Contact Imminent (18 page)

Oh, hell.
“Yes, sir.” Micah followed Pascal into one of the larger rooms and found Cashman standing over the pieces of a room-rated imager, fiddling with the mirror array.

“Hey, sch—” Cashman caught himself, eyeing Veles as though he expected the man to pummel him for the infraction. “Hey, Fabe. I've been over every millimeter of this thing and I can't find what's wrong.”

Micah took the array from him and examined it. “What's the problem?”

“The thing won't display. Switches work. Signaling checks out. I thought the mirrors were misaligned, but they check out, too.” Cashman scratched his head.

“Powerpack charged and loaded?” Micah thought he'd spoken under his breath, but Cashman's dropped jaw and Veles's sharp look indicated that he hadn't. “All right, let's pull apart the image sync.”

While he and Cashman worked, Micah sensed the movement around him as Pascal continued to set up for the meeting, removing materials from a coffinlike carrier set against
the near wall. The wafer folders containing graphs and figures were expected enough, but the last display piece captured even the dour Veles's attention.

“Excuse me.” Pascal set a mid-range shooter the size of a tall man's leg in the middle of the table as though arranging such things atop conference tables was something he did every day. “Show and tell,” he said by way of explanation as he pointed the muzzle in the direction opposite the occupants of the room, then returned to the carrier.

We use those
. Micah imagined the heft of the weapon in hands, hid a smile as he recalled the excited look on Manda's face when she blasted her first target to dust.

“What the hell?” Cashman backed a half step away from the table. “Keep that thing away from me.”

“It's a dummy.” Micah tried to keep his attention fixed on the imager, but something about the mid-range bothered him. The loadlight just fore of the grip fluttered like a beating heart, and that meant only one thing with this particular model.
Damned thing's loaded
. His grip on the image sync tightened so that Cashman muttered, and he handed the thing off.
Damned thing's for real
. Powerpack in place and ready to fly, as Chrivet loved to howl at the top of her lungs.

Micah waited for Pascal or Veles to notice, but they had adjourned to the far side of the room to discuss some aspect of the upcoming meeting, conversing in low tones as they checked a handheld display.
Shit
. Meanwhile, the loadlight continued to pulsate, promising all sorts of wall-blowing mayhem to whomever bumped or prodded the thing hard enough to engage the charge through.

Oh hell
. Micah reached across the table and hoisted the weapon, taking care to keep it pointed away from everyone.
As if it matters
. As if the damned thing wouldn't blow out two adjoining walls if it let loose.
Damned fools
. He squeezed the grip and jammed back a nearly undetectable lever, discharging the powerpack with a loud click.

“Is there a problem, Lance Corporal?” Pascal gave the handheld to Veles and walked to the table.

“This thing was in firing mode, sir.” Micah set the mid-range back on the table, then handed the pack to Pascal. “The power supply was engaged.”

“That's the optics light, not the loadlight,” Veles muttered.

“Captain Veles is correct.” Pascal took the pack from Micah, then lifted the mid-range as though it were a feather and rammed it back into place. “There's a prototype still under development that has the indicators reversed, but the old hands charged with testing the thing are complaining because they're used to reading the loadlight through the sight. That's what this meeting is about.” He set the weapon back in its place, shaking his head. “It is a dummy, by the way. This isn't the Haárin enclave.” He shot Micah an annoyed glare, then returned to his conversation with Veles.

“How the hell did you know about the prototype?” Cashman removed the first in a series of alignment cartridges from the image sync and held them up to light.

Micah stared at Pascal's back, willing him to turn around, yet fearing what he'd see if he did.
He caught me…he caught me
…“I saw…a presentation.”

“That must have been one hell of a presentation.” Cashman's face brightened. “Hey, success!” He held up the sync, which now glimmered in activation. “Poles reversed on the left aspect.” His brow knit. “I wonder how the hell that happened. No one had any problems with it yesterday.”

“I'll bet.” Micah waited for Pascal to turn around, to look at him, to drive home with a superior smile the fact that he had won this round. But the man still seemed too involved with the upcoming presentation to care. He didn't even bother to dismiss them, but let them leave without a word.

 

The day continued free of incident, which meant that Micah didn't see Pascal anymore. He hunted the meeting files for any information concerning mid-range prototypes, any presentation or article that he could point to and say
I learned this here
. But he couldn't find a single reference, including one to the meeting that Pascal claimed to be chairing.
He
made it all up. Jazzed the imager and switched weapons, just to trick me.
He wondered what Pascal's next move would be, and if he stood a chance in hell of seeing it coming.

He pondered his situation during his walk home. As he cooked his solitary dinner. As he changed into his casuals, grabbed his sim gear from its drawer, then donned it and lay back on his couch.

The tones sounded. Micah struggled to concentrate on them, and waited. Waited. Waited—

“We're walkin' in Jesus' footsteps, boys and girls! Across the water, one, two, three!”

Micah spotted the back of Chrivet's helmet through the lakespray, and imagined clobbering her with his mid-range.
This is no time for blasphemy, Sergeant
. A swell chopped his ankle, and he barely caught his stumble in time.
If this is the embassy, then we need all the help we can get
.

He tried to imagine what they looked like as they bore down on the shore, larger-than-life figures in full exoskeletal kit, running atop the lake surface as though they splashed through puddles. Superhumans. Metal-framed giants. The first wave in the nightmare war.

Sitting ducks
. Micah swallowed, and tasted acid from his overworked stomach.
A fully loaded idomeni lakeskimmer can pick us off from three kees away
. Five, if the exo's emission scramblers malfunctioned, as they had been wont to do lately.

He flicked off his infrared viewer and looked to his right. Bevan ran next to him—he knew that from the position grid on his helmet display—but he couldn't see him. The refractors on the suit surface reflected the color of the water, the nearby shore, the cloud-filled night sky, leaving only the appearance of
something
that might be a shadow of a cloud across the moon, or a breaking wave, or a swooping gull.

But the idomeni will see
something. Or they'd believe their instruments instead of their eyes, and shoot.

“Tiebold, where's your infrared!”

“Ma'am!” Micah turned it back on, and watched the dark
horizon bloom with shape and color. They passed the last outbuildings of the Exterior Ministry, hazy dull white from trapped heat.
Thermabrick
. He fixed on the view and calibrated. The outlines sharpened.

“Target at eleven, distance zero point two four two kilometers.”

Micah looked just off to his left, Chrivet's tinny voice ringing in his ear.
One and a half minutes to landfall
. The first outbuildings of the idomeni embassy came into view, lakeskimmer dry docks and maintenance sheds, cool grey from inactivity.

Or damping
. Micah cranked the gain on his comdetect. “Idomeni in the maintenance shed. Three, maybe four.”

“O'Shae. Foley.” Chrivet gestured toward the shed. “Go!”

The two peeled off and skirted atop the swells, exoclad legs churning. They hit the skimmer ramp at speed, barely missing stride as O'Shae shot a concussion grenade into the shed and Foley ran ahead and sprayed the grounds with deadhead to wreck the biosense.

Micah watched his helmet displays burst into multicolor as the grenade blasted his sound dampers and the deadhead clouds chilled through the air in a purple tumble.
Filters.
He checked the status of his inlets, and breathed a shaky sigh. Deadhead had been manufactured to counter idomeni-made biosensors, but shit happened at the damnedest times and he didn't want to test the limits of his suit systems at this particular moment.

He hit the ramp two strides behind Bevan—any misstep meant collision meant disaster. The grounds swept past, deadhead swirling around them. Twenty meters ahead, Foley bulled through the gardens, spraying brickwork, and hit the entry full-force with his ram. The door blew inward, fileting any idomeni standing within ten meters.

“Lakeskimmers in one minute!”

Micah looked to his right just before he shot through the opening and saw the idomeni vessels ride up over the rocks, mid-range shooters at the ready. One of them fired, then an
other. A charge cracked over Micah's head, sending his displays into seizure.

Three peeled off to take care of the idomeni. Bevan. Two others.
Too easy, glory boy—the real shit's on the inside
.

Through the hole. Inside the embassy living quarters. No lights. Purple clouds everywhere—Foley, pumping out deadhead, blowing more systems. Micah stayed with O'Shae while the others peeled off down the maze of halls. O'Shae blew the doors, while Micah followed up with blasts into every open room. More concussion grenades. Plaster powdered from the walls and ceiling. A chandelier crashed down.

“Enemy at six five oh!”
Manda, one wing over.
“Contact imminent!”

Six five oh.
The main hall.
Through those doors
. Micah dogged O'Shae's heel, advancing another grenade clip just as the displays in his sightline went mad.

“Contact—”
A crackle. Nothing.

Manda!
Micah checked his display. Blitz of colors. Overload. Through the doors behind O'Shae—purple smoke everywhere. Shouts. Screams. Idomeni, otherworldly giants in exos, fighting hand-to-hand, typed weapons useless, blitzed by deadhead.

Untyped weapons—just fine.

An impact in his right side. A shower of red from below, spraying across his faceplate.

A scream. His.

 

Micah removed his headset, taking care to wipe away the sweat. He sat up, surprised as always by how drained he felt. Well, maybe not so surprised anymore.

He rose from the couch and checked the clock.
Forty-two minutes
. The actual training exercise still took only fifteen to twenty.
Means the hypno took longer to lull me
. Five minutes more than the last time, and fifteen minutes more overall.
You can build up resistance over time
. What effect that could have on his training, he had no idea.

Micah walked to the kitchenette, working his arms and shoulders along the way. His upper back felt like a board, his legs as stiff as if he'd hiked the Devil's Trail at Fort Aqaba. He filled a cup with cold water and drank it. Refilled, and drank that, too. Then he stood at the sink, cup dangling from his hand, and tried to think about what had happened.

“I should have ramped down my gain before entering the embassy. That's why my displays kept blitzing—settings too sensitive.” Micah lifted the cup, regarded the inside, and poured the few drops of water remaining into the sink. “I shouldn't have burst in after O'Shae. What happened to Manda should have alerted me. Instead of storming the main hall with the rest, I should have searched the halls for more living quarters to blitz.” He'd have looked for hostages as well. So far it didn't seem they were being encouraged to take hostages, but if a highly placed Deputy Whatever meant the difference between blood across his faceplate and escaping with his life, it didn't seem such a difficult choice.

“You have the wrong attitude, Lance Corporal.” He was supposed to be willing to die for the Cause. “And I have. Fourteen times, so far.” Bevan, on the other hand, always seemed to survive, at least longer than he did. That pissed him off. “Why do I keep dying?” What the hell had hit him hard enough to kill him—the exo liners had been built to take grenade-level impacts, and no metal blade in existence could hack through them.

He opened a drawer, removed a flask, and uncapped it. “To the Group. To the Cause.” He raised the flask to his lips and threw back his head. Took a pull of whatever the hell it was—gin, vodka? Swallowed fast. Recapped the flask and tossed it back in the drawer, which he kicked closed on his way to the bathroom. “I don't think we should come in off the water.” He stepped into the shower, activating it. The spray hit him in the face, jolting him. “Damned Bevan.” He muttered over the man's apparent luck. It kept his mind off Manda, and the memory of his own blood coating his faceplate.

Micah expected to find MPs waiting beside his desk when he arrived for work the next morning. Instead he found Cashman, standing vigil with a doughnut and a dispo of vend alcove coffee.

“I have a favor to ask.” He followed Micah into his cube and set the office breakfast down on his desk. “It will only take an hour of your time.”

Micah stared down at the coffee. He wondered what it would taste like with vodka in it, and if anyone would notice if he hid a flask in his desk. He'd dreamed again the night before. Relived the lake assault from a different angle. Saw what happened to Manda.

“You see, we've got this skimcart that has to be returned to the main receiving dock.” Cashman leaned against Micah's desk and dropped his voice to a whisper. “We borrowed it, sort of. I mean, we meant to take it back right after we finished—we used it to help Kirit in SysAdmin move last week and—”

“You stole a cart, and you want me to take it back because someone in Central Receiving knows you took it and they're laying for you.” Micah broke off a piece of the doughnut and
bit into it. It proved to be coconut, which he hated. But he'd thrown up his breakfast earlier that morning, and his stomach ached from emptiness. “Where is it?”

“In the west stairwell alcove.” Cashman patted his shoulder. “And if you ever need anything, anything at all—”

“I'll add it to the list.” Micah refastened his coat, then polished off the doughnut, alternating with gulps of coffee. “If anyone stops by for me, tell them whatever you want.” He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the trash, then counted his steps as he walked out of his cube to the door, something he hadn't done in years. It was a habit that had taken him through rough times in his youth, one that allowed him to concentrate on the immediate and ignore whatever waited around the corner, forget about whatever he had left behind.
…five…six
…

“Fabe?”

Micah stopped.
Step number seven
. He turned to find Cashman staring after him. “What?”

“You OK?” Cashman shifted from one foot to the other. “You look like somebody died.”

Micah smiled, wondering if the expression looked as fake as it felt. Then he faced the door again and resumed his walk.
Eight…nine…ten…

 

He found himself watching the faces that passed him on the way to Receiving, on the alert for anyone who looked like he felt. If he did find someone, he decided, he'd swing the cart in front of them, pretend it was an accident, then engage them in conversation. Ask them why they felt the way they did, and if their replies sounded at all likely, whether they belonged to the Group, too.

He needed a friend like Wode again. He needed someone to talk to. His constant dying had gotten under his skin over the weeks, but last night had been the worst of all. He still felt the impact in his side. Saw his blood spatter across every blank surface.

The sun shone warm, but he couldn't feel it. The sky filled his eyes, clear and blue, but he didn't care.

Receiving dominated the Far North region of the base, a five-story whitestone mass set in the middle of a skimway hub jammed with trucks and vans. Micah dragged the cart onto the main platform, told the civilian foreman that he'd found it under a tree in the South Central region of the base, then departed before anyone could ask him any questions. He wasn't in the mood for questions. Answers, yes, he could do with a few of those, but not questions. He trudged back along the main walkway, still watching faces, and counting his steps.

“Good morning, Lance Corporal.”

Micah felt the doughnut and coffee meld together into a leaden mass. “Captain Pascal, sir. Good morning.”

“Funny seeing you in this area of the base,” Pascal said as he drew even. He wore civvies, a blue shirt and darker trousers, a short coat. “Someone who lives in the enlisted housing blocks would come in from the south.”

“I needed to drop off a cart in Receiving, as you no doubt saw.” Micah gave up on commiserating faces and quickened his step, wondering whether he could lose Pascal in the day shift crowds and knowing just as surely that it would take a bomb to shake the son of a bitch off his tail. “I've already been in the office. But I'm guessing you know that, too.”

Pascal watched Micah for a few strides, his face deceptive in its kindness. Then he nudged him toward a snack kiosk, first maneuvering him to a table, then watching him while he purchased two coffees and a couple of breakfast rolls. “If you're ready to talk,” he said as he set two dispo trays down on the table, “I'm ready to listen.” He sat in the chair opposite Micah and unwrapped his roll, a meat-and-cheese-filled turnover glistening with fat glaze.

Micah watched Pascal bite into the sandwich, the meat juice drip and the cheese string, and quickly looked away. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir.”

Pascal nodded. “All right. Let's back up.” He set down his
sandwich, wiped his fingers on a napkin, took a swallow of coffee, and sat back. “It's been noted by people you work with that your mood has undergone a gradual but definite change over the past weeks. This change, to the best anyone can determine, first became noticeable shortly after the mine incident at the Haárin enclave.” He leaned forward again. The cheap plastic chair creaked under his weight. “Are the two events necessarily related? No, of course not. You may be upset over a family matter, or another personal issue. If this is the case, just say so, and I'll leave you be. But if it's not…” He spread his hands wide, then picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

Micah sat, his arms folded across his chest, and tried to concentrate on the people walking past. Uniforms, gym clothes, civvies, all shapes and sizes.

Then a lithe, dark-haired girl caught his eye. She cut through the crowds like a fish around rocks, briefbag jogging against her hip, young face lined with concentration born of stress.
Manda?
He almost boosted to his feet to chase after her, but Pascal's steady stare weighted him down.

“Someone you know?” He finished his sandwich and tossed the tray into a nearby trash receptacle.

“No, sir.” Micah sagged back, then picked up the coffee cup and held it for the warmth. “I thought I recognized the eyes.”

Pascal watched him, as though waiting for him to say more. Then he set his elbows on the chair arms and linked his hands, legs stretched out before him as though trying to catch every available ray of sun. “You never showed an aptitude for infantry training while you were in Basic, or an interest, for that matter. All your test scores highlighted your technical abilities.” His gaze moved over the passing crowd, then back to Micah. “We all change over time, of course, for varying reasons.” He smiled. “Some do so because such is their way. They are always altering, adapting, trying new things. They could no more remain static than I could breathe underwater. For them, change is life.” He picked up
his napkin, tearing off bits and rolling them between his fingers. “But there are others who change only because they feel they have no choice. They look about them, and see a world they no longer understand. A world they fear. They change because it is the only way they believe they can return things to what they consider normal. They force themselves into situations for which they're ill-suited, ill-trained, in the hope that if they act emphatically enough, their world will revert to the way it was.” After he had built a pile of rolled bits of napkin, he started picking them up one at a time and flicking them into his coffee cup.

Micah watched as one piece after another arced into the cup, and prayed for Pascal to miss while knowing as surely as he breathed that his prayer would go unanswered. He broke off a piece of his sandwich, which proved to be the same meat–cheese mishmash as Pascal's, and chewed slowly to keep from getting sick. The morning crowd had thinned, allowing him a clear view of the grounds, the rolling lawns and flowering trees, the bright white buildings beyond.
He's been reading my ServRec.
He swallowed, the food going down like hot cement.
Well, so what? There's nothing there.
Only things that he knew. Nothing he
felt
. Nothing he believed.

“Take the late Lance Corporal Wode.” Pascal had stopped flicking napkin nibs, and now tore a long strip and wrapped it around his finger like a ring. “His psych evals revealed a man who felt very strongly that tradition should be maintained, even at the expense of growth, of knowledge. Quite the hidebound individual. You could group him with those people you see on CapNet, the ones who shake their fists at the holocam and shout ‘idomeni, go home.'”

Micah set down his cup, then brushed away the coffee droplets that dotted his fieldcoat. He'd flinched at the word “group,” but he didn't think Pascal noticed. Hoped he didn't, anyway.
You freak-fucking bastard—you're not fit to speak Rik's name.
He almost blurted his opinion out loud, and barely stopped himself in time.
That's what you want, isn't it? For me to blow up, give myself away. Well, forget it.

“Some of my superiors feel that Wode took his interest in interactives one step too far, that he obtained the means to engage in some sort of simulated combat training, with an eye toward someday fighting idomeni.” Pascal worked the napkin ring from his finger, then started twisting it into a tighter band. “The problem with that was the fact that he skipped the bioemotional pre-conditioning. I've gone a few rounds with the sims over the years, on both sides of the headset. I've seen what it does to people. The hands never get bloody, but the brain can't tell the difference. You kill one too many, or die once too often, and your judgment goes over the side. You lose the ability to think clearly. You hear about conditions like sim synesthesia, sim psychosis, and wonder if they could happen to you.” He worked the paper ring from one finger to the next. “At times like that, you need someone who'll listen. Who'll understand.”

Micah pressed a hand to his right side, to the ache beneath his ribs that grew sharper and deeper the more Pascal talked. “There's someone in our department who knows all about you. You had an emotional augmentation when you were a teenager, courtesy of Exterior Minister Ulanova. It damps down your emotions, keeps you from feeling.” For a mad moment, he wondered if Pascal somehow knew the girl who was Manda. Whether she had fallen for the face and the accent as so many had. Whether Pascal had taken her. “Empathy's only a word to you, so don't even try,” he said, rage choking him. “In fact, why don't you just shove it up your ass!”

“I don't understand why you're taking this attitude.” Pascal twisted the ring into a figure eight and tossed it into his cup. “I only want to help.”

“Yeah, right.” Micah forced another bite of the roll. “You know, it's not really the done thing for you and me to be seen together like this. I suggest that given your reputation, a charge of fraternization or even sexual misconduct would give somebody the excuse they needed to bust you right out of here.” He stood, brushed the crumbs from the front of his
coat. “Thank you for breakfast. Now I really must be going.”

“If you believe you have legal recourse, by all means, give it a try. I look forward to answering questions about my interest in you.” Pascal stood and performed table-clearing duties, tossing their mess into the trash receptacle. “I'll be watching you, Faber.”

Micah started down the walkway. The place between his shoulders burned—he knew Pascal watched him, but would sooner have dropped dead than turn around to confirm. Instead he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, shoved his hands in his coat pockets to warm them, and counted his steps.

 

Elon adjusted her headset, struggling to discern anything useful from the burst of voices that battered her ears. Godly though the argument of Vynshàrau might have been, this was not the time.

“I see them, nìaRauta.” Ghos steered the skimmer past trees and over logs and rocks, gesturing in anger as branches scraped against the sides of the vehicle with a sound as the claws of demons. “They are…
there
!”

In the near distance, the skimmer they pursued became visible, skirting around a stand of evergreens and slicing low-hanging fronds as a blade. A battered thing, its blue color faded from sun and chemical damage.
Humanish
. Elon's shoulders rounded. Only they would allow a vehicle to degrade so.

“They move too quickly for this place!” Ghos slipped into Vynshàrau Haárin, his words as clipped and his voice devoid of gesture. “They will collide with a tree, and the humanish newssheets will say that Vynshàrau are to blame for forcing such.” He sped up as well, gaze fixed on the path ahead, hands moving over the controls.

“Humanish blamed us for the mine. For the death of our own. Such would be a change, to blame us for a thing we actually did.” Elon removed her shooter from her belt holster and activated it. “This is the fourth such incursion since the mine, Ghos. I tire of such. It must cease.”

Ghos slowed as he maneuvered through the forest maze, speaking more than he had since Elon knew him as he de-claimed over the madness of the humanish driving. Trees closed in from all sides. A branch thudded against the skimmer roof, sending a frantic fur-tailed animal sliding down the windscreen and off onto the ground.

Ghos half rose from his seat as they careened into a clearing. “We have them, nìaRauta!”

The tree-ringed circle appeared as an animal pit. Four embassy skimmers surrounded the battered two-seater and slowly closed in, backing it toward the trees. Then they moved more closely together, so that they faced it in a line and could fire upon their quarry at Elon's order. As a captured thing, the blue vehicle flitted about the shrinking space, probed for an opening, then stilled as it found none.