The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles) (12 page)

22.48 - Saturday, July 28, 2187 (Aarmaten District, Baal-500)

Jameson woke up and looked at his clock. It read 22:48. He’d been taking a quick power nap but found he couldn’t sleep. There was too much to think about, and his brain was repeatedly churning over all the information; the different ifs and buts involved in the problems facing him on the Argon.

How could he stop being a ‘by-the-book’ style of leader, yet still make a success of things? He’d never done his job this way before - going against the grain, winging it.

His influence and the levels of respect garnered from his the staff were important things to Jameson. His work made him what he was and he defined himself by his achievements. He put pressure on himself to make sure every decision he made was his best and felt compelled to make the consummate effort every single time. Now that he'd broken all his rules he didn't know what to do; he was out of his depth.

He got up and made his way down to Loading.

Despite the fact that the Argon was a small-to-medium sized starship
, it was still a 24/7 operation when on a mission. Whether it was maintenance, stock checking or plain old interplanetary warfare, the Argon never stopped - and tonight was no exception.

When Jameson arrived at LB, Lead-Out, Hellius and Crim had managed to raise the Argon Rover up on hydraulic lifts and were examining the suspension underneath the vehicle.

“We hae a wee problem, sir,” said Crim. “Seeing as how Corporals Gadget and Lead-Out hae replaced the entire broken baw joint, all evidence of ony foul play cannae be determined directly fae the vehicle as she staunds. However, the guid news is, we hae yon old steering knuckle and joint - here.” Crim was holding up the part in her hand. “Ye can see that it has definitely been worn awa by something; completely jiggered, by-the-way. The Rover would certainly hae crashed haud we no ran a preliminary oorselves.”

“The only problem now is whether or not The Zip will take our word on it, sir,” said Hellius. “They could easily accuse us of fabrication and we would have no real support for that kind of claim.”

“None, save our word as soldiers and air personnel, Sergeant,” bridled Jameson, fixing Hellius with some well-practiced pride.

“Yes, pardon me, sir. We would have that, certainly, sir,” answered the humbled soldier.

“Well, at least we have
some
evidence,” said Jameson. “And what about the documentation? Any word from McGilvary and Gadget?”

“It seems to have been signed off by a mutant, sir,” said McGilvary entering the Loading Bay with Gadget behind her. She'd found the list of equipment and their respective officials on Lead-Out’s tablet. “But, it’s very odd, sir. There are no mutants working at the airbase.”

“And the order, McGilvary, does it say who the order came from originally?”

“Yes, sir, it does. It says… Um, you’re not going to like this, Captain.”

“Who is it, Lieutenant? Tell me.”

“It’s
you
, sir. It says ‘Captain Philip Jameson: 28 July, 2187’… I think we’ve been had, sir.”

Lead-Out’s C-system began to beep, breaking the shocked silence that had enveloped the Bay.

She took the call.

“Yes, ma’am… Yes… I will, ma’am… right away…” she signed off and looked up at Jameson. “That was Dr. Gössner, sir. It’s about Spoolu… It appears she is going to be a mother, sir.”

“We
ll, we finally managed to get the scanner up and running, Phil,” said Tina. “Ng made the discovery, just now.”

“And have you told Zanthu?”

“Yes. And now he’s busy pacing about his room like an expectant father. The interesting thing is that Spoolu is now showing some signs of recovery. Zanthu thought that she was reacting to him sitting with her and thinking his positive thoughts.”

Jameson raised an eyebrow.

“Stranger things have happened, Phil. And science will, ultimately, only tell us so much. There is a problem, though. We had considered delivering the offspring early - then we discovered the foeti were only a month old, they would almost certainly die if we went ahead. Muidogs must go full term. Their premature birth mortality rate is very high. We need to keep Spoolu alive. Ideally, we need to get back to Muhaze and get her sorted out, there.”

“I see, Tina. Th
anks.”

“Any luck with the evidence collation?”

“Some. Though it’s not looking great. We still have the NIT, but no proof whatsoever that it came from TAPCON, just Gadget’s hypothesis. And then there’s the damaged suspension, but I’m not convinced that will hold up to any real scrutiny. No, I think our best line is what’s lying right in front of us - old Spoolu, here. The amount of sympathy the animals were receiving before we left Muhaze, it was incredible. We tell The Zip that Zanthu risked his life for his dog and, with luck, the general public will lap it up. They might just go for it. If we can play Sempre off with this, he might be forced to cancel Zanthu’s trial. It could also buy us enough time to find out what’s really going on here.”

“You really think Sempre is behind all of this, don’t you, Phil?”

“I know he is, Tina. I just know it.”

22:54 - Saturday, July 28, 2187 (Lojikaal Parc, Muhaze, Tapi-36)

Mikita was busy washing the silvery dye out of her hair, when there was a knock on the toilet door.

“Open up!” exclaimed a voice.

She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Oh, fire!
They’re here!

“Open up! Now!”

The TTF, they’re here, on the shuttle!

“Open up
! I need see you tickets, please!”

Mikita relaxed… i
t was a guard-mutant!

Oh, thank fire!
“Um, just a minute please!” she said. “I’m a bit, uh… ‘preoccupied’ at the moment.”

“Oh, yes. I sorry, Miss. I wait.”

Mikita knew it was time to get off the shuttle. The mutant would recognise her when she came out of the toilet and the TTF would already be contacting the driver, informing them that she was onboard.

Mikita needed to know where she was in terms of the city so she could form some kind of escape route when leaving the station. She tried to work it out in her mind.
I’ve been on the shuttle for about 10 minutes, heading northwest.
This shuttle is the high-speed sort, so that would put us at about -

Mikita heard the screech and grind of brakes.

The shuttle slowing down!

She would have to make a dash for it. She’d have to get off at this station, regardless of where she was
in terms of the city.

The shuttle came to a halt
. Mikita could hear the carriage doors letting off their hydraulic
phhhhhhhuuut
sound as they opened out onto the platform.

She pressed the green-arrowed button on the wall beside the toilet door
, and peeked out into the vestibule. The guard-mutant was helping an elderly passenger out of the shuttle doors and down onto the platform. This was her chance.

She left the WC and grabbed a small suitcase from
across the way on the luggage rack. Mikita held it up to shield her face and walked out of the shuttle door and down the steps. She could see the guard was occupied helping the old human with her luggage, so she scurried past them, heading for the exit.

Looking up at the station sign, Mikita saw that she'd made it to Lojikaal Parc
- a station in the far north of the city, in Arrondissement 44 - where her Aunt Fizz lived in her secure accommodation.

She
cautiously looked around for any trace of the TTF. The platform looked clear, except for a few passengers who had alighted, and Mikita was tempted to think that she’d lost her pursuers. But she knew better than to harbour any false hopes. The TTF were ruthless when hunting down a fugitive, they wouldn’t let up their search that easily - and they still had Polo.

Drain them!
she thought.
They used Polo as shizzing bait to catch me!

She quickly looked at her meta-file status: no messages.

Polo was definitely in custody.

Mikita set off down the platform. But where
would she go after she came to the end of it? Where could she go to be safe? And what would happen to her after that? Would she be a fugitive forever? She had no plan and there seemed to be no escape from her situation. Everyone was looking for her - TAPCON, the mutants, members of the public - what a disaster it all was.

“Hey, Mikita,” a voice called. “Over here!”

Mikita turned around, readying herself for escape. To her surprise she saw it was Vannerman - behind a large advertisement signing near the station cafe.

“Vannerman? What are you doing here?” Mikita asked, perplexed.

“Yeah, over here… Quickly!” said Vannerman, waving his hand for her to come over to him.

Mikita hurried
across to Vannerman and saw Taarja beside him, crouching down.

“Hiya, Mikita,” she cackled.

“Um, hi, Taarja. Listen, are you two following me, or something?” she said, suspiciously. “Are you with the TTF?”

“Who
, us? Ha, ha! Noooooo. No way. We’re
wanted
by them. You know, for dealing and stuff,” Vannerman sniffed.

“Oh, um, right,” replied Mikita, still confused.

“Yeah, yeah, they’ve been watching us for weeks. Things were getting pretty tense down at Weah Mansions, let me tell you. We reckon Dontai spilled the beans. Anyway, we’re on our way to Grafuulen. Gonna hide low for a while, keep an eye out, until things quieten down a bit, you know what I mean?”

Mikita nodded, but she wasn’t really taking it all in.

“So,” Vannerman continued. “What are you doing out here?”

Mikita was lost for words. How could she explain to them what had just happened? The truth would be unbelievable:
Well, funny you should ask, Vannerman. You see, I just killed Hanoi Jones, you know, my so-called boyfriend? But it was an accident, you understand. And now I’m wanted by TAPCON and every single mutant on Tapi-36!
Somehow that didn’t sound so great. And anyway, they were druggies, what could they do to help?

“Me? I’m on my way to see my Aunt Fizz. She lives around here,
erm, near here,” said Mikita, watching their reactions.

“Oh, OK. Hey, have you hurt yourself?” Vannerman was looking at her arm.

“No, no. I caught my sleeve on the shuttle doors as I -”

BANG!

A shot rang out!

Mikita screamed and started to run down the platform as Vannerman and Taarja dived for cover. Stealing a desperate look over her shoulder, Mikita could see a TTF agent at the far end of the station. The passengers had all either scattered or hit the deck and he now had a clear view of Mikita.

BANG! BANG!

She launched himself forward
, sliding along the platform as two bullets flew over her head. She crashed into a luggage trolley sending it flying off the side of the platform and onto the tracks. She nearly went with it, but managed to control her forward motion enough to stop, her head hanging over the edge, her hands tightly gripping a slab of jutting paving stone.

BANG!

Mikita cowered under her arms in fear.

Then, suddenly, everything went quiet.

She looked up.

There, to her left, was Vannerman holding a Blaster-Gun.

Mikita turned around. The TTF agent was rolling on the ground in pain, clutching his leg. Vannerman came over to Mikita and helped her up.

“Hey, close call, lady.”

“Yeah, but… you… you shot an agent, Vannerman,” she shuddered.

“Oh, yeah, right. So I did. Well, we’d better get out of here, then. Come on!”

09.09 - Sunday, July 29, 2187 (Froome Headquarters, Kloq-888)

Jon-7 was not happy. Nobody was paying any attention to him. Well, not as much as he would’ve liked, at least. And
, to add insult to injury, his girlfriend, Petunia Booti, had just left him for an android. Now he was unhappy
and
lonely. He needed an ego boost, so he’d taken to watching himself on The Zip.

He'd just caught the morning slot (it was the repeat of last night’s interview) when he saw Mikita on the news.

“Oooooooo… I like her,” he said to Budgie, his raggedly dressed, longhaired, stumpy-legged, side-kick. “And now a silvery-blonde, very nice.”

“Ooooooo… yes, Mr. 7.”

Jon-7 smacked Budgie on the back of the head. “Shut it, Budgie! She’s mine!”

Budgie was rubbing his noggin, looking up at Jon-7, confused.

“Hmmmm. And wanted for murder,” the Froome leader said, sounding impressed. “That kind of skill could come in handy around here.”

“Ooooooo… yes, Mr. 7,” Budgie repeated.

His brain got a bit stuck every so often, and what with Jon-7 constantly whacking him on the bonce, it was even glitchier than usual today.

“Go and get me a link, Budgie. I want to talk to the The Sempre. Go on, you little nyaff. Go, go… Now!”

“Ooooooo… yes, Mr. 7,” not moving an inch.

Jon-7 picked up his empty Mu-tea mug from off his desk and chucked it at his assistant, hitting him squarely in the face.

“Owwwwwwww!!” screeched Budgie, his brain whirling around inside his miniscule skull and unjamming itself. “Yes, Mr. 7, right away, sir!” he said, back to his normal grovel.

Budgie got up from where he’d been reiterating away and went into the Communications Chamber (or Com-Cham, as they liked to call it between the two of them). In reality, it was a small room with an old-fashioned, Earth-based machine in it that had once been called a ‘personal computer’. It still worked, but they were known to be highly unpredictable, even when they were brand new.

The gizmos at the Froome were not very up to date, to say the least, and the term ‘high-end’ was completely unknown to them. Put simply, their gear was positively archaic. However, it was all they had. Sempre kept them on a tight budget and didn’t allow them any luxuries. ‘It keeps them hungry’, he would say. Hungry, maybe, but the seeds of anarchy were already growing amongst the anarchists.

There were 42 members of t
he Froome and virtually all of them wanted Jon-7 to confront Sempre over several gripes they had with TAPCON: their shabby work conditions on Kloq-888, their wages, their health insurance and a few other minor moans and groans. The Froome were a volatile group and prone to moments of gross stupidity and rash judgement - a design flaw that had plagued Jon-7 ever since he'd taken over from Mayette Froome, seven years ago - not that he was anything to message home about on the smarts front.

Mayette Froome had been the a
rchetypal Iron Lady. She'd run the Froome single-handed, always demanding that her followers obey her every command, that they understood she was the boss. She asked a lot from them and if they delivered they were rewarded, and rewarded well. But if not - there was hell to pay. She was also Air Marshall Sashan’s secret wife.

“I have Mr. Sempre on the PC, Mr. 7, sir,” said Budgie, his brain now up and running at full speed (i.e. pedestrian).

“Excellent. And is the monitor working, my little goof-ball?”

“Yes, I can see Mr. Flugg, sir. It’s a bit crackly, but it’s not bad for a Sunday morning, what with all the Yu-webbers.”

“Good. Thank you, Budgie,” said Jon-7, swaggering his way into the Com-Cham. “Now, go away, you wretch. Leave me in peace.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Budgie did a little bow and walked out of the room backwards and still bent over, as Jon-7 liked him to do. He bumped his butt on the doorframe then sidled to his right, and out.

Jon-7 positioned himself with his best side forward as David Sempre’s face juddered onto the screen.

“Ah, Mr. 7. I thought The Zip interview went very well last night. My congratulations,” began Sempre.

“Yes, I was quite pleased with my little ‘barging in’ bit, I’m getting pretty good at those, even if I say so myself,” said Jon-7, flashing some teeth.

But Sempre was already done with the compliments.

“Now, what is it you need that couldn’t wait until after my breakfast?”

“Yeah, right. Well, I’m just checking on a few ideas I’ve been running up the flag pole here at HQ.”

HQ? Surely Jon-7 meant the raggle-taggle, semi-permanent bolt hole with limited sanitation facilities?

“I was wondering, Sempre -”

“That’s
Mr
. Sempre to you, 7.”

“Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you like, Mr. Semps.” He was such a wag. “So, we’ll do a bit of damage then, around the Muhaze area, as per usual?”

“Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble?” said Sempre, sarcastically - already growing tired of Jon-7’s company.

“No trouble at all. And where do you want the damage done?
The Shopping Centre, the Mu-U, the Sports Stadium? Somewhere else?”

“Yes, The Sports Stadium, why not. I hate sports. All those tall people running around and jumping about
, trying to be clever. Yes, blast it up a bit. Not too much, mind you. Money is very tight these days.”

“Sure, I understand. And while we’re on that topic, Mr. Sempre.” Jon-7 was about to make his move. “You know, it’s been good. We’ve worked together real well over the years. We do a bit for you, you do a bit for us, et cetera, et shmetera - yet, where’s it all heading? What’s it going to lead to? Where are we going with all this?”

“Oh, terrific,” muttered Sempre. “That’s all I need. An existentialist terrorist. A thug that thinks. Marvellous.”

“Oh, come off it. You know what I’m getting at. What’s at the end of the rainbow for me… um… for
the Froome? I’ve got a lot of people up here to look after. People that are demanding a bigger slice of the pie. A bit more of the takedown from the shakedown. Ya get me, Daddy-O?”

For some reason, best known (and kept) to himself, Jon-7 was lapsing into Earth-based beatnik poetics. And, needless to say, David Sempre was getting more and more annoyed - his Mu-Egg and soldiers were getting cold.

“Mr. 7. You asking me to treat you like an equal, aren’t you? You want me to share in some kind of ‘hands-across-the-water’ scenario; some kind of ‘cosying-up-to-each-other’ business. You want a ‘happy-ever-after-ending’, Mr. 7, don’t you?” Clearly, he was not pleased with the Froome leader’s new thinking. “Tell me, 7, how tall are you?”

“What? What do you want to know that for?”

“Tall! How tall are you, Mr. 7? Tell me!”

“6 foot 4 inches… But I still don’t see what that has got to do with -”

“No! No, you don’t, do you! Well, let me enlighten you! You, Mr. 7, are
tall
… AND expendable!”

Jon-7 was stunned - and very confused. He'd not expected Sempre to lose his temper quite like this.
Tall? Expendable? What on Kloq-888 was he talking about?
But Jon-7 was clever enough to realise that their meeting wasn’t going well.

“OK, OK, forget I said it.” said Jon-7, backing down. “I’ll sort it out at my end, don’t you worry, Mr. Sempre.” In reality, he was not at all interested in improving the lot of his rabble - he was really Earth-ba
sed fishing for something else. He cast out his line.

“Mr. Sempre, sir… And this is the last thing, I promise.”

Sempre nodded, having slightly regained his composure - he needed to keep Jon-7 onside.

“Tell me, please. This Mikita Smith
, I keep seeing everywhere. What is the story with her?”

“Not much,” Sempre began. “A murder, that’s all. Not the first one in Muhaze, and certainly not the last,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “Why do you ask?”

“Let me put it this way… I’m interested in her,” he replied, feeling the twitch of a nibble on his hook.

“Well…
I suppose the information can be made available to you,” relented Sempre.

Sempre liked to show off his methods. He enjoyed playing the big man (even if only metaphorically). “Miss Smith killed one of our operatives. A certain Hanoi Jones who worked for me as a Sourcer. The students at the Mu-U, you see – essentially it’s a psychometric testing centre disguised as a University. We need to work our way through them to find the superior minds suitable for employment at the top end of the TAPCON empire. Primos, we call them. Miss Smith was one of them. Of course, our teachers and lecturers do a lot of the preliminary groundwork, but after the Primos have been filtered it’s the Sourcer’s job to get to know them more ‘intimately’, so to speak, male or female. They get involved with them, learn what their weaknesses are,
and their strengths.  So, when it comes time for their interview, I have a first-hand psychological profile of each applicant. It saves endless amounts of money if we can single out the ones who will go the distance, find the ones who will do the job without questioning authority, without being overly problematic. Then, you see, Mr. 7, there is no need for coercion and ugly scenes, loss of blood and the like. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, Mr. Sempre.” The catch had bitten, but was putting up a fight. And for some reason, Jon-7 had the vague idea he was being warned, or possibly threatened, about something he'd done wrong, even though the conversation was about somebody else entirely. But he didn't understand why. His brain was not so far removed from Budgie’s in many respects.

Sempre carried on. “Jones tailed her for a while, then something went wrong. He was new to the game. He lost it. There’s nothing more to say…” Then, Sempre began to wonder at Jon-7’s inquisitiveness. “Why? What’s it to you, anyway? Eh, 7? Fallen in love with a murderer, have we? Ha, ha, ha!” That laugh, again. “Oh, he HAS! I can see it in his face!”

“No, no, no, Mr. Sempre,” lied Jon-7. “Nothing of the
kind, honestly.”

But Sempre knew he was fibbing.
This is going to be fun
, he thought.
I’ll wind him up a little bit.
Sempre loved tormenting Jon-7, though he had been known to go too far sometimes and ended up regretting it later.

“So, what will you do, in order for me to give her to you, 7?”

“But Mr. Sempre, you don’t have her to give, do you?”

Sempre was nonplussed. “No, not yet. But we will, soon enough.”

“What? With the TTF after her? That bunch? You’re having a laugh!”

“Well, at least they can actually explode bombs in the correct places!”

Jon-7 felt insulted by this. “Sempre, you mock me -”

“That’s Mr. Sempre, to you.
”

“No! Listen! If you don’t let me have her then I really will do some shizzing damage! This is a two-way relationship, remember, and you need to do your bit! The Froome are ready to kick some major gluteus max! We are ready to rumble, believe you me!”

“Ha, ha, ha. Don’t be stupid, 7. I’ll wipe you out,” Sempre said, calmly. “Look, I don’t have time for this nonsense. My breakfast is getting cold.”

Jon-7 was incensed. “Right then! We WILL attack Muhaze. And PROPERLY this time!”

Sempre leaned back in his chair and began to laugh. It was a slightly different laugh to his usual one. This was more of a ‘ho, ho, ho you must be mad’ kind of thing. Still evil - but more condescending.

Jon-7 impulsively yanked his computer’s power-plug out of its socket and the screen
peeeeeeeoooow
’d into a tiny central dot. The PC’s hard-drive made a harsh, grating sound - then slowly ground to a bemused, and somewhat relieved halt.

Jon-7 nervously nibbled at his well-manicured nails - then stopped suddenly.

Only then did he realise he’d already bitten off more than he could chew.