“Vance was on his way to see Evans. He was looking into what we believe was a weapons theft from the Munitions Depository at Ventura.” Godford finished his water and had his AI refill it. “Requisition order came in, transport showed up at the front door, guns and ammo were loaded and the transport took off after all the paperwork got squared away. The guns were supposed to go to Camp San Clemente in the continental interior, but they never got there.”
Gresham glanced at a half-complete invoice containing serial and model numbers. “Looks like they got away with some heavy weapons. Exploding rounds, machine guns, thermite grenades…”
“Needless to say, this kind of hardware being unaccounted for is unacceptable. General Beveridge over at Section One assigned this to Vance. After about a week, something… piqued Vance’s interest. He went to go see Evans, who was handling the invoice you see there, and walked in one him being disemboweled, right here at Defense. Only managed to wrest half the invoice away from the assassin before taking one too many wounds to the torso.”
“How did the assassin escape?”
“Some kind of viral card, sort of like the kind we give all intelligence operatives. You know what I mean, I’m sure you still have yours from basic training.”
“It’s lying around somewhere.”
“Anyways, he overrode two locked doors and got out before the entire building could get shut down. The hallway where he attacked Vance was empty and he had a five minute head-start on security. That’s where things get fishy. It was five in the morning, before the main shift of Defense employees came in for work. Vance obviously knew who he was looking for here and what time to come. Maybe I’m just paranoid after all the years I spent at Special Projects, but it smells like a setup. I think Vance may have been a target too.”
Gresham considered this information before asking what he had been wondering since the moment Godford handed him the file. “Sir, if I may ask… What does this have to do with me?”
“When a crime occurs on government property like this, Special Intelligence takes over. It’s spelled out very explicitly by law. Only problem is, I wouldn’t trust Simon Cray and his army of ass-kissers over at SIS to shine my shoes, let alone investigate the murder of a Defense bureaucrat and the attempted murder of an MID field agent. Turns out I’m not the only one. This case was on the backburner since the attack a couple of days ago, but after the bombing yesterday it has come front and center.”
“How are the two related?”
“They might not be. But we can’t know for sure. That’s where you come in.” Godford stood up and looked down at Gresham. “We don’t know who we can trust anymore, Major. We’ve got people stealing weapons from Marine depositories, killing government employees in broad daylight, and smuggling bombs into state visits. All three smack of an inside job, or at least somebody with access to people on the inside. That’s why we need someone on the inside to snoop around and do some digging for us.”
It took a moment for the words to register. Gresham’s eyes widened and he blurted out, “You mean me?”
“You’re the only person I’m talking to, John.”
“But sir, I’m not… I’m not a field agent! I’m an analyst! I write reports and sit in front of Commission committee hearings and crunch data.”
“I know exactly what you do. I read your dissertation on internal krokator politics and military spending. Fascinating material.”
“Well, technically it wasn’t a dissertation, it was an intelligence report…”
Godford waved his comment off. “You know what I mean, Major Gresham. You’re a smart man, good at reading between the lines and seeing patterns. It’s what makes you a good analyst. And the President trusts you, and right now trust is at a premium around here.”
“So… what exactly am I looking into?”
“Why did the guns from the Ventura Depository go missing? Who placed the secret requisition order for them? How much did Vance know before he was targeted? And, most importantly, if you find out who’s stealing our guns, I want you to find out if they or anyone they know have a connection to the perpetrators of the bombing yesterday. You were asked for by name by the President – don’t let him down.” Godford handed Gresham a piece of paper. “This has my signature on it. It details, in writing, your assignment. Keep it hidden and only bring it out if you need to override someone giving you difficulties. Be very careful who you tell about your assignment.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll need to tell Moss so he understands why I’m not doing my JLOC duties.”
“Understandable. If Colonel Moss gives you any trouble, you let me know.” Godford coughed and sipped his water. “Just so you’re aware, Gresham, you weren’t my first choice for this job. If I’d had my way I would have assigned an experienced field agent from the clandestine service to handle this, not a career analyst. But when the President and I discussed who was trustworthy enough, he said your name had to be at the top of the list.”
Gresham nodded once. “I understand, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Don’t let the President down either. You’re dismissed, Major. Report back to me and me alone when you have something.”
Godford’s parting words seemed weighted, as if he was trying to subtly show disdain for Gresham. Choosing to worry about it later, Gresham saluted, thanked him and walked out, where he ran into Moss.
“What was all that about?” Moss wondered. “Have you been sent to a listening post on some shit rock in the Border Worlds?”
“Worse,” Gresham grunted and handed Moss the files. “He made me a field agent.”
Chapter Five: Krokandir
Planet Rukkur, Kroka System, Krokator Star Empire
The military express skyrail whistled over the Krokandir at a much greater speed than the civilian mass-transit system allowed for. Down below, the buildings of the massive Imperial City blurred by. As the magnetically-suspended train began slowing down on its approach towards the next station, Zurra thought about the eighty million inhabitants of the city below, from this height barely distinguishable on the narrow streets between the blackrock buildings.
“We have now arrived in the 1st District,” the skyrail’s pilot announced. “We are docking with the southeastern tower of Empire Plaza Station.”
The skyrail hissed to a halt and the steel doors slid up to reveal a thin walkway leading to the tall blackrock spire the train had docked with. Zurra disembarked the train and crossed the catwalk as quickly as possible. All the passengers boarded a hyperlift which dropped at a gut-wrenching speed the whole eight hundred feet from the top of the skyrail dock to the station’s lobby below, and Zurra breathed out uncomfortably as the rickety hyperlift jolted to a stop.
Empire Plaza Station was an ancient skyrail hub in need of repairs, its lobby’s tiles cracked and the blackrock walls aged and weathered. A faded screen showed departure and arrival times and another viewscreen had a dull krokator news agent delivering reports. There was a flurry of passengers darting between different elevators and ticket desks, trying to reach their skyrails in time.
Once out on the street, a likala sped by, nearly running Zurra over, and yet only a few yards away two merchants sold fruit from the back of a cart pulled by a pogo, a reminder of the mix of modern and ancient in the Krokandir. The mighty tusked beast bellowed and one of the krokator merchants kicked it sharply with his heel to silence it.
Zurra moved through the crowded street out to the sprawling Empire Plaza, where a massive fair was underway. Stages featured music played both on electrical machines and on traditional wind and string instruments. There were plays depicting legends, historical events and religious teachings. A stable of pogos were being sold by a rough-looking krokator missing a tusk and most of his nose. Soldiers pushed their way through the circus, warning all suspected of misconduct of the consequences.
Although it took him nearly twenty minutes, Zurra made his way through the crowd and the five different security checkpoint
s he needed to pass through to enter the Manganese Palace. There were guards posted next to the raised dais at the end of the square where the Emperor would give his address the next evening, guards posted at the ornate Bronze Gate – the massive blackrock arch depicting High Priests, High Prods and Emperors from throughout history, its name derived from a large bronze disc at its top – and before he knew it he was passing through the entrance into the Manganese Palace itself, once having gone through the largest and most heavily-guarded checkpoint of them all.
Zurra had never visited the Manganese Palace before, but like every krokator he knew its history. The name came from the manganese mine the palace had been built on top of over a thousand years ago, and rumor had it that the old mining shafts served as an escape route for the Emperor in or out of the palace in case of trouble; there was a famous story about how the late Emperor Dennokk, the father of the sitting monarch, had been ushered into the caves during a mass riot on an Urkuran that had been just as tense as this one.
A wide staircase led up to the beautiful and expansive Reflecting Garden at the base of the Manganese Palace’s central tower. Plants from every world in the Empire were kept here, tended to by a staff of dedicated and carefully selected gardeners.
Admiral Tarkas sat on a bench under a bright pink tree, staring at the stunning flowers blooming on the branches. He spotted Zurra out of the corner of his eye and waved him over.
“Come, Sharm Zurra, look at this. Look at each flower. The detail on each is intricate. We as intelligent sentients could never create beauty like this.”
Zurra paused, regarding the white-speckled flowers. “Yes, Admiral, I agree.”
Tarkas rose. “High Prod Nikkwill and the Emperor are waiting for us. We should not let them wait.”
“The Emperor? I never could have thought…”
“Bow on one knee when you are halfway from the door to his throne. When he greets you, you may rise. Look him in the eyes when he addresses you, like you would any superior. Answer every question honestly, even if you have to hesitate to think your response over.”
Zurra nodded but felt a knot in his stomach. He had been unprepared for a meeting with the Emperor, having only ever seen him speak from a crowd or on a screen. Unlike his charismatic father, Urkus Ruskir was a reclusive old krokator that rarely left the palace and seldom met with visiting dignitaries or leaders. This meeting was an unheard-of honor for a junior officer like a sharm.
Tarkas led the way into a raised courtyard. Eight aruntuk in full battle armor stood at attention, their bald and tattooed heads gleaming in the sunlight. Zurra reflected on his secret mission to Piskka with the military’s most elite soldiers. Aruntuk were trained to devote their life to serving the Empire, a pact they approached with fanatical dedication. They were the special forces of the military, but also guarded the Emperor himself.
Tarkas knocked twice on a pair of massive wooden doors decorated with ornate manganese patterns. A pair of white-clothed female krokator servants opened the door. “Welcome to the Imperial residence,” they said in unison, surely the result of much practice.
“We are here to see High Prod Nikkwill,” Tarkas said.
“He is with the Emperor,” one of the servants replied. “Follow me.”
There were twenty more aruntuk inside the residence’s massive atrium, each staring into space, an okka pistol and Obedience Stick tucked into his belt. Beyond this chamber was a lengthy hallway guarded by twelve additional aruntuk stationed in between the blackrock pillars. The ceiling was painted with an epic scene of the Truuknan, the trinity of fraternal gods worshipped by the krokator, doing battle with hrains, the demons from before time was time.
Doors made of pure manganese at the end of the hallway were opened by dutiful servants, revealing a spacious room with a cupola roof dotted with hundreds of tiles, each an individually painted piece of artwork. The walls were adorned with the flags of the different worlds within the Empire, but behind the blackrock throne at the end of the large room, was the largest flag – three white circles around a golden pyramid on a dark green background, the symbol of the Krokator Empire.
High Prod Nikkwill was bowing on one knee in the heart of the room in his full platinum armor, glowing in the daylight from the many large windows. All thirty-two of his officer braids fell down beyond his shoulders, each as thin as a shoestring.
Tarkas and Zurra reached his position and Tarkas fell almost instinctively, roaring out “Admiral Runka Tarkas!”
Zurra followed suit and then announced himself. “Sharm Akgu Zurra!”
“Rise,” the Emperor wheezed, barely able to project his voice so that the three soldiers could hear him. “Come closer, and sit at the feet of my throne.”
Urkus Ruskir looked much older in person than in effigy. The ancient crown, no more than six bound rings of steel, rested on his dark-green head. What little hair he had left hung like the leaves of a dying willow against the sides of his skull, and his cheekbones were clearly visible through his sagging skin, which had forced his sad eyes deeper into their sockets.
Nikkwill and Tarkas sat cross-legged at the Emperor’s feet, watching their revered leader the entire time. Zurra cautiously did likewise, noticing multiple aruntuk watching them from the shadows in silence. The security was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
The Emperor’s pale eyes fell on Zurra. “Akgu Zurra, I knew your father. Prod Akgu Juska was a fine soldier and a devoted father. The Empire lost a tremendous asset when he died.”
“I am honored the Emperor held my father in such high esteem,” Zurra replied slowly, locking eyes with the Empire’s leader before bowing his head in gratitude. “I hope I can emulate him and earn the same accolades myself.”
“If that is Frusrand’s will,” the Emperor said and turned back to Nikkwill and Tarkas. “I have brought you here because I fear for the Empire’s security.”
“We expect severe rioting in many outer districts this year, and the Progressives are planning on staging a rally about two miles from Empire Plaza during the ceremony, but there is no immediate threat to the nation’s safety,” Nikkwill replied curtly.
“I have spoken with the priests. I have studied the stars. At my age, I have little else to do in my spare time. I know my fate. This is the last Urkuran I will see.” Emperor Ruskir lowered his gaze. “My son is being prepared to succeed me, and the priests know that they may have to coronate him at any given moment.”
The three soldiers were unsure what to say, stunned by the Emperor’s candor. Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, Nikkwill nodded and said, “The Emperor has nothing to fear.”
Emperor Ruskir ignored his comment, idly gazing down upon them before coughing and changing the subject. “Sharm Zurra, you fight like an aruntuk with many years of training. I have heard nothing but glowing reviews of your mission to Piskka.”
“The Emperor flatters me,” Zurra said. “I am unworthy of the Emperor’s praise, but accept it graciously.”
“Your removal of the threat of Anuut Oraank did not go unnoticed here in the Krokandir, Sharm Zurra. You have a very bright future in the military.”
“I am glad the Emperor is pleased with my work, but I only perform my duties,” Zurra answered politely.
Emperor Ruskir shifted his gray and red garb and nodded. “You are well-spoken and humble, like your father. And you are loyal. I can trust him, Nikkwill. You are all dismissed.”
Nikkwill and Tarkas bowed their heads once in silence and rose, walking away. Zurra followed them. Once they reached the center of the room, all three turned around and bowed on one knee once more for five seconds before rising and leaving.
Once back out in the Reflecting Garden, Nikkwill motioned for the junior officer to take a seat. “Sharm Zurra, you know that I knew your father personally and considered him a friend. Prod Juska would be very proud of your progress.”
“He was one of my instructors while at the Academy,” Tarkas added. “You embody everything he
taught my class. That is why we trust you with dangerous missions.”
“Thank you,” Zurra answered dutifully, bowing his head.
“Half the aruntuk we sent with you to Piskka were killed. You survived. That speaks volumes,” Nikkwill glowed. “The incursion there revealed troubling information, however. Hudda Kugrall has financial backers outside of the Empire who were laundering money through Piskka, and some of that money was going towards certain hardline Progressives.”
Zurra stiffened at the name. “What evidence do we have to suggest that?”
“Hudda Kugrall has contacts within the Progressive movement. Tolakko is not a heretic, but some of his followers are. We have evidence to suggest that an extremist Progressive named Kamaan Dakkal may have been dealing with Hudda Kugrall-aligned elements, as indicated by records seized on Piskka.”
“Your mission is to go to the Progressive stronghold in Ankina, find out who Dakkal is in contact with, and report what you find to us. You will go alone.” Tarkas handed Zurra a scroll. “This is for your eyes only, Sharm Zurra. I know you have a personal history with Hudda Kugrall, but do not let this cloud your judgment. We need to know which parties beyond our borders would have an interest in trying to manipulate the Progressives.”
Zurra nodded once without looking at the scroll. “I accept.”
“Good. Then as soon as the Urkuran has ended, you will travel to Ankina. You are dismissed. Frusrand guide your path.”
The two senior officers departed and left Zurra sitting on the bench, varying his glance between his assignment and the trees surrounding him.
#
The sun had already descended past the peaks of the tall eastern mountains by the time the two krokator, wearing hoods and keeping their heads low, found the tenement marked on their map. The crumbling old building, likely close to a century old, loomed before them in the shadows.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
“Grakko said this was it. Come on, Drelokk, we should hurry.”
The krokator identified as Drelokk looked in both directions down the deserted street of the southern slum of the Krokandir they had ventured into before tearing down the banner denoting the building as condemned and scheduled for demolition and passing through the doorway it had previously hidden.