‘Bugcams.’
‘Bugcams?’
‘Yes. Old but workable, I hope.’
Scat peered through the small side door until he was certain the abandoned hangar was unguarded. It was in complete darkness. There wasn’t a sound. He slipped inside, signalling to his guys that they should keep watch.
Khan and Goosen lay down on either side of the hangar door, facing in opposite directions. The corporal knelt by the door, looking inside.
Goosen’s sweaty scalp began to crawl. An ORF trooper had pulled him out of the shower, without a by your leave or the chance to rinse properly. He lifted his cap and scratched his head.
Khan fought the urge to change position. He had dropped down onto grass soaked in oil and littered with rags. Instead, he planned the route to the all-glass Data Centre in readiness for when Scat was finished hoking through the junk. In the starlight, the spaceport road appeared pale grey. Further along, the worn concrete surface took on a silver sheen, hazily reflecting the odd flash from high above. It was an open road, bordered on the far side by a shallow, dry grass ditch beyond which grew low scrub. Further along that side of the road, some 300 metres away and up a slight rise, lay the Centre, shining like a crystal cube. On this side of the road, a row of unlit streetlights stretched into the distance, following the spaceport fence.
Way down the airport apron, Khan could just make out a sleek, black starflyer taxing along the edge of the runway, its low taillight blinking. There were no buildings between here and there, he thought. The grass ditch offered the only cover.
Scat reappeared with a remote in his hand and a bugcam under his arm.
‘I found one,’ he said, fiddling with the remote. ‘It’s got just enough juice left in for a flyby, maybe a little more. I’m not sure why it was junked. It still takes commands.’
Scat looked up and followed Khan’s gaze out towards the Data Centre.
‘It’s open,’ he observed. He then saw the starflyer. ‘And someone’s prepping to leave.’
‘Yes,’ Khan replied. ‘They’ll see us if they’re looking for us.’
‘So, what’s the plan, Mr Scat?’ the corporal asked.
Scat stood in the hangar doorway, sucking on his lower lip. He was OK with running headlong away from trouble but less than happy running blindly into it. The starflyer wasn’t an immediate problem, not while it was still on the ground. Their problem was Petroff’s close protection detail. Their approach would have to be a stealthy one, but it didn’t look as though they had much time, or cover, to play with.
Scat put the bugcam down on the concreted slip road and commanded it to rise.
‘We’ll send this up ahead. It can find out which floor Petroff is on. Then—’
‘He’s in the security room.’ It was Pierce.
‘Does anyone know where the security room is?’ Scat asked.
‘It’s to the right of the main entrance, Scat,’ Pierce added, ‘just off reception.’
‘No idea, boss,’ Khan admitted.
Goosen just shook his head.
‘OK, we’ll assume it’s next to the main entrance. Let’s take a look.’
He fiddled with the remote. The bugcam flew slowly out of the service road and then dipped low to follow the ditch towards the Centre. As it made its final approach, Scat ran up the service road, keeping one eye on the bugcam monitor. His team followed at the trail, slipping across the main road, and then dropping into the ditch beside him.
When they had lain still for a while, Goosen tapped the corporal on his shoulder.
‘You didn’t say your name, corporal,’ he whispered.
‘Al Tweed, sir,’ the corporal replied, watching the bugcam through his PIKL sight.
‘Al as in Alfred, or Al in Alan?’
‘Algernon, I’m afraid, sir. So it’s simply Al.’
‘Andrew. Or Birdie,’ he said, extending a hand.
Al took the hand and shook it. It was his first friendly contact with a rebel.
‘In training they taught me how to PIKL rebels, Birdie. It’s funny how we’re now being asked to PIKL Lynthax’s doorstops.’
‘Aye, that’s what comes of working for a pseudo supranational, Al. There’s no true north. You’re all things to all men. In any case, you’re just too young to remember how evil Lynthax was and why it deserves a whacking.’
Goosen looked towards the Data Centre again. An occasional bright light flashed across its façade like late September lightning, reminding him, that, high above them, a real war was going on. He glanced upwards. The intensity of the laser fire had died down from earlier, but the deep blue, fuzzy flashes continued. It suggested the ships were still jumping in and out of space, jostling for position: probably to confuse their foes.
Scat lay against the side of the ditch, resting on an elbow, studying the monitor. He focused intently on flying the bugcam across the front of the building. As it reached the lobby, he peered inside.
Nothing.
Only emergency lighting.
He then moved it on, past the lobby, to peer down through the high windows of the security office.
And there Petroff was, accompanied by three of his men.
He appeared to be downloading data into gel-cells and onto discs. A backpack lay on the floor beside him, brimming with others. Behind him was the thick-walled, vault-like data room. Scat adjusted the screen’s brightness and made the bugcam swivel a little. The vault’s door was open; discs lay scattered on the floor.
Swinging the bugcam back the left, Scat studied the only entrance into the security room. It was secured by a metal-trimmed, solid-looking wooden door on an electronic lock.
To secure the vault they would need to go through Petroff and his men. Scat didn’t like what he saw, nor did Goosen.
‘And to get past Petroff, Scat, we’ll need to get through that door,’ Goosen said. ‘By the time we’ve broken in and fought our way past his protection detail, he’ll have destroyed it all. How about the window?’
Scat shook his head.
‘It’ll be rad-hardened. PIKL proof.’
‘And the door?’ Goosen asked.
‘Dunno. But at least we’ll be on the inside. We just need to improve our odds a little.’
Scat glanced back towards the hangar. He called Khan across.
‘Khoffi, are you still using the neuralnet?’
‘I haven’t used it since last night. Why?’
‘Can you log on? That is, without the net knowing where you are?’
‘I don’t know, Scat. I’m just a user. Who do you want to talk to?’
‘Petroff.’
Goosen looked at him, curiously.
‘We can slip him a red herring,’ Scat explained.
‘A red what?’ Khan asked.
‘A false message, Khoffi. You could tell Paul to break out of the dorm and meet me at the hangar. Paul won’t be able to—it doesn’t matter if he can or he can’t. But Petroff will think that’s where I am. He might send one or two of his doorstops to get me.’
‘So you want me to try?’ Khan asked.
‘Yes, but let us get closer, first. Give us five minutes.’
It took Khan a second to understand the implications of what Scat had just said.
‘You want me to stay here?’
‘Only until you’ve sent the message. Then you can follow.’
Leaving the bugcam to hover outside the security office window, Scat, Goosen and Tweed scurried along the ditch until they reached the main entrance. Scat and Tweed crossed the entrance to the right side of the door. Goosen lay in the grass just off to the left, out of the line of probable fire.
Scat looked back down the road and waved, hoping Khan could see he was ready.
A few seconds later, Khan gave Scat the thumbs up. He then lobbed something back into the hangar’s service road and made his way along the ditch to lie beside Goosen.
‘They must have left it on,’ Khan said as he flopped down. ‘There’s no one on it
right now, but the message will stick out like my uncle’s pink Lunghi. I also left my graf behind—they should think I’m still there.’
Up at the main entrance, Scat stared down at the bugcam remote, and looked for signs that his ruse was working. Instead, Petroff continued to pile discs and gel-cells next to his monitor, download data onto them, and then drop them onto the floor beside the pack.
Tweed fiddled with his PIKL. Goosen adjusted his position. Khan asked a silent ‘Well?’ with his hands.
Still nothing. Petroff continued to download data, and throw discs to the floor.
Scat began to wish he had worked on a plan B. Maybe Petroff wasn’t paying attention. Maybe he wasn’t trawling the neuralnet for rebel communications. Maybe he had turned his neurals off. Or perhaps he had just discounted it.
Then Petroff’s head snapped up and, for a moment, he focused on something that was not there. He stood up and looked up at the high window. Scat pulled the bugcam away.
Petroff clambered up onto the console and craned his neck, looking through the window towards the hangar. He could see only a fraction of it. From across the road, a blinking, red light distracted him. On the other side of the perimeter fence, his starflyer transport was prepping to leave. It faced away from him, to present a warm-looking and welcoming cabin that glowed orange atop a lowered rear ramp. All he needed to do was hop over the fence, run up that ramp, and he would be free and clear. Rogers had finally gotten something right.
Outside the security room, Scat was getting a little impatient:
‘Come on, you beggar!’ he urged.
‘Come on you fark!’ said Pierce, startling Scat.
‘Send someone over there!’ Scat urged again.
‘Yes, you fark-wit. Send someone over there!’
Petroff dropped down from the console and played with a monitor, trying to patch into the hangar’s security cameras. He was shaking his head but smiling. He mouthed something to two of his protection detail, flicking a thumb over his shoulder towards the hangar. A few seconds later, he was shooing them out of the room.
‘They’re coming out,’ Scat whispered. ‘Be ready Tweed. There are two of them.’
Tweed knelt, flicked his PIKL safety off, and lined the barrel up across the front of the glass doors. Scat stood behind him and did likewise, his line of sight a couple of feet higher.
There was a loud clunk as an electronic lock disengaged, and then a whooshing sound as the two doors slid apart. A few seconds later, the two armed guards passed into their fields of fire.
Scat and Tweed’s PIKLs discharged with loud, ripping crackles.
The guards crumpled to the floor, one of them burning, his PIKL power unit exploding in a cloud of gas.
Goosen and Khan stormed through the doors before they could close, crossed the lobby and sprinted down the corridor leading to the security room. Scat and Tweed followed them in.
As they closed in on the security room, Goosen barged past Khan and threw his body at the door. There was the cracking sound of splintering wood, but the lock held. A lightning bolt punched its way into the corridor, striking the far wall.
‘Shit!’ Goosen exclaimed. He dove to the floor inside a shower of wood splinters and a cloud of exploding concrete dust.
Khan spun away, throwing an arm up to protect his eyes.
Scat edged up the right of the door and snatched a quick look through a 10 centimetres-wide hole. There was nothing to see through the dust. He took a quick look up and down the corridor, hoping there was another way in. He kicked the security room wall. It was solid, made of concrete, not plasterboard. He looked up at the ceiling.
And there he found it.
The security room was a retrofit, an afterthought, probably added long after the vault was built: the ceiling tiles didn’t end at the wall, they carried on, disappearing over the top of it and into the security room.
Scat grabbed Goosen’s arm and waved Khan closer. He pointed at Tweed, telling him to keep an eye on the lobby. He then pointed to himself and thrust his finger upwards a few times. He put his hand on Khan’s shoulder to get him to kneel, but when Khan finally understood what Scat had in mind, he shook his head.
‘It’ll be me. He’s mine,’ Khan whispered.
‘Not now, Khoffi. Not now,’ Scat hissed, beckoning Khan to link his hands and to give him a heave up the wall. But Khan didn’t budge. He raised his chin in defiance. It looked as though he was going to dig his heels in.
‘I’m smaller than you,’ Khan noted, still keeping his voice low.
‘But I’m lighter,’ Scat mouthed back at him.
‘I doubt it. I’ve shed a few pounds. You’ve added a few.’
Goosen nodded.
‘He’s right, Scat,’ he said. ‘He’s lighter. He still doesn’t eat right.’
Scat threw his hands down to his sides and then, in mock frustration, he feigned the curling of a hand around Khan’s throat and his hitting him with his PIKL. Khan stood his ground, unimpressed.
Scat slung his PIKL.
‘OK, up you go,’ he said, linking his hands together, ready to give the man a boost.
Khan stepped in, and Scat pushed up. Khan put a hand on Scat’s head to check his balance and then reached up to touch a tile. He pushed it up gently, to see how secure it was. It moved easily, so he pushed at another tile, closer to the security room wall, and gently eased it to one side.
As Scat unslung his PIKL, Goosen watched Khan’s legs disappear.
Scat put two PIKL bolts through the door, just to focus Petroff’s mind. He aimed high, not wanting to damage any discs or gel-cells.
From inside the room someone cursed. It was hard to tell whether it was Petroff.
The door now had three large holes in it, but, still, they couldn’t see Petroff. The wall on the opposite side to the door smouldered, and the plastic in the console gave off a burning smell, but there were no bodies.
Up above, Khan spread his weight across the lip of the concrete dividing wall, where the end wall of the security room met the corridor. He eased a second tile to one side a fraction and peered down.
Below him, another PIKL bolt blew its way into the room. This time it struck the console a metre or so away from where Petroff sat, still downloading data. The man sprang from his seat. His lone sidekick retreated to behind a cabinet, pointing his PIKL at the door, but looking to Petroff for instructions.
Petroff looked up at the high window and then back down at his pack. Fark it! It looked as though he would need to leave a shed load of data behind. He should have just streamed the data across to the starflyer—he would at least be gone by now. Damn!
He grabbed the backpack and clambered up onto the console. When he had finally unlocked the window, he looked back at his colleague.
‘Harris, why don’t you PIKL the data bank and then fry this console. You can join me outside when you’re done.’
Harris hesitated, looking up at Petroff and then at the window.
‘It’s alright!’ Petroff said, pushing the window open. ‘We won’t leave without you. But do it quickly!’
Khan didn’t wait to see whether Harris was convinced. He let loose a bolt, hitting Harris squarely in the chest.
Petroff jumped back from the flash, covering his eyes. He fumbled the backpack and almost lost his balance.
Harris hit the ground steaming, the skin around his chest and neck beginning to blister. His graf popped, flared and then burned on his wrist.
Khan pointed his PIKL at Petroff, just as Scat, Goosen and Tweed burst through the door.
‘Don’t think of going anywhere, Petroff!’ Khan shouted. ‘Don’t give me an excuse.’
Petroff gathered himself for a fateful ending. He stood in silence for a moment, looked down at the slowly smouldering Harris, and wondered how best to answer the voice in the ceiling.
As Scat walked towards him, Petroff dropped the pack onto the console and held his hands out from his sides.
‘And wher
e would I go?’ he asked, finally.
‘To Hell!’ Pierce replied.
145
In the space above Runnymede, the Commander of the Western Bloc Starflyer Fleet received a heavily encrypted signal from ISRA’s communications centre in Northwood, England. The message informed him of Lynthax’s blatant disregard for the Law of First Contact. It then went on to describe the most recent consequences of the contact—consequences so shocking, and frightening, the commander thought them to be incredible. The Pentagon confirmed it all in their follow up message.
The news was too destabilising to pass onto his men, but his orders were clear: upon receipt of the message, he was to throw the weight of the Western Bloc behind the ORF. That U-turn needed some explanation, but not the truth. Within minutes, the Western Bloc Starflyer Fleet was turning on the Lynthax starflyers. When hailed by their one-time ally, he offered no explanation, feeling no obligation.
The Asian Bloc fleet received the news at the same time, with ISRA carefully choreographing the messages to prevent a misunderstanding. Equally appalled by what he had heard, the Asian Fleet Commander watched as the Western Bloc turned on its former ally, causing the remnants of the Lynthax Starflyer fleet to jump to ftl. He then stood his fleet down to hang in Runnymede space, ready to lend the ORF a hand should it need assistance.
Runnymede lay open.
On the ground, Scat was oblivious to everything except the drink in his hand.
The ex-rebels, ex-pathfinders, and soon to be freemen, had found the project director’s mess, complete with bar, and were blowing off steam. They had trashed the mess by the time Scat arrived, but the bar remained intact. He joined them, and celebrated their victory in the time-honoured way, by getting pissed extremely quickly and making unrealistic plans for the future. He was anticipating his freedom, and a return to normal life, just as much as they were.
It took the heebie-jeebies to bring him back to reality.
‘Scat, please. Sober up. There’s so much more to be done,’ Pierce complained.
‘Fark off. You’re not really there,’ Scat replied, laughing at his fellow ex-rebels, as though they would understand.
Goosen smiled a vacant smile, not understanding a thing.
Khan looked at Scat through glass beads for eyes.
Paul just looked at him oddly.
‘Please Scat,’ Pierce continued. ‘There are so many more of us. We need your help, someone’s help. And I can only speak to you.’