Redemption Protocol (Contact) (5 page)

Fragmented images of his wife and kids flickered on the water as his agony receded. He felt numb. He welcomed it. His awareness narrowed. The Professor’s hand in his. Love. Hate. His world darkened and then faded.

He slipped away.

~    ~    ~

The water lapped quietly on the shore of the lake, the tree branches hardly moving in the light breeze. The heron lifted off the island, circled for height and then glided across the valley. The area of dark water around the two men expanded but only slowly, the movement of the water barely enough for it to spread.

~    ~    ~

Thrumming beats came in overhead, getting louder, followed by a burst of sustained noise. Spray whipped up around a circular depression on the water, the transport pushing out a standing wave as it hovered like a giant dragonfly. The operator leaned out of the side door on a cable. She took in the wreckage, the downed vehicles and the craters along the shoreline.

“Foxtrot Hotel.”

She swung free and lowered down. Two bodies. One blackened and one broken. She dropped lower.

The extraction target's head was tilted back with his face discolored and his skin ravaged by poison. Havoc's body was missing a section of skull with terrible burns down one side of his face and neck, two kinetic wounds to his abdomen and his left leg rearing out of the water at a sickening angle.

The corpses were lying next to each other, holding hands on a smooth stone that resembled a giant pebble in the water.

“They're gone.”

 3. 

Thirty Nine years earlier.

Trembali-9 of the Karver Republic, annexed by the Tyurin Republic.

“You know, Forge, if you give a man a fire you keep him warm for a day. But if you set a man on fire, you keep him warm for the rest of his life.”

Tyburn paused.

“At least, I think that's how it goes.”

He looked up.

Forge moaned as he hung upside down, spinning slowly on a crane hook. His hands were bound behind his back and his legs were taped together at the calves, where the hook passed between them. Forge’s naked and athletic body was grimy and coated in sweat. Beside him was a brazier and over the brazier was a grill. The grill's pattern could be traced, in a patchwork of angry burns and suppurating wounds, across Forge’s head, neck and upper body. The air stank of burned hair and scorched flesh.

“We should finish him. They'll be coming to meet him.”

Tyburn’s narrow mouth twisted in a sneer.

“You hear that, Forge? You think you've had enough?”

Forge made an odd gurgling sound.

Tyburn leaned closer.

“Are you crying, Forge? Do you want me to make it stop?”

The tortured man choked in the affirmative.

Tyburn’s voice was as sweet as honey.

“You told us everything, didn't you, Forge? You've earned it, haven’t you?”

Forge mumbled agreement.

Tyburn’s face morphed into pure hate.

“Well you should have thought of that before you tried to give us up, shouldn’t you? Because now you’re going to burn.”

Forge’s moaning increased and his body jerked, though he was clearly spent. Tyburn moved behind the brazier.

“I have to do this, Forge. It’s not my fault. It's yours.”

Forge begged, his croaks incoherent and hoarse.

Tyburn smiled as he put his boot on the grate.

“I’m enjoying your pain, Forge. You deserve to die in agony.”

Forge lurched on the hook. Tyburn savored his victim’s ineffectual struggling.

“Goodbye, Forge.”

Tyburn thrust his boot forward and the brazier screeched across the floor. Forge snapped up at the waist as the grill slid underneath him. He moaned in desperation as he swung back and forth. Unable to maintain his position, he lowered.

Tyburn smiled.

Forge screamed as he hit the scalding grill. He bucked upward, howling for release. The stench of seared meat sliced the air.

Tyburn watched, mesmerized, as the other men turned away.

Forge twisted on the hook, thrashing as he fought for his life. But he had nowhere to go. He shrieked in agony as he smashed repeatedly into the grill. The periods where he burned lengthened as his strength depleted and he could no longer lift himself.

Tyburn’s eyes gleamed as Forge danced in his pupils. Exhausted, the condemned man convulsed spasmodically against the grill. He couldn’t scream anymore, instead emitting an undulating moan. The acrid stink was nauseating. Tyburn watched with interest as he looked forward to Forge’s agonizing demise.

A shot rang out.

Tyburn spun with his eyes blazing.

Their leader stared back at him dispassionately.

“We need to go.”

Tyburn stabbed a finger at Forge’s corpse.

“You think it would have been easier for us if we'd been taken?”

The leader walked away.

“We need to go.”

The others followed, moving across the warehouse toward the sliding doors on the far side.

Tyburn scowled in frustration. He glared at the others with disdain as he retrieved Forge’s weapon and pocketed his wallet. He was worth more than any of these weaklings. The only way to drive back Tyurin's forces was through the ceaseless employment of violence. And moderation in violence was ludicrous; the very idea flawed at conception. Violence was the necessary means and he was one of the few men who had the stomach for it. He was worth a thousand of these bleeding hearts.

He hurried to catch up. He should be the leader of this group. The separatist movement needed men of his caliber. Men who were ready to seize the initiative and take decisive action, however brutal it might be. Men who understood that nothing matters but victory. Once you have victory, history falls into line. After all, you write it.

Everyone stopped together. The sound was unmistakable. Incoming tracked vehicles, already close, followed by the low triple beat of a Raptor gunship.

The men froze in place, strung out across the warehouse.

Tyburn saw it then – his destiny – so clear. God demanded a sacrifice. And he was strong enough to make that sacrifice.

His resistance brothers dropped in a ragged line from left to right. Some twisted round at their unexpected end. Death was always a surprise, Tyburn thought. Even for the bastard informer hanging behind him.

The one who'd just saved his life.

The noise of the tracked vehicles stopped. Tyburn threw his hot, still smoking, weapon to the floor and shouted at the top of his voice.

“I'm Claudius Forge, the informer. I'm coming out.”

 4. 

Twenty years earlier.

Lond.

Havoc first met Stephanie in the elevator of a gym in the diplomatic quarter of Lond, the capital city of the capital planet of the entire Federation. The gym was frequented by visiting diplomats and military types. People didn't need to train to keep in shape, of course, but in the bizarre inverted relationship between prestige and utility that defined status in society, the gym had even more cachet as a result. Besides, it was seen as a great place to network. Not that that meant anything to him, of course. For his purpose it had some top class simulators. Back then he trained every day if possible, wherever he was, wherever he could find a sim – even if he was only in his civilization’s capital for the day. He was there to collect a medal and a citation before flying out for a week of leave.

She caught his attention the way a hook takes a salmon racing down river. The lure was her sleek figure silhouetted against the huge windows of the seventieth floor.

He hovered briefly as the barb sank hard. He considered the vectors of approach to the target and the probability of mission success. He decided to wait for a better window of opportunity. If she hadn't been hurtling uphill at a rate of knots, he assured himself, he would have gone for it. There was, of course, no further opportunity – when he came back through the hall she was gone.
Carpe diem, you coward
, he told himself.

He was still kicking himself as he stepped adroitly through the closing doors of the elevator. She was standing in the far corner, wearing a blue frock and stiletto heels. There was a crowd of people scattered around the lift perimeter but he had direct line of sight. The crowd was diplomatic types, which was Havoc shorthand for snooty blue-flamers who were heavy on ambition and light on ethics. Captain John Havoc was in his full dress uniform for the ceremony later that day, decorations studded across his chest, cap secured under his arm, feeling resplendent and ready to engage. He was of the age where defeat was an abstraction – something you needed other people for, just so that you could be the winner. An age where the overwhelming weight of your unjustified overconfidence is the only thing that carries you over the top and secures your success.

She had alabaster skin, blue eyes and long blonde hair. Like everyone else, she’d already turned to look at him. Her gaze was cool. She probably got hit on fifteen times a day and had perfected a suitably disincentivizing gaze as a result. He didn't care. He had already failed to secure the objective once by not taking his earlier opportunity and no self-respecting member of 112
^th
Strike Corps, and
Strike Alpha
to boot, was going to allow that to happen again. Failure was not an option. He strode forward. Unusually for him, he had no idea what to say. He was sure something suitably inspiring would come to mind in the heat of battle. Conflict makes men, his commander liked to say.

“Hi,” he said, low and cool.

If only he'd had his shades. He wondered how to play it.

“Hi,” she replied, looking a bit uncertain.

He still didn’t know how he’d arrived at the next step of the plan.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, his arms outstretched with cap in hand, while she stared at him, wide eyed and clearly disturbed, and declared, “Marry me. You are gorgeous.” He accompanied this with his most winning smile and whilst simultaneously trying to indicate his sheer helplessness in the presence of her beauty.

Everyone in the lift erupted into laughter and fortunately that included her.

“Do you promise to get up?” she asked.

“Whenever and wherever you want, Ma'am.”

She turned red and glanced away. One for the Corps, right there, he thought. He stood up and stepped forward. She gazed warily at him. He offered his arm.

“However, right now I have to go to Windham House for a presentation ceremony with Senator Ames. We are encouraged to bring a partner along and I would be delighted if you would do me the honor of escorting me, Ma'am, looking so beautiful as you do in your blue frock.”

The elevator chimed its arrival. The doors opened onto a crowded lobby while the elevator occupants looked on. Havoc stood with his arm extended to link with her.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

“Alright.”

The spontaneous applause from the elevator rippled out into the lobby, whose occupants had no idea why but hey, this guy must be some kind of war hero.
And what a beautiful couple
. The men in the lift looked awestruck – so that’s how the military boys go about their business.

He marched out with her on his arm, the crowd parting before them as if they were royalty. The applause spread across the lobby and followed them out of the building. People were still applauding through the windows as he turned to make the short walk up Kensington Avenue to Windham House.

She squeezed his arm.

“Call me Stephanie.”

He nodded.

Victory!

 5. 

Four years earlier.

Seles, Capital Planet of the Karver Republic, a region of the Tyurin Republic.

Forge stepped into the parliament surrounded by his honor guard and marched straight for the heart of the assembly. Now was his time. He would demand his rightful position and lead the Karver Republic back to greatness.

He'd planned for every eventuality, got all the necessary agreements in place. Edwin Karver, the head of the most powerful family in the sector – with enough military strength to suppress any Tyurin resistance or Alliance interference – had given his tacit approval. Karver and his cronies were in the hall and ready to unify around Forge’s leadership.

“People of the Karver Republic!” he shouted, triumphant.