climbed to a catwalk around the upper level. Lockers lined the walls and ran in rows down the center—storage for passengers without cabins. The space was open to everyone at all times, and it currently looked empty.
Staying close to the port wall, he moved toward the far end until hushed voices drifted from the next aisle ahead. A surveillance drone, the only one in the room, apparently, sat on the floor at the end of the aisle, its diagnostic light blinking. Clay turned down the adjacent row and eased closer.
“… well we can’t spend the entire trip hiding back here,” a deep voice said.
“We?” the other man laughed. “You’re the one who insisted on doing this in person. You weren’t exactly subtle before, and now you’re a public figure. Of course they spotted us.”
There was a pause. “And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse,” Klein said. “We can always dissolve our agreement.”
“I considered it dissolved the minute you ruined our plans at Gate Station.”
“Fine.” Klein snorted. “I’ll expect the money I fronted you back in the morning.”
“That won’t happen. You’re the one who ruined the deal, and now you owe me for putting me on the Tokusha’s radar and risking everything we’re building.”
“I would watch how you talk to me, if I were you.”
“And if I were you, I would pay more attention to results than the public image of my organization. But, you’re right. Where are my manners, o great one? You’re the big important face of the mighty Jade Shield. I’m nobody. I’m just some passenger who saw you and decided to introduce myself. If those two back at the lounge stop me, I’ll answer a few questions and walk. You, on the other hand, will have a much harder time. In fact, maybe I should be proactive and introduce myself to them now, so they don’t have to wait until we’re back on Notosia to grab you?”
There was silence.
Clay edged along the lockers. Seconds later, the red-haired man appeared at the end of the aisle end ahead of him.
“Oh, you startled me,” Clay said quickly, noting Klein had come up from behind him to cut off any retreat. “I’m lost. Looking for unit B-908.”
Klein studied him, face blank. “Common mistake. B-units are upstairs,” he said, lifting his chin toward the catwalk. His eyes never left Clay.
“That explains it.” Clay turned. The red-haired man held position, eyes still on Klein for a signal.
“Your accent,” he said. “Downwest?”
“Procyon, actually.”
The man considered, then nodded. “A bit twangy for Procyon. You’ve traveled.”
“Yes. Terraform engineer for years in my youth. A couple of decades off-world. It gets muddled.”
“Fascinating. And what do you do now, Mr.…?”
“Girard,” Clay said, adding a touch of nerves.
“Obryn,” the redhead said, smiling for the first time. “What brings you to Notosia, Mr. Girard?”
“Bonai Saigo. Our former chairman failed to close a very lucrative deal, so our new leadership sent me to plead our case and see if the partners will reconsider.”
“Partners on Notosia? There are more reliable worlds to find partners.”
“Possibly,” Clay said. “But this particular one was headed there, so now I’m headed there.”
Obryn’s smile widened. “You’re very forthcoming. So, you’re not worried someone will beat you to the deal?”
“It’s not about who gets there first. It’s about who has the best vision for the future. I’m sure you understand.” He was sure the man did. The question was how much he’d give away.
“So, do your interests end with Procyon and Bonai Saigo’s margins, or is there something in them for Notosia?” Obryn stroked his beard. Neither he nor Klein had moved.
A fourth man rounded the corner and stopped behind Obryn. “Gentlemen,” he asked, his voice calm and authoritative, “can I help you with anything?”
Obryn turned calmly. “No. We were just talking.”
“I see. May I see your travel itineraries?”
“Is there a problem?” Obryn asked.
“There won’t be if you show me your itineraries.”
Obryn crossed his arms. “And you are? Last I checked, passengers aren’t restricted from this area.”
The man raised his palm, activating a holodisc that projected credentials. “Marshal Harris, Ministry of Transportation. Now, your itineraries, please.”
Clay, Obryn, and Klein complied. Harris examined each, lingering on Clay’s. “Mr. Girard … I see you have an elite transit waiver. You must be an important man.”
“A perk of the job,” Clay said, knowing a marshal who hassled him on a public flight could find their life complicated by a Directorate sponsor.
“You’re free to go, sir. My apologies.” Harris nodded to Clay, then to the others. “You two will come with me. I have additional questions.”
Klein and Obryn exchanged a look and started toward the entrance. After three paces, Obryn snapped around and punched Harris in the face.
Harris had expected it. He blocked, countered, and drove a fist into Obryn’s stomach. Obryn folded, coughing.
Harris drew a sidearm from his waistband and aimed directly at Klein’s head. “Enough. Hands on your heads. On your knees. Now.”
Klein slid his left leg back and raised his hands. Clay recognized the textbook, truly old-fashioned, boxing stance. He heard the cybernetic arm whir as Klein lunged, the mechanical hand snapping out and grabbing Harris’s wrist. Harris was faster, however, and smashed a fist down on Klein’s clavicle with his free arm. Klein released the marshal’s arm and took a second blow, this time a pistol butt to the head. He staggered but didn’t drop.
“You’re hardly the man of God you pretend to be, Mr. Klein,” Harris said, sighting the gun directly at Klein’s head.
Clay wasn’t as eager for straight-on fights as he’d been decades ago, but surprise was still his ally. He surged forward, wrenched Harris’s gun arm up, and slammed him into the wall. A sharp knee to the groin and a judo throw headfirst into the opposite bulkhead dropped the man to his hands and knees. The pistol clattered to the deck between Clay and Obryn.
Clay froze, watching Obryn. After a brief stare-down, Obryn laughed. Without looking, he safe-checked the pistol, then helped Klein up and pocketed the gun.
Klein raised the mechanical arm, palm out, and fired a quiet dart from under his wrist into the back of the marshal’s head. Harris convulsed twice and went limp.
“Ah, the release of the world from a monster is a beautiful thing. Put the body in my locker,” Klein said. His eyes had gone dead, and his face was expressionless. Obryn nodded, patted Klein on the shoulder in apparent gratitude, and began dragging the body off, their prior quarrel apparently forgotten.
Clay flinched slightly. Summary execution on board a civilian transport wasn’t justice, it was rot. He swallowed it down. “Was that wise? Surely someone is going to miss a marshal.”
Obryn smiled and shoved Harris’ body into the small storage unit. “Marshals are required to wear their credentials on their right sleeve and announce themselves immediately when engaging civilians. They don’t carry them in their pockets on a holodisc until you call them out, Mr. Girard. He was Tokusha, and since Tokusha are not supposed to be operating off-world, they’ll keep quiet about their missing man. Still, best if we all stay out of sight and not cross paths again. Agreed?”
“As you say, Mr. Obryn,” Clay said and left.
“I trust your discretion, Mr. Girard,” Obryn called after him. “But perhaps rethink doing business on Notosia. I doubt Bonai Saigo is prepared for the passion we bring to ‘friendly competition.’”
Clay said nothing as he exited the hold.
Five minutes later, he was back in the lounge, settling beside Ness.
“How did you and your new friend hit it off?” she asked, smirking.
“Klein’s a dangerous idiot. The friend has some brains, at least. Who was he? Says his name was Obryn.”
“Never heard of him, but I’ll do some digging for you.”
“I think I established we have common interests. Neither one of them can fight worth a damn, and both are too hot-headed to lead a rebellion. Still, they’re obviously tied to Locke somehow. The government knows it, the Tokusha know it, and Klein just confirmed it by killing one. We’re going to need to stay in our suites and off everyone’s radar.”
Ness studied his hands. “You’re bleeding.”
He flexed his knuckles, as if noticing for the first time. “Bulkhead has a mean left hook.”
“Alright, it’s your call,” she said. “How do you want to play it at the spaceport?”
“Your hotel-surveillance idea is a good start. I’m guessing Locke has a personal transport to get around the city. We’ll need a tracker on it before he leaves to meet his partner.” He thought for a beat. “You take the room and act as a lookout. I’ll slip aboard La Terreur, plant the tracker, and see what intel I can pull. I’ll need a shoulder bag with the following equipment waiting when we get off the shuttle.” He held up his datapad and beamed a file to hers.
Ness’s eyes widened. “You’re serious? A megacorp CEO’s residence? Do you know how many anti-intrusion systems that yacht probably has?” “I can make a good guess,” Clay said. “If it were easy, our SI would’ve already cracked it and moved in. After hundreds of years, no one’s found a substitute for a wet asset with ingenuity and field experience. Don’t worry. I’ll make it work.”
© 2024 Darrin Snider. All Rights Reserved.
