Rath's Gambit (The Janus Group Book 2)

Rath's Gambit

By Piers Platt

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1

Rath shivered on the back of the hoverbike, the crisp wind of the mid-altitude slipstream cutting through his clothes.

Should have picked a warmer coat.

The elation of his successful escape was rapidly wearing off, the adrenaline leeching out of him, to be replaced with the familiar bone-deep weariness from his years of nightmare-riddled insomnia.

Stay sharp – you’re not nearly in the clear yet.

On reflex, he accessed his neural interface, and called up the hemobot menu, intending to give himself a boost of caffeine. But the interface threw him an error message, and he punched the hoverbike’s console in frustration.

Can’t access the few hemobots you have left, stupid. And you gotta figure out a way to get them out of you before the Group realizes you’re still alive.

A police cruiser flashed past him headed in the opposite direction, sirens wailing. Rath’s heart skipped a beat, then he realized they were probably heading for the safehouse he had just left.

Where they will find two dead Group operatives … that I killed. If they can find anything at all in the fire that I started. Every cop on the planet was already out to get me after I killed a senator and kidnapped a couple cops … better stop giving them more evidence to find.

On instinct, he dropped altitude, changing course and heading out of the city.

A little warmer down here, too.

He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

Okay, let’s do mission planning. First priority: get the hemobots out.

He wasn’t sure why the Group hadn’t activated them yet – his data connection had been interrupted, but it had recently come back on, so he had to assume that Headquarters had reconnected with his cybernetic systems.

Which means I’m still streaming my audio and visual feeds to them, and they can track my location as well. So why haven’t they activated my hemobots and disabled me, like they did before? Regardless, second priority is cutting off that data feed – doubtless they have other contractors en route to recapture me. If the cops don’t find me, they definitely will.

His original plan had been to head straight for the spaceport and hop a flight off-planet; faster-than-light travel interrupted his data connection to Headquarters, so he had planned to use the flight time to figure out a way to permanently disable his data feed.

That’s not happening until I patch up my leg – can’t walk through security bleeding like this. And the spaceports will be on lock-down for a few more hours thanks to me. Was the senator’s assassination only this morning? God, it feels like it was years ago. A flight would give me time to heal up.

He winced and flexed his shoulder, where the gunshot wound from the mission at Suspensys was still healing. The wounds in his legs ached as well, given that most of his hemobots had been extracted and the rest were inactive. He realized they must have been suppressing the pain pretty heavily – it had been years since he had felt pain this raw.

At least I got my Forge back. And I’ve got one auto-pistol with a spare magazine, my fighting knife … and about twelve thousand dollars on my phone. Enough for a flight or two, but not much else. I need to find a hospital – no, the Interstellar Police will be looking for me there, they know I’m wounded. A clinic, maybe?

Rath’s heads-up display flickered, and then a message popped up:

“Oh, shit,” Rath said. He felt a gut-wrenching pain, and his muscles tensed, seizing up involuntarily. The bike screeched to a halt, then something in its protocols must have decided Rath was unfit to continue operating it – the autopilot kicked on, and Rath saw it was descending, headed for a landing in one of the suburbs below. The seizure was debilitating, but Rath found he still had some motor control – with only a small percentage of his original hemobots still in his bloodstream, the Group’s remote disabling procedure was not as effective as it had been before. With an effort, he unslung the Forge and opened it on his lap, sending it a command to build an EMP grenade. He watched, groaning in pain, as the nanomachines whirred to life and the base of the grenade began to appear. The bike landed a minute later and Rath fell off involuntarily, but he kept hold of the backpack, gasping as the seconds wound down and the grenade was finally completed.

When it was done, he grabbed the device and fumbled with the trigger for a second. As soon as the grenade activated, the pain subsided, and he was able to push himself into a seated position, leaning against the bike and breathing heavily. In his heads-up display, the grenade’s timer was already ticking off the seconds, counting down from three minutes. Rath swore, sending his Forge a request to build another grenade.

Each grenade lasts three minutes … but the Forge needs about three minutes to build a grenade. Even if I keep it building more grenades nonstop, I’m probably going to have gaps in coverage. They’re going to be able to cripple me every few minutes, and track where I am.

Rath swore quietly and stood up.

At some point they may just decide to kill me, too – tell the hemobots to stop trying to disable me and just make a lethal toxin.

The timer on the grenade ran out, and Rath gritted his teeth in anticipation. The wave of pain rolled in almost immediately after the grenade died.

Gotta find somewhere.

Rath could barely hold himself upright against the bike.

Somewhere I can just let them disable me for a while, and stockpile some grenades. And come up with a plan.

A woman walking her dog strolled past Rath, and seeing him nearly doubled over in pain, stopped to ask if he was okay. Rath managed to nod and wave to her, grimacing. She gave him a worried look and continued on.

Get out of the street.

He pulled up an aerial map of the city, zooming in on his location. He was in a large residential area, houses set amid tidy yards. There was a school several blocks away – that might afford him some places to hide. But it would probably be patrolled by a night guard, and he was in no shape to deal with that. He caught sight of a large garden shed behind the house across the street.

That will have to do.

His next grenade was ready, so Rath triggered it, straightening and taking a ragged breath. He grabbed his Forge and the keys to the bike and stepped into the street, staggering for a second as his head swam. When the dizziness passed, he dashed across the street, hopping a low stone wall into the house’s yard. The shed was not locked, to his relief – he found it half full of children’s toys and gardening tools. Rath cleared a small space in the back corner, propped himself up facing the door with his auto-pistol on his lap, and set the Forge next to him. He sent it an order for fifty grenades, then took a deep, shuddering breath.

Get ready for a couple hours of fun.

* * *

The sun had set by the time Rath was finished. Two and a half hours of agony had left his body exhausted and sore, but he had fifty grenades in two heavy bandoliers slung under his jacket, and a plan. He popped the first grenade, stuffing it in his cargo pocket, then left the shed, jogging back across the lawn to his hoverbike. He needed five more grenades to get to his destination, a cybernetics research lab several towns away. He parked in the building’s lot, but saw to his chagrin that most of the lights in the building were off.

Can I get just one break today?

The last grenade he had set off had nearly expired, so Rath set another one off, tossing the used grenade into the bushes in front of his bike.

I’m leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel with the goddamn breadcrumbs.

A movement caught his eye, and Rath saw one of the lights in the building come on: someone was still there. He increased magnification on his eye implants.

Please let it be a researcher, and not a janitor.

Through the window, he saw someone standing in front of a vending machine.

Someone wearing a white lab coat. Thank god.

Rath dismounted from the bike and walked to the front door, pausing to hit the buzzer. The seconds continued to tick away on his grenade timer.

Come on, come on, come on.

“Yes?” the voice came from a speaker in the wall.

“Uh, I found a key card out front on the pavement, it looks like it belongs to someone who works here?” Rath said. “Just trying to return it.”

“Oh, okay. Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

The door slid open a short while later, and Rath saw a slight young man in his late twenties. He held out his hand for the badge. “I’ll take it, thanks.”

“You work here?” Rath asked, pretending to fish in his pocket for the missing badge.

“I’m a researcher here, yes. I’m a student of Dr. Lepore’s.”

“Sorry,” Rath said. “Can’t remember which pocket. So you do cybernetic implants? Hemobots and stuff?”

“Mostly limb replacement,” the man said. “We’re testing nerve interface solutions.”

Rath pulled the auto-pistol out of his waistband. “Well, I hope that means you can help me.”

The man’s eyes went wide.

“Holophone, now,” Rath ordered. The man started to hand Rath his wallet, too, but Rath waved him off. “No, just the phone. Is anyone else here?”

“N-no,” the man said.

“Any implants of your own? Data connection?” The research student shook his head. “Good. What’s your name?”

“Stam,” he managed. “Please don’t shoot me.”

“I’m not going to shoot you, you just need to listen carefully and we’ll get through this fine, Stam. I’ve got some hemobots, and you’re going to take them out for me.”

“You have hemobots, and you want them
out
of you?” Stam asked.

“Let’s just say they’ve got a mind of their own,” Rath told him. Another wave of pain gripped him – he had let the timer run out without realizing it. “Shit.” Rath drew another grenade and triggered it, then straightened up. “Let’s head inside – you can put your hands down.”

“I don’t know much about hemobots …,” Stam said, leading the way to lab. “I’m just a doctoral student, and my specialty is in nerves – connecting living nerves to transplants, so patients can feel what their new limb feels, kind of thing.”

“Are you saying you can’t help me?”

Stam eyed Rath’s pistol. “Uh, no … I’m saying, I-I guess I’ll figure it out. We’ve got an old dialysis machine in storage. This way.”

The storage room turned out to be a repurposed classroom, with long rows of laboratory tables equipped with sinks and Bunsen burners leading up to a presentation board. Spare equipment was stacked along the sides of the room, with stools up-ended on top of the tables. Stam rummaged in a cabinet for a minute, and finally pulled out a suitcase-sized contraption.

“Here it is,” he told Rath. He wheeled it to the front of the classroom, and plugged it in, uncoiling several plastic tubes, and then unpacking a medical kit. “Why don’t you take a seat in the chair?”

Rath did so. Stam finished attaching the tubes, and then capped each with a needle. “These need to go into your arms. Well, your veins, technically. But I’m not a doctor, I don’t, uh … the nurses here usually handle the intravenous stuff, you know?”

Rath set his pistol on his lap and rolled up each sleeve, then took the needles from the researcher. “I can do it. I was trained in administering an IV.”

“To yourself?” Stam asked.

“The less you know about me, the better,” Rath replied.

“Sure. Sorry.” Stam coughed, and then busied himself with the dialysis machine.