As a commercial development idea, it had been a tremendous success. As a security concept, it had been a disaster.
ISRA was a supranational organisation staffed by well-meaning people, hobbled by an inefficient management structure and a weak mandate. And as the Blocs weren’t so keen to fund an organisation aimed at reducing their influence, ISRA relied, increasingly, on corporate funding, funding which gave the corporations influence over how effective the Authority was, how large the Outer Rim Force could be and how it implemented policy.
Cotton wasn’t able to explain all of this to his students: to do so would have touched on politics, but he did describe the organisation and financing of ISRA, and his students were no dunces. Besides, the confrontation playing out around the Outer-Rim had its roots in the story. Everyone here knew that. He just had to stay away from the politics of it, which was difficult.
During his lecture, a student had asked him whether there had been any previous developments in human history to which he could compare the current situation. He had thrown the question back at them.
He smiled inwardly at their conclusion: they believed it had a lot in common with the New World colonies in America, pre-1776, and that the insurgency was a reluctant one, forced on their populations by a distant colonial power.
That was a story with which he could also relate, but ISRA wasn’t seeking that outcome—that had led to independence.
Instead, it preferred the other analogy, the one in 18th century India, where a private enterprise—and its army—had reigned supreme over hundreds of millions of people, only to be replaced by direct rule from the capital of an empire.
But did the comparisons matter? Not really. The reality of the current situation still made his current role on G-eo difficult.
He recalled what Cohen had asked him the day after he had assassinated Booni and Petroff had offered Scat up as the fall guy: ‘One man or the Outer-Rim?’ Scat or Earth?
Of course, it had to be the one man. Earth could no longer afford to let the resource companies dictate policy, but it could afford to lose Scat.
Cotton hadn’t liked it.
He had thought that Scat would be good for Earth on the inside of the rebel insurgency, not be the scapegoat for it. Nor did he think it had been wise to elevate Scat to one of its principal leaders.
He had been right on that score.
Scat had been remarkably effective as a rebel leader, so much so that the Western Bloc had charged him with economic crimes against humanity, and convicted him in absentia as both a murderer and a traitor.
However, in the overall, Cohen had been right. Without Scat, the rebels would not have gotten off the ground, quite literally, and if they hadn’t, Lynthax, Raddox and the others could have hunted them down with ease. That would have left Earth, or more precisely, ISRA, without the whip it needed to drive the Corporations out of politics.
Of course, it helped that the Outer Rim Force had been stretched, security on Trevon inadequate, and leadership, oversight and standards weak, but from a purely military standpoint, they still were, leaving Cotton to plan the conference protection as a one legged man plans to cross the road—very carefully.
As he gathered up his notes, and watched the cadets file out of the room, he sighed. He thought he was ready, and the conference was safe.
He just couldn’t guarantee it.
107
Channel Buoy 2.013 dropped into the space around G-eo inside a flash of deep blue light.
Its form rippled slightly as it naturalised the space fore and aft, then began to reflect the light that hit its hull.
Scat ran through the post-ftl checks, confirmed his position above G-eo, and then scanned the local space for ORF vessels. There was none on this side of G-eo but several over Tremont, which lay on the other side of the planet. He immediately manoeuvred the buoy into a geostationary orbit some 2000 kilometres above the equator, and waited for the V4 to make an appearance.
‘Anything?’ Scat asked, almost air swimming over Paul Irwin’s shoulder to look at the monitor.
‘Not a dickey-bird, Scat.’
Scat turned his head to look across the cramped life-support cabin.
‘Thomas, anything from G-eo?’
Thomas studied the jerry-rigged monitor bolted to the bulkhead and shook his head.
‘No. We’re not on anyone’s scanners. We should drop ours now we’re in orbit.’
Scat mulled that one over.
Active scanning was instrumental in acquiring targets and so their use was forbidden within 0.1 AU of G-eo under the terms of its jealously guarded, hard-earned neutrality.
They were well within that distance.
‘OK. Drop all active scanners. Keep the passives on max. Maintain a passive comms regime until the V4 arrives.’
He was tired, he stank, and he wanted off this crate, a type two buoy that, aside from its channel clearing and communications role, doubled as a deep-space life raft, with emergency accommodation and supplies for up to 12 souls. His crew felt the same way. They had been on the zero gravity buoy now for a month, racing up and down the newly forged channels they had created between the New Worlds, picking up the results of the rebel referendum on the upcoming peace talks, updating the various local rebel leaders on the political situation on Earth and warning them of known corporation security activities.
As they visited the various New Worlds, they also picked up the latest information on local rebel activities, collected their requests for specialised skills and equipment and updated or replaced their security codes.
The news included updates that both the Outer Rim Force and the corporations had intensified their activities against the rebels. Several Chapters were on the run, rendering them ineffective.
Usually Scat would arrive a few minutes after the V4, and squirt into space all the messages and information he wanted to pass on. He would then collect what he needed by way of return and ftl away. They were in local space for five minutes, tops—a scary five minutes.
Today, though, they were going to hang around for up to quarter of an hour. If the V4 didn’t turn up within that time, they would fall back on one of three alternative deep space rendezvous. He was due on the planet and to get there he needed to replace his shuttle.
Very early on in the conflict, Scat refitted a number of the type two buoys with docking units suited to accommodate V4 shuttles. But he lost his shuttle a few days ago in an action on the mining asteroid, Illemede, on the edge of the Illumea system. The V4 was about to replace it with one of the few it had left.
Scat never went down to G-eo: he disliked G-eo’s neutrality: it was lulling his colleagues into a false sense of security. He had also reviewed the politico’s behaviour since G-eo acquired its semiautonomous status and there was a worrying regularity to their meetings there.
Only today, he was making the trip himself, as ordered by Reggie Irwin, now recognised across the OR as one of the original “Fathers of Freedom”. The politicos needed to bring Scat to heel, to curtail his autonomy: his compliance was to be a significant demonstration of rebel loyalty to the politicos, to the people who remained the acceptable face of the secessionist movement.
Apparently, Cohen needed reassuring that a negotiated settlement would be acceptable to both the secessionist leaders and their terrorist brethren. The OR rebels, or “Orribles” as the press called them, had to be a part of the deal. The Authority could only bring the corporations to heel if both parties to the rebellion ended the conflict in all its guises.
Paul interrupted his train of thought.
‘The V4—it’s just dropped into orbit!’
‘OK, Paul. Hail her and organise the transfer. Thomas, once we’re on the shuttle, I want you to ftl out of G-eo orbit. Drop back in every six hours for updates.’
‘Sure,’ Thomas replied, hesitantly. ‘But I thought I was going with you.’
Scat screwed up his face. It had been an easy decision for him to make, but that
didn’t make it any easier for his friend to accept. Thomas had been looking forward to some R&R for days now.
‘Yeah, I know, but I’ve decided against it,’ Scat explained. ‘I want you on the outside. I don’t like it, and if I don’t like it, I don’t need to follow your old man’s instructions. Besides, if I’m right and he’s wrong, we wouldn’t want so many Irwins in the same place at the same time.’
Thomas gave that a moment’s thought and his heart sank. He knew he wouldn’t get Scat to budge.
‘Fair enough, but I want R&R on Constitution when this is done. Its either that or you bring me back the twin strippers from “Slappers”. It’s on Second and 10th. Your choice. But if it’s to be the twins I want them before you’ve been recreational with them!’
Scat smiled.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Shuttle approaching,’ Paul announced, wondering when Scat would start treating him as he did Thomas: as a friend, rather than just another member of the crew. Scat and Thomas were tight, their conversations and arguments were often irreverent and without regard for rank, but Paul didn’t get that same consideration. Maybe it was because Scat had to keep his distance from their old man, and the Irwin family in general. Maybe Scat had made an exception for Thomas, as he had known him since before he knew his father. Or maybe it was because Paul had finally had enough of being a go-between for the politicos and the rebels, and had decided to join the rebels—against his father’s wishes …
He was in for a surprise.
‘Grab your stuff,’ Scat said, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘You’re coming with me. You aren’t quite as “Irwin” as your brother.’
Paul’s face lit up. Thomas play-punched him on the upper arm in make-believe anger, before grabbing his seat to stop himself from spinning away. Scat pretended to pay no heed. He turned to face the remaining crew.
‘Birdie, Khoffi, Mercador, Dickhead, Georgie – airlock in 2. Bring your PIKLs, stuns, neural disrupters and sawn-offs. The Old Man mightn’t like it, but I don’t care.’
In the rear of the windowless cabin, the rebel crew exchanged curious glances. Several of them shrugged. It had been this way for five fretful years, with Scat tearing the pages out of the rulebook and using them for toilet paper, as Thomas and Goosen played tag, restraining him from his worst excesses.
Goosen raised his eyebrows at Thomas, as if to ask why he wasn’t protesting, but Thomas had nothing. As Paul air swam past him in a rush to the airlock, Goosen put a hand on the older brother’s shoulder.
‘See you on the other side, my friend.’
‘Yeah. Me you too.’ Thomas replied. ‘Just keep that knuckle head out of trouble.’
108
The shuttle trip to Tremont was uneventful.
On the way down, the flight crew brought them up to date on the most recent events in G-eo space, mostly related to Cotton’s call-up of security personnel, the ORF Hunter-Killer Teams’ presence in orbit, and general news including the weather. It was 28ºC inside the city today, slightly warmer outside. No rain forecasted. Very low humidity. Winds light. Sun bright. Wear UVF 30 for the first few days.
Upon touchdown, spaceport control directed the shuttle to a small private hangar just off the main terminal where a nervous Joseph Innanovic stood waiting. Innanovic had been on loan to Nettles for the past four years, ever since Spelling persuaded Cohen to rescind the charges of insurrection in return for a more cooperative relationship. Once he was free to re-join polite society, Nettles had made his way to G-eo and then to Trevon where the political classes welcomed him back as a near-martyr.
‘This way, please, gentlemen,’ Innanovic requested as Scat’s team disembarked uncertainly down the shuttle’s rear ramp, feeling every pound of their 8/10ths ESG body weight. A cargo cart was waiting for them. They threw their kit bags on board, jumped up alongside them and let it take them across the sand-dusted pan to a 4-wheeled recreational vehicle; it’s flickering paint work advertising an upcoming rebel movie.
Once inside, Innanovic updated them on the activities of the last few hours. There was nothing much to add to what had become known to them when they dropped into G-eo space. The only news of note was that the meeting with Cohen was to take place this very evening. They were to meet up with Reggie, and his retinue, a few minutes before meeting with Cohen at the Royal Windsor Hotel. They would arrive on time if they went directly. The rendezvous with Reggie was to take place in the underground vehicle park of his hotel, which was only some 500 metres from the Royal Windsor.
The RV sped smoothly along the desert highway eventually reaching the local limit of 180 kilometres per hour. In its wake, a thick cloud of yellow dust appeared to chase it across the empty countryside.
Scat stared out of the darkened windows and watched the grit, scrub and cacti slide quietly by.
Goosen grew bored at hearing Innanovic whittle on and on with less and less compelling news. He finally leaned forward and put a hand over his mouth.
‘Thanks for the updates, Joseph.’
Innanovic nodded vigorously; grateful he could shut up. The last time he had met Scat he was in some dive of an apartment on Second Avenue in Go Down City. Since then he had only heard of the violence committed by him in pursuit of independence. His handlers had made a point of telling him to act as naturally as he could, but that was difficult: he now found himself caught between the unseen might of the Lynthax Corporation and the physical presence of a monster.
Scat grew tired of the desert and so glanced around the cabin. Innanovic was trembling. Goosen was his usual placid self. Antonio Mercador and Richard Edlin, the young lad with the unfortunate nickname, were busy cleaning their sawn-offs. ‘Georgie’ Orwell was asleep, which was typical of him—he was immune to excitement—and Paul was calibrating his neural disrupter. Khoffi Khan, the ex-Earth rep and the only family man among them, was moving his head back and forth, eyes closed, quietly chanting something to himself. A prayer, perhaps. He was odd that way.
Scat turned his attention back to Innanovic.
‘First time on G-eo, Innanovic?’ he asked.
‘Er, no sir. I’ve been a few times, usually with Mr Nettles.’
‘Then why so nervous?’
‘I’m not sir; I’ve got a desert fever. Had it a day or so now,’ he replied. Even his voice trembled.
‘So see a doctor,’ Scat told him, losing interest.
‘Yes, sir. When we’re all done.’
Scat reached inside his backpack and pulled out Jess, his handball-sized bugbot—a personalised bugcam. He switched it on, and it rose to a hover, turning to face him. He fiddled with the key pad and adjusted its personality from passive-helpful, to alert-aggressive, and its function from personal assistant to watchdog, but decided against changing the flowthrough paint job. It was yellow with black horizontal hoops from top to bottom, with moving emoticon eyebrows at the front, and a silver vertical hoop at the back, representing the Trevon Chapter. Everyone recognised the colour scheme as his. He might as well keep it. Finally, he changed the voice setting from a purring female to “Old Boy” English and raised the volume a notch. The adjustments made, he pressed “off” and let it bounce to the floor, tucking the remote away in his jacket as he turned again to look outside.
The desert was changing. They must be getting close to Tremont. He could see fields of freshly watered crops, and they had just passed the entrance to the exclusive Tremont Golf Course, one of several “gifts” from a grateful Earth; a thank you to the moneyed classes for returning G-eo to the fold, albeit as a neutral and with conditions attached. Soon they would enter the tunnel that would take them under the hills that surrounded the city. After that, the scenery would change from semirural idyllic, to urbanised conformity.
So, they weren’t taking the main route into Tremont, after all. Perhaps Innanovic didn’t trust G-eo’s neutrality quite as much as Old Man Spelling did.
A few minutes later, they entered the tunnel. The bright sunshi
ne disappeared, and the RV’s lights flickered on to add illumination to the overhead lights and road markers as it slowed to a more sedate 80 kph. It let a smaller c-pod overtake it and after a mile, it was lost to view. Another mile after that, the tunnel exit appeared—a bright point of light cluttered with warning signs.
A moment later, they could see the toll collection infrastructure on the other side of the exit.
It was coming up fast.
Then they were through—
—into a huge hangar!
Fark!
What the fark?
Goosen sat bolt upright.
Khan and the others spun around in their seats.
What the hell just happened?
Intense, almost blinding lights penetrated the cabin windows.
Scat braced himself as the RV decelerated sharply then turned in a wide arc.
Edlin dropped his partially assembled shotgun and tried reaching for his PIKL. Scat made to do the same, just as the RV came to a sharp standstill, throwing him onto Innanovic’s lap.
Then the tannoy announcement:
‘Do not attempt to leave the vehicle. Do not attempt to use your weapons. You are completely surrounded by Hunter-Killer units.’
‘What the fark just happened?’ Goosen shouted over the continuing announcements.
‘Fark knows,’ Scat answered after pulling himself from Innanovic’s lap. ‘What can you see?’
‘Not much: just arc lights—powerful ones. I can’t see anything else.’
‘We’ve been had, Scat,’ Khan said, looking out of the rear window and knocking the safety off his PIKL. He looked remarkably calm. ‘This is it, my friend. We had a good run, don’t you think?’
‘Bollocks to that, Khoffi,’ Goosen said. ‘Put your PIKL away.’ He laid a massive paw over the PIKL’s short barrel and gently pushed it down.
Scat sank back in his seat. They had been suckered into a peace deal, and this was their payment. He shook his head at Goosen and smiled in agreement, there was no point in a last stand.
‘Yeah, put it away, Khoffi. Let’s live to fight another day.’
Outside they could hear boots hitting the ground at a run. They were getting closer. It sounded as if there were a lot of them. Scat put his PIKL on the cabin floor, grinned at his companions and then placed his hands behind his head.