Vigilante (19 page)

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Authors: Laura E. Reeve

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BOOK: Vigilante
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“No. He died while on vacation. It was a drowning accident; he had a
coronary while swimming and couldn’t be saved,” answered the aide.
“The body was recovered and identified?
Positively?
” Edones’s voice was sharp.
“Yes, sir.” The young man giving the briefing obviously thought the
question irrelevant. “His family identified him and there was a full autopsy. We have no
suspicions about his death, even with the strange timing. We’re more concerned with the other
two members of the team.”
The aide’s fingers flickered gracefully in command. The picture of Dr.
Russell-Li went away, leaving Nielson and Rouxe. Background information appeared under the
pictures in Martian patois, which Oleander didn’t understand.
“Change display to common Greek,” the aide ordered.
The writing changed. Oleander noted Nielson’s and Rouxe’s home planets,
one of which was New Sousse—what was familiar about New Sousse?
Beside Oleander, Captain Floros gasped. She turned to see Floros’s dark,
square forehead crease into a frown and deep lines pull at the corners of her mouth. Floros’s
fuzzy blond hair was cut close to her head, making it look like a block. She didn’t have the
urbane and politic manners of Edones or Bernard, and Oleander wondered if her notably slow rank
progression resulted from her lack of tact. Considering the Directorate of Intelligence could
hand-pick their people, Floros had to bring some esoteric skills to AFCAW’s shadowy
intelligence organization.
“Do you always grant clearances to—to—” As Floros sputtered and searched
for words, Oleander looked down at the surface of the table in front of her, willing Floros to
be a little bit diplomatic, just this once.
“Anarchists?” suggested Major Bernard.
“ ‘Isolationist’ is the correct term,” Colonel Ash said.
Floros spat out, “You gave a clearance to one of Qesan Douchet’s
descendants?”
Oleander frowned, the name jogging her memory and bringing up visions of
the famous last video taken of Qesan Douchet. The name now had a buffoonish aura for younger
Autonomists and Terrans, usually meaning “a mundane who is ignorant of his or her imminent
demise by Minoans.”
Douchet had stepped across an invisible line. Minoans accepted
humankind’s societal rules and laws, but they expected
everyone
to
follow them. They didn’t understand idiosyncratic defiance of authority and they didn’t
understand individuals who broke rules or laws. The chaos after first contact with the Minoans
should have been an obvious lesson to someone like Douchet.
However, the Minoans did understand warfare. There were rules governing
warfare between governments and states, and the Minoans had slapped on more conventions and
treaties. In the decades-long warfare between CAW and TerraXL, all conduct of hostilities had
to fit within the Phaistos Protocol. Whenever terrorism or piracy turned attention, foolishly,
to Minoan assets—well, the perpetrators rarely survived the attempt. The Minoans would
carefully declare war, often considered “open season,” and hunt them down. Douchet’s enclave
was attacked under such a declaration, while the League and Consortium sat by and
watched.
Colonel Ash shook his head. “If the enclave on New Sousse hadn’t seceded
from the League, they might—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Floros’s frown morphed to a sneer. “We all know the
Minoans did the League a favor,
after
filing intent with the
Overlords. Douchet was an irritating pustule on the ass of humanity.”
There was a shocked silence. Colonel Ash’s mouth hung open, the colonel
unable to finish his politically correct comment after that harsh honesty. Oleander raised her
eyebrows and looked at Colonel Edones, expecting him to rebuke Floros.
“Obviously, the background of one of your scientists is suspect, by our
standards.” Colonel Edones’s brisk voice was like a fresh breeze, letting them move on to a
more comfortable topic.
“More than you realize,” SP Hauser said. “Nielson is currently serving a
prison sentence for embezzlement, occurring after his stint with the defense contractor. He’s
an example of the extremely small percentage that background investigations can’t weed out:
those that initiate an atypical late-life criminal event.”
“That worked in our favor,” the aide said brightly as he enlarged
Nielson’s picture. The background text extended to include the particulars of the prison
sentence. “Since Nielson was in Unified League Prison, we could question him under neural
probes.”
Every Autonomist in Oleander’s sight flinched at that violation of
personal privacy, even Colonel Edones. She exchanged a glance with Floros, who leaned close and
whispered, “
Latin barbarians
.”
She agreed with Floros’s assessment, nodding, and internally thanking
Gaia that she was a Consortium citizen. This was a small example of the differences between the
League, where there was oppressive control, and the Consortium, founded upon colonist
principles that valued personal freedoms.
Not that these differences led to outright warfare—no, the long war
between TerraXL and CAW started over
money
. After the Yellowstone
Caldera caused an extinction event by blowing itself into the atmosphere and pushing Terra into
an ice age, the League was desperate for funds. The settlements in newly opened solar systems
were significant tax bases and started taking the brunt of tax increases. Many of the colonies,
however, no longer felt responsible for restoring the “mother planet” and began to break away
from the League, diverting their tax monies to other purposes. The League had to declare war,
carefully following the Phaistos Protocol. In defense, colonist solar systems united the
original Prime Planets of the Consortium of Autonomous Worlds and fought back, leading to
decades of hardship and violence.
To Oleander, the events that had led to the war seemed avoidable, but
she was a member of the first generation to grow up under Pax Minoica and she knew that colored
her opinions. This small difference about personal rights, the cornerstone of Autonomist law
that even applied to prisoners, reminded Oleander again that the Terrans were more than people
who dressed strangely and spoke common Greek with accents. They competed economically and
industrially with CAW and, to every other AFCAW officer in the room, they had been the
enemy
for nearly fifty years.
“Ah—Nielson underwent the procedure voluntarily. He wanted to prove his
innocence.” The aide noticed the reactions from the AFCAW side of his audience. Many relaxed,
although the unsaid sentence hung in the room:
If Nielson hadn’t
volunteered, he’d have been forced
.
“Which leaves the obvious suspect,” Floros said. “The one who comes from
misogynists and criminals, who comes from a tribe thrown out of northern Africa, and then
evicted from the French South American colonies. They were
asked
to
leave Terra, if you look at your history.”
“This isn’t as obvious as you might think.” The aide showed pictures of
Dr. Rouxe and his background, including parents, birth date, previous addresses, and education.
“He left Enclave El Tozeur at the age of eight, and then New Sousse at the age of twelve. He
was educated in Terran schools, getting a doctorate in physics from the University of Florida
in the Terran Florida Biome. He did his postdoc work at Mars MIT, before getting a government
research position on Mars Orbital One.”
“Who paid for his education?” Colonel Edones asked.
“Disbursed directly from the relief fund established for El Tozeur
survivors and yes, sir, the tribal elders had to approve the disbursement—obviously, he’s
indebted to them.” The aide knew Edones’s next question and rushed through his second
sentence.
“Yet he gets an interim security clearance to work in a weapons storage
facility,” Floros said disdainfully.
“Dr. Rouxe
voluntarily
went through a
psychiatric evaluation under neural probe,” the aide said. “He was estranged from his tribe and
traumatized by watching his father torture his mother. The evaluators thought he held too much
fear and hatred toward his father to involve himself in tribal politics.”
There was silence in the room as everyone digested the information.
Oleander pitied the man whose face displayed on the wall; the eyes that first seemed exuberant
to her now took on a tragic cast.
“In societies like Rouxe’s, obedience to tribal goals doesn’t require
respect or admiration. Fear and hatred won’t prevent him from following Abram Hadrian Rouxe,
who’s labeled extremely dangerous by our Civil Security Division,” Edones said. “We watch and
measure Abram’s impact on net-think, and he’s attracted hundreds of non-tribal followers. They
are the disaffected, the anarchists, and the sociopaths, because Abram’s anger against all
governmental control appeals to them.”
“We don’t need to know what’s going on in Rouxe’s head. He’s now our
number one suspect, but we can’t find him. He’s out of crystal.” SP Hauser used Autonomist
slang for a person who couldn’t be located through ComNet: a difficult, but not impossible
feat.
Floros stirred and Colonel Edones glanced severely at her. Then he
turned to Hauser, who had a pleasant expression on his face.
“You need our help,” Edones said. “We
know
ComNet, we
built
ComNet, and we can find him. But we’re not moving
one iota until you release the specifications on the design flaw in the Mark Fifteen arming
sequence.”
Oleander heard the breath whistle through Floros’s teeth as she drew in
a big breath. Hauser raised an eyebrow. Oleander realized that Edones had leaked intelligence,
like uncovering a card in a betting game. She’d originally thought intelligence games were
about protecting your own information while trying to uncover the enemy’s secrets. That turned
out to be too simple; it was almost more important the enemy didn’t know what you knew about
them. However, you could let the enemy
know
you knew, if you wanted
to negotiate—
“Agreed,” SP Hauser said. “You obviously already know about our
design-to-test flaw. I’ll give you all the specifics, but your people need to find the
weapon.”
Edones cocked his head toward Captain Floros, who leaned forward
eagerly.
“Out of crystal? That’s as believable as the proverbial size of the
Great Bull’s balls,” Floros said. “
I’ll
find this bastard,
sir.”
 
The contractors hurried Ariane out of the large, pillared hall. They
went through a corridor that never made ninety-degree turns, covered with inlaid mosaics of
stone and metal. The mosaic designs swirled in organic abstract shapes, and she fought the urge
to run her hands over their contours. She’d have all the time she wanted after the meeting to
wander these corridors.
“This way, Ms. Kedros.” Sewick had stopped grabbing her elbow, at least,
and gestured for her to proceed around a thirty-degree corner to a door. Sewick held his hand
over a plate next to the door.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as a holographic four-fingered
claw
extended from the plate to touch Sewick’s palm.
“It’s a scanner that records everyone who goes into the room,” Sewick
said. “We’ve been able to set a few to perform security filtering.”
The door slid open as Ariane felt her slate vibrate. She pulled it out
of her coverall pocket, seeing a message from Muse 3. This was a bad time, but before her thumb
started to set the hold, she noticed the priority. An emergency?
“I’ve got a message from the agent on my ship,” she said, frowning and
pausing in the open doorway.
“The comm center can take it.” Sewick whipped out his slate and poked at
it. “Funny, the center’s not responding. Perhaps they’re doing some maintenance.”
Ariane thumbed open the message, feeling uneasy. How could her slate be
getting a message if the moon’s comm center was down? The message should have gone through the
Beta Priamos Command Post, then shunted through a comm center located somewhere in this alien
structure. Perhaps the comm center had routed it through the spotty mesh network.
She stared at a text message that said nothing but “CAW SEP 12.35.15.”
She looked at the routing header. Muse 3 had bypassed both the station CP above
and
the comm center on the surface, passing it along the few nodes installed
inside the facility. Those nodes operated on low power and used near-field mesh networking,
meaning the message had taken a twisted and slow route to reach her slate.
CAW Space Emergency Procedure twelve-dot-thirty-five, number fifteen?
What the hell did that mean? When she’d told Muse 3 to study that series, she didn’t
expect—what situations did number fifteen cover? The thirty-five series covered interruption of
command, control, or communications, but number fifteen was rather obscure. Her scalp wasn’t
simply prickling; it tingled with the sense of danger.
“I’d better check the comm center,” she said, turning around and walking
quickly back down the corridor toward the pillared hall. She brushed past the other contractors
and Major Dokos.

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