Rogue-ARC (23 page)

“Okay. You’re about the same age Deni was when I was on Earth.”

“Deni?”

“Senior Sergeant Denise Harlett was a friend, the only real lover I had on and off for a decade, a fine sniper and tech specialist. I chose her for my cell because she was very good, and I knew how she worked. I wanted my deputy to be familiar.”

I sighed, closed my eyes, and said it.

“We screwed up; she got pregnant. That’s where Chelsea comes into this. Deni hid her in the building when they got hit by UN troops. I was out at the time, officially gathering social intel. Actually, I was going irrational from realizing I’d just killed three million people in a morning’s work. So I left her, and Kimbo, and Tyler Jones to die. I feel pretty fucking shitty about that even now, and will forever.”

“You had to save your daughter,” she said.

“Yeah, and that didn’t help with the guilt. I should have gotten the two of them out and made the fuckers pay. You might pick up that I’m not very happy with life.”

“So me being a seventeen-year-old female is the problem?”

“One of the problems, yes. And dammit, I’ve had no romantic partner since then, because I was in hiding, and self-loathing, and don’t have a personality most people can handle when I’m not pissed off, which is constantly. So now I’m next to an attractive woman, stuck to me like a hullsucker, no offense, for the duration. I can’t nail you, I can’t get away to nail anyone else, I want . . . dammit.”

She sat quietly and gave me time to compose myself.

“There was a slaughter on Mtali, too. Partly my idea, partly Naumann’s, but I think he manipulated me into it. Still, it’s my fault. We went around terrifying villages into compliance. I screwed up and let one get the upper hand. The only response possible was to exterminate them . . . all of them . . . dammit.”

I felt nauseated all over again. It had been a total fucking waste, brutal murder, and it had accomplished nothing. I didn’t want to think about it. We’d made sure to destroy all the evidence we found, and now everyone involved was dead, save me and Naumann. I sank my nails into the quilt and twisted.

“So I came back . . . and I was overloaded with stress. I went to the rec center, and I couldn’t . . . I needed release, and I couldn’t, because I needed a human being, and I needed it to be someone compassionate, so I could use them as a tool.

“At that point I found I couldn’t.

“I am an insane sociopath. I see everyone as us or them, and I can do whatever is called for to them—complete suppression of emotion. I can’t do it to my friends. If I were a true sociopath, I wouldn’t care at all. That I care means . . . I don’t know what it means. It means I hate myself for what I do. I’m broken.”

I sat, hoping she’d ask and hoping she wouldn’t. She deserved to know, but nothing would fix it.

“Go on,” she said. Her body language tightened up as she sat back. Dammit, that was bad for our cover.

“Yeah, I’m sexually stressed, among other emotional overloads. It would be unprofessional to grudge fuck you. It would be unfair. It wouldn’t make things better, and I can’t do it. Part of me is overcome with lust, part is fighting it down, and all of me is hating me, and I want the entire universe to die, except I’m the one who should. And it’s possible I’ll need to do something that gets you killed to accomplish this, and it’s between me and Randall and Naumann, and even if you volunteered, you deserve better than to be in this cesspool.”

There was more silence. After a long pause, she said, very softly, “There is nothing I can do to help.”

“I know.”

I could hear the hesitation as she said, “I have a question, which is mission relevant, but probably very painful for you. I don’t know how to phrase it.”

“Go ahead,” I said, with my stomach eating its way out of my belly.

“Why aren’t you a contract killer? From what you describe, you fit an appropriate personality. But you’re not, and he is. That’s important to defining his personality.”

That really, really hurt.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never did and never do. When I have to, I shut down and . . . except I used to have furious hatred. The illogic. I became exactly the things I hated so I could fight them, and I can’t get back.”

“They broke you,” she said. “I’d say it’s not your fault, but that’s not going to help.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” I said.

“I’ll sleep clothed. Should we have space?” She looked serious and professional, her face in stiff lines, and fuck me if that didn’t make her more exciting.

“When possible, just like we have been,” I said.

“I’ll make it possible. I hadn’t realized until we started this mission how it differs from battlefield. Battlefield, everyone’s a unit, and some have different plumbing. This . . . is intimate and personal, even as an act.”

“Acting’s like that, as you saw.”

“No wonder so many celebrities are freakos. We’ve got that, and combat, and politics.”

“Yes, it calls for special people.”

That stern look again. “Please advise me of my performance so far.”

It helped. I knew she was doing it to push me into a useful mindset, and . . .

Wait, I hadn’t told her much, really, since we started.

Crap. Yeah, self-centered is Ken.

“You’ve saved my ass several times directly. Your technical skills are amazing. We have good rapport and work well together, despite my early misgivings—unwarranted—and no lead up time. The problem here is me, not you, in any fashion.”

She flared her eyebrows and said, “Thank you.”

“It’s fair,” I said. “You were right that you could handle it emotionally. You’ve waded in where needed without hesitation.”

“I still get the shakes. A lot.”

“Shakes afterward are normal and expected.”

“Yes, I knew that. It feels different. Then, I sort of retreat behind training when I have to confront people. It helps.”

“I know,” I said. I must have grimaced again. I’d done that retreating myself, to an extreme.

“Sorry.”

She stretched slightly, said, “Try to sleep. I’ll sit up a while.”

“Thanks,” I said. It was a nice gesture, but I wasn’t going to sleep.

Still, I lay down to try, and had to rehash the discussion, even though that would keep me awake. She sat at the cruddy little table, researching more of something she’d compile into the files.

That had been easier, in the sense of a straightforward explanation, and more horrifyingly violating for my psyche, than I’d expected. I could never forget it, because the survivors of what I did could never forget it. I doubted most of them were very forgiving, either.

I half dozed in and out until dawn. Then I gave up and rose. She was asleep, on the far side of the bed. Even dressed, she had an elegant curve to her hip and a pretty face. I sighed.

I promised myself I’d do whatever I could to get her home in one emotional piece.

CHAPTER 14

The jambiya was lovely.
It looked and felt centuries old. The goatskin on the scabbard was tattered in spots. The wood was crumbly. The horn hilt even looked bug bitten. Amazing.

“It is beautiful, and you are a craftsman before Allah,” I said.

“You flatter me. Any praise should be to Allah, for gifting me with my poor skills.”

“I am most pleased. It will make a fine addition to my collection. It is so hard to find an original.”

We swapped tea and pleasantries and then I made my goodbyes. They don’t hurry in that culture. You must exchange tea and pleasantries. I kept it under a half hour, barely.

Silver was likewise stunned.

“I wonder how it would hold up to genetic analysis of the organic material,” she asked. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, I figure to sell it as ‘provenance unknown.’ Which is accurate. Buyer can make their own conclusions. Now we need a high starting bid to rule out poseurs and locals, but low enough to inspire interest.”

“After I tag it,” she said. “I’ll put microtic xceivers in the scabbard and inside the hilt plate there.”

“Bolster,” I said.

“If that’s what you want to call the hilt plate I won’t argue with you.” She smiled.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“To sweeten the deal I had this belt cut and beaded across town, and it goes with the case I ordered.” She laid that out again. Yes, it was amazing.

“Package listing?” I asked.

“No, separate, and a few hours apart, at three different houses in this area. The idea is to confirm he has at least one of the three.”

“Makes sense. Do you have dealers set up?”

“I do, all on commission. As a minor benefit, we should get better than half our investment back, perhaps more. We also hope to get it from him.”

“I see nothing wrong with that.”

She seemed a bit distant. I could guess why. Covert covers are always messy, or at least, have always been so for me.

We had a two-week hiatus before ships arrived. There were few regular routes, this being a destitute backwater. There were sporadic charters and tramps with cargo, such as we’d arrived on. There were UN-sponsored relief ships, and some contract haulers for industrial stuff. If we could pin Randall down a little, there was a good chance we could intercept him as he left. I had no moral issues killing him in public in front of a crowd. Well, one. My daughter. Still, if it came down to it, she was old enough to manage on her own and Naumann would ensure she had a guardian for whatever time she needed before she declared herself an adult. Then she’d have all the assets I’d acquired. It was also very likely he’d have me sprung before I actually got to arraignment. I could trust him that much.

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.”