Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (7 page)

Luis
stood alone in the gloom as the icy wind howled across the landing area in New
Grytviken. Fifty meters away the sleek patrol craft shuddered as the launch
thrusters came to life.

He
waved one last time to Keira and Ryo through the wide, curved cockpit window as
they busied themselves preparing the ship for departure. Luis caught glimpses
of Seamus behind the two pilots.

The
old man returned his wave.

The
thrusters roared mightily and the patrol craft lifted skyward. At about three
hundred meters, the ship rotated slowly to the north. The aerodynamic control
surfaces reconfigured for high-speed flight and the big main engine throttled
up.

The
ship dashed away with a rumbling sonic boom that echoed between the cliffs that
surrounded New Grytviken.

Luis
stood for many minutes in the gusty twilight of South Georgia Island. For a
time he watched the rapidly receding red and blue marker lights of the patrol
craft as the ship raced toward the northern horizon and then he just stared
wistfully into the distance at the scowling gray storm clouds.

He was
alone again.

Luis
was shaken from his doleful introspection by an especially surly blast of
freezing wind.

The
man gathered his thoughts and trudged back towards his little white cottage on
the bluff above the harbor. He wasn't likely to see another soul until the
supply ship sailed into Cumberland East Bay sometime in mid-March.

A
light smattering of snow swirled around as he made his way up the path.

The
warm lights of his tiny home shone through the windows.

Luis
smiled a bit as he ascended the five frost-covered steps to the front door.

There
sitting patiently in the front window awaiting his return was Moresby, his
steadfast gray tabby cat.

• • •

“This
afternoon,” Sabra grinned impishly as she met Dilma at the reception desk at
the Connaught School, “I'd like to take you over to Roscommon Park.”

The
skittery little girl's eyes grew huge at the prospect of a grand adventure with
her new nanny.

“The
park?”

“Yeah,
it'll be great fun.” Sabra shouldered the girl's school bag; “The Bicentennial
Exposition will only be open for a few more weeks, so if you don't see it now,
you probably never will.”

Dilma
raced ahead through the lobby and pulled open the heavy front doors. The two
glided together down the wide stone staircase to the busy street.

They
strolled hand in hand on the crowded sidewalk.

“How
was your school day, kitten?” the woman asked.

Dilma
skipped several steps before answering; “We studied about the Greeks in the
morning, played four-square at lunch break and worked on some couplet poetry in
the afternoon.”

She
stopped and cocked her head, “What about you, Sabra?”

The
woman smiled at the earnest question, “Well; after I dropped you off at school,
I trudged on over to the University and sat through my
Historical Rebellions
lecture, which was deadly dull. Then I went back to your apartment and tidied
up a bit. I had a snack and took a bath. After that I called Ryo's office to
see if they had any idea as to when he'd be back in Free City. They didn't, so
it looks like I'll sleep at your apartment again tonight and get you off to
school in the morning.”

Dilma
nodded with glee at the happy prospect.

“Oh, I
almost forgot,” Sabra mentioned when they stopped at the corner to wait for a
westbound transport. The woman retrieved the wide bejeweled headband decorated
with a bright silvery concha of an eagle from her head, “this is for you.”

Dilma
stared in amazement at the offering. Her fingers slid appraisingly over the
bone and brass beadwork for several seconds.

Sabra
grinned at her awestruck charge, “Let's put it on you, sweetie.”

She
adjusted the clasp and slipped it onto the youngster's head.

Dilma's
face glowed with the attention of the idolized woman and the joy of receiving
the newfound treasure.

“There;”
Sabra stepped back and admired her gangly young companion, “you look splendid.
You'd fit right in with the Enlightenment Crusaders.”

The
girl blushed at the praise, “Thank you, Sabra.”

• • •

Tariq
trotted into the coolness of the desert cave and bowed in deference to the
Warlord.

As was
his habit, the recently recloned raven-skinned leader leisurely finished up the
final few morsels of his lunch before he acknowledged Tariq's arrival.

The
ruler finally dabbed his lips with the sleeve of his sweat-stained cotton
shirt, “What is it, my servant?”

“Oh
Exalted One;” Tariq intoned, “a courier from Tunis delivered a message from My
Master, Commander Frédéric Rameau at the Military Base.”

The
Warlord scowled a bit, “Did you murder the courier after he gave you the
message?”

“Yes;”
Tariq nodded, “as per your command, my leader. The message-bearer is dead and
will be unable to reveal our location to your adversaries.”

“Excellent,”
the Warlord smiled. “What is the information that Commander Rameau wished for
me to know?”

Tariq
stared into the forbidding eyes of the man for several seconds before he
answered. The act was impertinent and might well result in his own swift
demise, but Tariq felt that he had to see the man's first reaction to the
startling news.

“My
Master..,” Tariq stammered, “...has deduced who is responsible...for the murder
of your most beloved third wife, Sophia.”

The
Warlord's face darkened into a hateful mask of vengeance.

“How
is Rameau using this information?” the man finally growled.

Tariq
quivered as he contemplated the smoldering ruler, “My Master has set in place
an effort to kill the rogue.”

• • •

Dilma
dipped her thin fingers into the trickling water of the Commemoration Day
fountain in the park.

It had
been a marvelous adventure for her young charge, Sabra noted as she watched the
girl.

Dilma
had eagerly tried every strange variation of food that they had come upon at
the Free City Bicentennial Exposition. She especially liked the spicy
Thai/Martian fusion fare that was available at a brightly lit booth near the
Warlord Syndicate Pavilion.

Sabra
stopped to wait while the girl picked a few stray leaves from the pool of water
at the base of the fountain.

She
was quite a sight, the woman grinned. When they had first arrived at the
Exposition nearly four hours ago, Dilma pointed in great glee at several other
youngsters sporting colorful face paintings. Sabra located a booth that applied
the makeup and Dilma sat nearly motionless for ten minutes while the artist
transformed her thin freckly face into a fair facsimile of a stylized blue
butterfly.

Sabra
had added to the merry illusion by buying a matching blue-feathered boa for the
girl.

Dilma
finished up at the fountain and skipped to Sabra's side.

They
stopped a few minutes later in the rose garden. The girl was fascinated by the
profusion of soft petals that adorned the thorny old bushes. Sabra smiled when
the child carefully plucked samples from several different blooms and let them
flutter to the ground like a flock of tiny birds.

The
two continued their stroll together through the park.

Dilma
pointed to a crowd of a dozen or so people up ahead, “What are they doing over
there?”

Sabra
knew the somber location well but apparently her young companion did not,
“Let's go see, sweetie.”

They
joined the solemn group at the base of War Atrocities Monument.

Nearly
everyone in Free City stopped for several minutes of quiet reflection at the
memorial when visiting the park. Every year on Commemoration Day people would
slowly file by to lay symbolic notes to the dead at the monument.

“It
seems so sad here,” Dilma stared up at the woman.

“It's
a way of remembering everyone who died during the Second Amero-Asian War,”
Sabra whispered.

Dilma
tentatively touched the cold gray stone surface of the base.

“Did a
lot of people die?”

“Nearly
everyone, I'm afraid.”

The
girl grimly contemplated the symbol meant to mourn the victims of humanity's
greatest folly.

“Why
did it happen?” Dilma asked.

“Stupidity.
Nations argued and fought; eventually almost everyone was murdered.”

The
girl slowly nodded with an unwelcome new understanding of the treacherous
nature of humanity. Lingering just below the surface of fun and frivolity was a
sinister undertow of self-destruction.

Keira
set the patrol craft down in a near perfect landing next to the Law Enforcement
hanger at the Ballyshannon Space Port.

Ryo
stared out into the darkness at the deserted facility, “Where is everyone?”

Keira
glanced at the ship's clock as she toggled several switches to shut down the
craft, “It's 2:13 AM, the hanger is only staffed until midnight.”

“I'd
like to get Nate Briggs' corpse over to the coroner's office as soon as
possible,” he grumbled.

Keira
smiled weakly at the old Investigator, “I'll send a urgent request over to
their office. They do pick ups around the clock.”

The
exhausted cop nodded, “Thanks; the sooner the body is hauled away to the
morgue, the sooner I'll be back to my warm bed in Free City.”

She
twisted around in the pilot's seat and woke Seamus, “Come on old man, we need
to catch the 2:30 transport back to town or we'll have to wait a couple of
hours for the next one.”

Seamus
squinted in incomprehension at the woman for several seconds before struggling
out of his seat.

Ryo
caught Keira's wrist as she stood, “Before you go, I have two requests.”

She
studied him with concern.

“If
you'd open the cargo hatch and lower the crate with Mr. Briggs' remains to the
tarmac, the coroner's men and I won't have to fumble about with that task.”

“Certainly.”
The woman flipped a switch on the console and the low rumble of the opening
cargo bay doors pervaded the ship. When the 'Hatch Open' light flashed green,
she activated the cargo lift.

Keira
bit her lip and turned to Ryo, “What was the second thing?”

The
bone-weary Investigator glanced back at Seamus, “Walk him to his apartment and
do a thorough but discreet search of the place before you leave him.”

She
frowned and was about to ask why.

Ryo
held up his hand and stopped her, “Don't ask, just do it.”

“OK;”
the woman frowned, “since Lev's out of town, I'm not in any hurry to get back
to my cold and lonely apartment anyway.”

The
exhausted threesome straggled off of the patrol craft.

Ten
minutes later, Ryo watched enviously as Keira and Seamus boarded the nearly
empty transport back to Free City.

At
4:03 the boxy black Free City Coroner's vehicle screeched to a stop next to the
patrol craft.

The pimply-faced
driver loped out and approached Ryo, “Good morning, I'm here for a pick up. Are
you Inspector Trop?”

Ryo
nodded in dismay, “Yeah, but the two of us won't be able to get this crate into
your rig.”

“It's
not a problem for a change,” the young man waved to the vehicle, “my boss sent
me out with another guy for some reason. I would have been here sooner but I
had to stop by the University to pick him up.”

The
side door of the transport slid open to reveal a uniformed middle-aged man who
sported a wide grin.

Ryo
smiled in surprise, it was Lieutenant Zmuda dressed as a Coroner's Assistant.

Zmuda
joined the men at the crate.

“Inspector;”
the Lieutenant adeptly played his part, “I'm Uloff Lebrinski, Suspicious Deaths
Auxiliary Pathology Technician.”

Ryo
winked at his old friend; now it was his turn to fabricate a story. “We came
upon this poor chap floating around off the coast and some gents in a passing
fishing trawler crated him up for us.”

Zmuda
stroked his chin in mock dismay, “Alright, we will see what we can find out
about him.”

The
three men lugged the heavy packing crate into the Coroner's transport.

When
the box was lashed in place, Zmuda turned to the driver, “Wait here with the
body, I need to get some details from Inspector Trop for the Preliminary
Report.”

The
two older men returned to the patrol craft.

When
they were finally inside the spacecraft, Ryo chortled at Zmuda, “Uloff
Lebrinski? Where do you get these names?”

The
Lieutenant grinned in reply, “We did a study at the University a few years back
that proved that people will often only remember that a name is unusual but
invariably couldn't actually recall what the name was.”

Ryo
rolled his eyes.

Zmuda's
smile faded, “What's your best guess as to how Nate Briggs and the others on
the
Billikin
died?”

“Murdered,
or at least disabled, using some sort of new narrow-beam energy weapon. It was
all quite gruesome.”

The
Lieutenant drummed his fingertips on the side of a bulkhead, “Well; that part
seems to be falling into place, I’m afraid. The EurAfrican Commander of Covert
Operations in Tunis had three handheld particle beam weapons specially produced
that could really cause problems. They appear to be remarkably effective as an
assassin's side arm.”

“So
someone has gotten a hold of one and is blasting junkmen in Low Earth Orbit?”

Zmuda
winced, “So it seems.”

Ryo
frowned, “Bigger and better guns, that's all we need in the hands of lunatics.
I'll poke around in the office in the next few days and let you know what I
find out.”

“Thanks.”
Zmuda glanced out of the cockpit window, “Do you know a Liaison Agent named
Hugo Mackillroy?”

“Mac?”
Ryo nodded with a yawn, “Yeah; he and I have worked together off and on for
years. Why did you ask?”

“He
sent a message to your boss indicating that he had some vital information for
me.”

Ryo
smiled a bit, “Mac's always turning up good leads.”

“I was
afraid of that.”

Ryo
could tell that something was amiss, “What's the problem?”

Zmuda's
eyebrows arched up, “Agent Mackillroy insisted that he would
only
reveal
what he knows to a top official of the CRAMP in person. Helga says that he was
adamant about meeting with me in New Rome.”

“Well;”
Ryo nodded, “that
is
unusual but not unheard of with Mac.”

The
spy was visibly relieved.

“The
meeting is in two days and Helga wants you to accompany me.”

“Of
course she does,” Ryo shook his head in dismay. “I just want to relax at home
and spend some time with my kid.”

“After
a short trip to New Rome, I promise that I will leave you alone for awhile.”

• • •

The
urgent “message” slowly blinked in a long string of red dots and dashes on the
desktop interface screen.

Mixion
stared sleepily at the characters in the warm, quiet workroom. It was 5:47 AM
and she was unlucky enough to be on duty in the CRAMP office.

Lieutenant
Zmuda had been anxiously awaiting dispatches from the spy at the EurAfrican
Imperial Military Base in Tunis. He'd deemed the messages so vital that the
communication link to the contact in Sicily had been continuously monitored for
the last several weeks.

The
previous three reports had been mundane: the first merely acknowledged that the
tall “mute” had activated the tiny transmitter, the second confirmed that he
had been working in Commander Rameau's office and the third indicated that he
was able to search through documents on the Commander's desk.

Mixion
refocused her flagging attention back to the screen. In her current thick and
heavy-eyed state she'd never be able to unravel the mishmash of flashing dots
and dashes.

She
sighed and withdrew several sheets of white paper and three pencils from the
desk drawer. With mind-numbing concentration so as not make an error, she
copied the Morse Code onto the paper.

Mixion
was well-aware of the limitations of the tiny transmitter, the far less than
optimal antenna and the especially narrow bandwidth, all of which meant that
the message had to be absurdly short and repeated many times to increase the
chances of successful communication. Errors were to be expected in the
messages.

The
woman retrieved the
Southern New Mexico Regional Variant of American Morse
Code
reference that the spy had produced before Zmuda had sent him off to
Africa. She set to work transcribing the dispatch.

A half
an hour later she had finished and began studying the long string of letters
and numbers earnest.

922E17221M98012E1?22?N080??E17221N08

She'd
placed question marks where the symbols had been too garbled to assign a
character with any certainty.

“E1”
popped out right away, the letter and number combination repeated three times
in the 36-character segment.

She
cautiously wrote out “E17221” because the five symbols appeared together in two
out of the three occurrences that started with “E1.”

It was
just past eight o'clock.

Mixion
carefully reread the two-page appendix at the end of the Morse Code reference.
'The number one can often be misinterpreted as two,' she grinned with newfound
comprehension. 'Nine and zero were often mistaken for each other. M and N have
a similar problem.'

She
scratched away at the message for many minutes. Mixion patiently substituted
letters and numbers that were commonly misinterpreted or transposed as she
rewrote the message seven different ways.

The
woman finally underlined her interpretation: Probably
E17221N0801?

Mixion
took a deep breath and changed the question mark to the number two, producing
E17221N08012.

That
was it, she smiled weakly, the twelve-character combination had repeated itself
at least twice in the middle of the string and in consecutive fragments at
either end.

But
what did it mean?

After
several minutes of consternation, she tapped on the communications device and
summoned Jasper from the Situation Room.

When
the big man arrived, Mixion showed him the short message.

“What
can you make of this, Jasper?”

Mmm; I
don't know, sweetheart.” He tipped his head, “The 'N' and the 'E' remind me of
compass settings, but the order is wrong and I have no idea how the numbers fit
in.”

Mixion
stared up at the big man, “There's an order to compass settings?”

“Yeah;
I learned about it in the Boy Scouts as a kid, you start with North and move
clockwise around the compass face. So North, East, South, West.”

“Mmm;”
Mixion glanced at the sheet, “well that helps.”

She
methodically recopied the message in reverse yielding 21080N12271E. “Apparently
our spy was taking no chances and has decided to disguise the information
further by sending it backwards.”

Jasper
nodded, “Add a space between the N and the 1.”

Mixion
complied. “Are these map coordinates?”

“I
think so, but there should be decimal points in there somewhere.”

“OK; I
have a hunch that I want to play out.” She tapped at the desktop interface
screen and called up a World map. “Our spy is in Tunis, so let's start with
Africa.” She highlighted the section of the continent North of the equator and
entered the string of numbers and letters.

Four
possible locations appeared on the screen. One was in deep water off the coast,
one was in dense jungle and two were in the immense Saharan Desert.

Jasper
chuckled, “I think we can rule out the Atlantic and the rainforest for now.”

She
pointed at the screen, “Alright; we'll start with these two spots in the
desert.”

“One
is on the border between Algeria and Mali and the other is a high desert
plateau in Niger,” he summarized. “Let's look at the satellite images for these
sites.”

Mixion
tapped at the Algerian border coordinates and toggled the resolution to five
square centimeters. “Mmm; I don't see much of anything but empty desert for
twenty or thirty kilometers in any direction.”

“Try
the other one,” Jasper suggested.

She
switched to the second location and smiled, “Bingo!”

“Ruins
of some sort.” He squinted at the screen, “Are those people?”

Mixion
zoomed in on two conspicuous orange and green striped dots. “It looks like a
couple of gun-toting Desert Serfs.”

He
kissed the top of her head as she stared at the screen, “I'll tell the boss
that we've found something interesting.”

Jasper
trotted off in search of the Lieutenant with a hastily made copy of the map
coordinates.

Mixion
slowly scanned the area that surrounded the Desert Serfs.

“I
wonder what these two are doing out in the middle of nowhere?”