The Tabit Genesis (14 page)

A few retina drones buzz overhead, and there are marked Ceti guards lounging about. They haven’t recognised me – the hat and shades are common accessories here. Plus, no one expected a high-ranking officer to be mingling in a place like this. Time to make my exit.

‘Dusty,’ I say, taking a glance around. ‘I have business with clients. Meet me back here in four hours.’

‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Look, I’m not trying to be a nuisance. Just think about what I said.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, grabbing his shoulders. ‘Listen, things are different now. If anyone recognises you … says, “You’re the guy who rolls with Jack Tatum” or any of that, deny it and get away from them. Drawing attention to yourself is a bad idea.’

He looks frightened, as if he had only just realised what my problems meant for him as well.

‘Okay.’

I hold up my corelink.

‘Call if you need anything
urgent
. Got it? Keep all the nurturing shit to yourself.’

I leave him and walk into the crowd. Ten minutes later I’m a few blocks from the spoke platform and standing before an electronics warehousing camp – each vendor table is barely a metre square, and these dilapidated aluminium tents are erected by the dozen. A stinking haze hangs overhead from all the hardware soldering going on. I find the tent I need, walk inside and shut the curtain. People use these to make encrypted calls all the time – you could build an untraceable corelink from scratch right here in the camp – and Ceti doesn’t bother to scan the outgoing traffic.

This is my assigned Navy drop. We’re never supposed to use it, except in emergencies – life-threatening situations, blown covers and the like. If discovering an imminent Ceti invasion of the Inner Rim wasn’t an emergency, I didn’t know what was. Brotherhood is 1.8 billion kilometres from Tabit Prime; the message I prepared wouldn’t reach the Navy for at least ninety minutes. Factoring in the time it would take for them to respond, plus all the packet rerouting to hide origination data, I figured it would be at least four hours before I heard back from them, if at all.

Given what happened two weeks ago, I’m not looking forward to the reply.

I leave the tent and light a smacker.
Mission fucking accomplished.
This was Admiral Hedrick’s problem now. Two agents died to bring him that information, so he better do something useful with it. The only thing I’m useful for is acting like a sadomasochistic asshole on the Navy’s behalf, and it so happens there really are Ceti scum lords here I need to check in on.

At least that part of my life wasn’t a lie.

One hour later, I’m very intoxicated and couldn’t care less about the Navy or the end of Orionis. Insofar as criminal activity is concerned, my Ceti subordinates have done well, and I’m worth a few thousand more CROs. The money is a pittance for me, so I decide to share the wealth, buying drinks for everyone. My philosophy is that generosity brings good karma, good social currency, and good business. And at the moment, that nonsense is more important to me than keeping the low profile I originally planned.

Next thing I know there are attractive girls under both my arms and someone has laid a bunch of C-tens on the bar – slang for the number of carbon atoms in a methamphetamine molecule.

These girls are seriously provoking my libido. I hear music playing, and I think it’s coming directly
from
them, through the pores on their skin, which I can see with astonishing detail, thanks to all the tens I’m eating.

There’s a bathroom here. Not the public restroom, but the one next to the manager’s office. My lady friends and I are going to borrow it.

The door flies open, and the Minotaur, that asshole, steps out.

‘Bitches,’ he snarls. ‘Leave.’

And he grabs me by the coat, pulling me in. The Minotaur is very strong. I’m falling forward, towards the edge of the toilet.

Jake.

The Navy thanks you for sending urgent and actionable intelligence on Ceti’s plans for the
Archangel
.

However, your conduct towards fellow agents, regardless of their crimes, is reprehensible. No matter what the mission, this agency cannot trust someone who demonstrates such cruel disregard for human life.

You are hereby ordered to proceed with your exfiltration protocol and return to Tabit Prime immediately, where you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Assets have been dispatched to ensure your return, dead or alive.

I once asked if you were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for Orionis. Your answer did not exonerate you from the consequences of your actions, nor empower you with the discretion to wilfully endanger the lives of others.

You are no longer the man my daughter married. As such, you are now dead to me.

Commander Augustus Tyrell

Beep beep
beeeeeep
.

That dreadful goddamn noise ruins my solitude, alerting me to sensations of nausea in my stomach, throbbing wet pain over my eye and fluffy wads of razor wire in my throat.

Light is bashing on my eyelids, and all I want is darkness.

Beep beep
beeeeeep.

‘Tough words from Tyrell,’ the Minotaur says.

My eyes are wide open, and I don’t want them to be. I’m on the floor of a disgusting bathroom and there are people standing over me that I don’t recognise.

‘They know who you are,’ he says, ‘so watch it. You talk in your sleep.’

I’m getting up. My limbs are doing this on their own.

Beep beep
beeeeeep.

What the fuck is that?

‘That’s your corelink, you shit heel,’ the Minotaur says. ‘And it sounds
urgent,
remember?’

The word obliterated the fog.

Dusty!

Somehow, I’m running as fast as I can, and the Minotaur is clearing a path through everything in my way.

The avenue outside is less crowded than the market proper, but that would change as we approached the spoke tram. Speed was critical, so pursuing on foot was not an option. Dusty is not answering my calls meaning his physical corelink is disabled, but the service is still active and broadcasting an emergency to my device. It is thirty minutes past the time we were supposed to meet, with trams leaving for the hangar every eight minutes.

For a mutant, the Minotaur is a surprisingly cognitive creature with impressive persuasive skills. I watch with mild amusement as he throws a Ceti security officer off a mobile sentry platform.

‘
Do you know who I am?
’ he roars at the stunned guard. ‘I’m the fucking Minotaur. Get on the radio and tell your squad to surround the Camden spoke tram elevator
now
!’

Then he looks at me, man-beast nostrils spraying fire everywhere.

‘You coming or not?’ he snaps.

The terrified guard is looking strangely at me. I shrug my shoulders as I step aboard. The Minotaur is at the controls, and I just hold onto the rails as it ascends several metres off the ground. He pulls an attachment from the console that looks like another corelink, and starts barking orders to Ceti Watch like he’s the ranking officer on the station. And oddly enough, they’re listening to him, and I think that’s because he’s actually making sense. Next thing I know, spoke tram service is shut down. Harbour Control is refusing to let ships land or take off. Every departure in the last four hours is being chased down by Ceti gunships.

The Minotaur has placed Brotherhood, the biggest station in the Outer Rim, in total lockdown.

‘Where’d you learn to talk like a cop?’ I blurt.

His hand lashes out, smacking me in the mouth.

‘Shut the fuck up before you get us
both
killed,’ he snarls.

The platform isn’t designed to be flown at high speeds, yet he’s somehow able to coax an astonishing amount of power from it. He’s buzzing just over the heads of denizens, scanning the crowd, when suddenly he puts the Camden spoke tram platform at our backs and accelerates to the machine’s top speed. I can hear that the corelink chatter has picked up.

‘They found him,’ the Minotaur announces. ‘He’s been taken hostage, but they’re trapped in the Rio spoke tram.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘No idea, but we’re going up to meet them.’

‘Why not just lower the tram?’

‘Because the kidnapper might know who you really are, so we’ll need to end that conversation before anyone else can hear it,’ the Minotaur says, pointing to a display on the controls. ‘Watch this. We have a little time.’

The retina drones spotted Dusty as he entered the ship component wards. He was meandering about, not looking where he was going, when he crashed into a woman carrying a tray of junk. Stupidity follows; instead of just moving on, Dusty bends down and helps her collect it all. She’s dressed in similar craftsman’s garb and sporting old-fashioned glasses – essentially, Dusty’s version of Miss Orionis. When the mess is cleaned up, long moments of awkwardness follow. Finally, she invites him to see her vendor’s table, and within seconds they’re strolling about, conversing enthusiastically the entire time.

I’m disgusted with Dusty for not recognising the whole thing is an act, especially after I warned him earlier. She’s hunching her shoulders on purpose; I recognise hard muscle beneath all the rags she’s wearing. It’s a ruse to make herself look as unattractive, unassuming, and as
unintimidating
as possible. Dusty is uncomfortable in front of everyone, but whoever this was did their homework. They must have been talking about ship tech, because that’s the only way to break the ice with him.

She reaches out and touches his hand; he flinches away and blushes because no one has done that to him in years. She giggles, completely disarming him. Then they’re holding hands, right before disappearing into the tent behind her table.

Ten minutes later, she comes out alone and packs up the table, placing it in a large bin that was concealed beneath the tent. The drones don’t spot anyone leave the back. She’s just another merchant calling it a day in Camden, pushing her wares towards the same spoke tram we’re approaching right now.

The Minotaur is certain he’s in there, but I’m not so sure. And because of my scepticism, the son of a bitch pulls up abruptly, climbing the vertical spoke at top speed. It’s too much for me, and I grab the rail and barf hard over the side. Hanging there for a moment, I notice there’s blood mixed in the chunks that the crowd below is trying to avoid getting struck by. Dusty was right: I’m not well.

We’re over a hundred metres up now. The tram car is partially visible within the spoke shaft, and if there’s anyone inside, they’ve moved away from the windows.

The Minotaur points.

‘Service hatches every ten metres,’ he shouts. It’s surprisingly loud this high. You can hear the metropolis below and above, as if it was still ground level. ‘See? The roof is an easy jump.’

‘What’s the plan?’ I ask. ‘Just drop in on them?’

‘That’s right,’ he says, steering the platform beside the access hatch. There are metal rungs all the way up to the next one.

‘Then what?’

‘Get Dusty back!’ the Minotaur says, climbing over the rail. ‘Think you can handle a little girl?’

‘What if she’s armed?’ I ask.

‘Then you get exactly what you’re looking for,’ he says, disappearing inside. ‘Save your friend or die trying. You win no matter what.’

I step off the platform just as it runs out of power and begins falling towards the surface. Climbing up a few rungs, I peer inside the shaft and see the tram’s roof just a metre or two below me.

The hatch is already open, but I don’t hear anything. Some shipping crates are visible, but that’s it. More importantly, the Minotaur is nowhere to be seen. I’m vaguely aware that my heart is pounding, my senses are heightened, and I have a sharp headache … the kind of pain that comes from thinking too hard, right behind my eyes.

For the third time this past hour, I act before making a conscious determination, and jump inside.

The tram car is big – this one is for hauling freight, several times larger than the one Dusty and I rode down on. There are crates of varying sizes, some stacked to the ceiling, and
there’s a gun in my hand and I have no recollection whatsoever of how it got there.
Reflexive muscle-memory is taking over my actions, because I’m light on my feet, relaxed in the shoulders but firm at the wrists; my index finger rests on the trigger; I’m using a cupped double-hand grip on the weapon, looking down the sights, moving slowly, silently, checking corners, listening, completely attuned to my surroundings, waiting, stalking, hunting …

… and I know, suddenly, that the noise to my left – metallic, caused by a tossed object – is intended to divert attention from the kick approaching from beneath, targeting the gun. Avoidable, but my training compels me to allow it – a conditioned response to maintain my cover identity, no matter the cost. I pull back slightly, just enough to let the toe of her boot strike the barrel to avoid damage to my hands.

Her strategy is obvious, and I can infer two facts from her technique: she is cybernetically augmented, and she was trained by the Navy. Her strikes are quick and precise, generating big power in short distances. But her style is customised for her size; she doesn’t have big hands, but instead of curling all her fingers inward to make a fist, they are folded towards the palm at the first joint, which makes me think her knuckles are made of steel. Her boots have a metal extension from the toe, and her leg kicks are more like quick jabs than sweeping strikes. All of her blows are targeting nerve endings across my neck, torso and limbs, and are delivered with enough force to maim.