BattleTech: Counterattack (BattleCorps Anthology Vol. 5), page 15
No—he had to find Trahn, Yu and Rosenberg. But he didn’t know their contact information. The three of them hadn’t been informed of Quinn’s existence—making his presence a mystery except to Raven and Aris.
Coming to a decision, Quinn turned left down the main street and headed to the next train station. He needed to get to the spaceport. He had the papers—Raven had already issued them to him.
But would they work? Or would he be picked up at the spaceport?
Either way, he had to try and find Aris. Quinn had to get to the coordinates he’d given out in the broadcast, outside the Jakarta ruins. Even if it meant getting there on his own.
Trying hard to keep a level head, Quinn entered the main train station. The center globe decoration had been replaced with a large, terrifying statue of the Blake Sword. Quinn stood in front of the statue, looking up at it.
He’d been in this station only a month ago and hadn’t seen this monolith before. Its presence was something more than daunting. It made him forget his surroundings and realize where he was. And how much danger he was in.
Someone tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
Keeping his reaction calm he turned slowly, masking his face in a soft smile, and faced a matronly woman. Her gray and white hair was tucked neatly into a bun. She wore a slimming white suit, cut perfectly to her body-type. A cosmetic enhancement used by most of the Wobby operatives to infuse a sense of peace and justice.
The ones they called ROM. Out of the hundreds of people inside the train station, there were few that would recognize this woman for who or what she was.
But letting her know he knew wasn’t the way to handle this situation. Wait and see what she wanted. “Yes?” He managed a smile.
“Aren’t you Alec Mensa?”
His cover name. “Yes. I’m sorry—did I bump you or something?” Take the offensive out of the situation, came Raven’s voice in his head. Put any possible assailant at ease if you are unarmed or not in a position to defend yourself.
She smiled. “No, no. We’ve been looking for you. Are you familiar with a woman by the name of Devon Sid?”
Raven’s cover identity. Denying this would only make him look suspicious. She wouldn’t be asking him if she didn’t already know the answer. “Yes. I do. Is there something wrong? Did something happen to Miss Sid?”
The woman actually looked concerned. “It’s okay, son,” she put her hand on his shoulder. It was a firm pressure, but not too harsh. Calling him son told him that she believed him younger than he was. They always did. “May we talk in private?”
He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Twenty minutes before his train boarded.
“Are you going somewhere, dear?” she asked.
He decided to lie. “No ma’am. I’m meeting some friends. They’re coming in from the south end and we were supposed to catch the New World Order movie over at the Ritz.”
He watched her carefully. His words seemed to confuse her, but she quickly regained her composure. “I won’t keep you long. Can we talk over there?”
He looked to where she pointed. It was near the doors marked “Word Of Blake Loyalists Only.”
He didn’t have a weapon, or even a knife. He was unarmed.
But he wasn’t helpless.
Raven had made sure of that.
With a nod and a half smile he moved side-by-side with her, pacing himself so that she never got behind him. He kept her in sight as they neared the door.
“So what’s happened to Miss Sid?” he started in first before they arrived, turning slightly to keep her in sight. “Why do you need to talk to me?”
She made a mistake then, believing him easily compliant, and had pulled out her surprise weapon too soon.
A needle in her right hand.
The doors opened and two large men in black suits stepped out.
A collapsing student being taken to the offices by big, burly men could be easily explained as an illness by the ROM operative in her simple white suit and soothing voice.
But he was going to use that to his advantage.
Stepping back a bit, he widened his eyes and held out his hands. The two men hung back in the shadows to keep from being conspicuous. “What—what is that for? Is she contagious? Does she have a disease and you think I’m infected?”
The ploy worked and the woman looked confused again. She no longer tried to hide the needle. “No, son. We just need to ask you some questions.”
“So you need that?” He pointed to the needle, raising his voice just enough to catch some passerby’s attention. “Just ask me.”
He saw one of the men move quickly—
Quinn knew his reflexes were too quick for the average person—his emotions had heightened his reaction time. Seconds slowed as he crouched and sprinted forward, throwing his weight into the woman’s solar plexus and moving her backwards into the two men.
They weren’t prepared.
Quinn was. He rolled and came up on his feet, then took off at a dead run through the train terminal. He’d be stupid to think those were the only ones looking for him. There would be others at the exits and entrance, at the gates for arrivals and departures.
But he couldn’t stay in here. He needed to get out into the city—the trains would be delayed because of him so even that escape would be denied.
Think, think, think. He sprinted along the side and into a door that still had “Employees Only” across the midpoint. Before him stretched a corridor, only half lit. Was this the abandoned train office? If so—there could be a door to the outside.
An exit. And maybe one that wouldn’t be guarded.
With a quick glance into each room he found one office that still had a computer terminal in it. And the computer was on. He typed in one of his co-worker’s passwords to check the communications network and found where his own identity had been erased.
Shit.
He checked in the files he’d hidden in several packets and found them still there. They hadn’t found his alternate identities. Keeping one eye on the door, he quickly activated the older of the identities, turning himself into Tseng Addison, a student from Davis Community College.
He kept in his contacts but mussed his hair once again. He didn’t have the needed coloring to make himself a blonde—so he pulled a baseball cap from the deep pocket of his tunic. Retrieving a small drive from his shoe, Quinn uploaded a virus into the train mainframe—within seconds he heard a klaxon sounding outside.
Was it for him, or for the miss-opening of six gates? He then uploaded a new ticket for Tseng Addison to the spaceport—transfer of credits for a “summer” job in transportation efficiency.
Right. Sounded bogus to him. But these Word of Blake idiot loyalists would buy anything that sounded like it conformed to mind control.
Removing that drive, he plugged in the back of the drive and shorted out the CPU of the machine he was on. Once out of that office he turned left, cursing himself for not looking up the old maps for the building and finding the right exit.
After several wrong turns he found a door clearly marked “Exit.” With a glance out through a wired glass window, he didn’t see anyone. No guards. No one. He eased himself out and stood there a few seconds before walking calmly in the direction of the train station entrance.
Guards rushed out and past him, not even questioning that a criminal would be moving toward them. Once inside, huddled in the center of a group of students, Quinn moved with them to the counter. He showed them his ID, and he was searched and shown through to the waiting area.
The train was waiting; indeed delayed because of the chaos his virus had wrought on the scheduling system. He was just to the closest door when a hand grabbed his arm. He turned, ready to deliver a punch, and was surprised to see Shindo Rosenberg standing beside him.
“Damned punk,” the Hiritsu Warrior growled.
Quinn was too stunned to react as Rosenberg’s hand crashed into his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Hazy from the pain as he doubled over, he realized Shindo didn’t recognize him. They had only met a few times, and Quinn was now in disguise.
Rosenberg delivered a well-aimed kick into Quinn’s side, lifting him a few centimeters as he flipped over onto his back. He couldn’t pull air into his chest—
“You think you can sabotage the trains and get away with it, you punk?” Rosenberg loomed over him again.
Quinn tried to speak, but couldn’t pull air in. He needed to tell Shindo who he was—but he couldn’t with his voice. So he used the only other thing he had available.
His feet.
Pulling his legs up, Quinn caught Rosenberg behind his knees. The Warrior came down as Quinn groaned out of the way, spun up into a crouch and delivered a well-aimed blow to the back of Shindo’s head.
Citizens ignored the two of them. Seeing only an unruly student and a Blakist loyalist, they didn’t want to get involved. Couldn’t get involved. Wanted nothing that would destroy or interfere with their small, comfortable lives.
The doors were closing. Quinn ran to them.
The sting in his back was real, and sudden. He hissed as he fell into the train, aware there was now a knife sticking out of his back. Rosenberg was good at his job—even if it was a fake job. He was a hothead, which worked well as security.
Pulling himself up by the silver poles, Quinn faced Rosenberg, who was stalking toward the train.
Finally he pulled air into his lungs, and winced at the pain in his back. “Shindo!” he managed to bark. “They have her!”
And it was enough. Enough of a warning that Rosenberg recognized him and realized what he’d done. Who he’d attacked. Shindo’s expression went from rage to panic and he tried run to the closing doors.
But the train was already moving.
“I have to find… Aris,” Quinn said through the window. He put his hand to the glass before the train lurched and pulled out of the station.
Unknown
Farandir
Magistracy of Canopus
16 June 3072
Aris worked hard rebuilding his body, growing more accustomed to the new changes in his heartbeat, working strength in his hand.
The most annoying adjustment was the inability to feel hot or cold in his fingertips. Nerve damage. Non-repairable.
He could rub his hands along the carved, rock walls. There was no sensation of sharp edges or of gritty sand.
Holding the practice sword was the same. There was no sensation of the hilt in his hand, only the sensation of something solid and the weight on his wrist. He was relearning how to fight from his arm, not his hand and wrist.
He watched teams come and go, but wasn’t allowed to join, or train with them. He did help where he could, teaching young men and women how to use a sword, as well as techniques for keeping invisible in the dark. And with each successful student he gained a bit more confidence in his own abilities once again.
He helped with the wounded when they were brought in, and he wept along with the others for the dead. Several of which died before his eyes.
They all sacrificed so much for the sake of freedom. He wanted to help.
He felt ready.
And useless.
And nothing could stop the nightmares, the voice of Setiwah in his mind, whispering to him in his dreams, caressing his cheek in his waking moments, or dispelling the smell of plum blossoms when he opened his eyes.
It was as if she was still there.
“Aris Sung,” November came to him one night before dinner.
He was in his small quarters, not far from the infirmary. Marina liked to keep him close, very proud of her work on him and his subsequent adjustment.
Standing, he faced her. “November—what is it?”
She looked torn, and he realized she was pulled apart inside. She wanted to trust him—wanted to bring him into her circle. But she was also cautious.
“We’ve received a transmission. Evidence of what we believe might be another cell operating here on Farandir.”
What? He took a step closer, his heart beating quicker. “Are you sure? Could it be a trap?”
“That’s why I need you, Aris Sung,” she stepped back to the door. “Because the message is directed at you personally.”
Aris was brought into the command and control center of the cell—an oval area deep in the ground. November claimed it had once been a waste disposal station before the planet’s environmental reforms over a hundred years ago.
It was all but forgotten, but the structure was still there. As was the technological links that once connected this command center to others all over the planet.
He recognized a few faces as he walked into the room, dressed in Magistracy black and turquoise. A top, pants, boots and turquoise body-suit beneath.
November gestured for him to join the small group gathered around what he recognized as a holo-HUD, an antiquated but precise piece of equipment that pulled from planetary defense satellites and gave back a three-dimensional image projected into the air above the domed table.
He saw a landscape of snow, mountains, trees, but to his right he saw the ruins of Jakarta City, and then the new Blakist stronghold within New Serang. A small dot pulsed nearest the mountains, and another one close to the ruins.
Very close.
The three individuals, two females and one male, looked up from the table. Each of them was dressed semi-formally. The male had a silver left eye.
Another cybernetic enhancement? Or a replacement?
“Mr. Sung,” the man said and his voice was reedy, as if he were speaking through bamboo. Aris noticed a small piece of metal protruding from his throat, nearly hidden by the high collar. “I am Colonel Robert Holden, in charge of base security. The communique in question wasn’t directed at this facility, but was more of a layered broadcast.”
Aris frowned. “Layered?”
“Force Major Daria Martin,” the taller of the two women said and Aris looked at her. “We monitor all broadcasts to and from Canopus—”
“But that’s impossible,” Aris interrupted. “You’d have to pinpoint the exact time for burst transmissions, as well as monitor hand-carried radio traffic to JumpShips,” he looked at each of them. “You’re capable of doing all of that—from here?”
Holden nodded. “The Ebon Magistrate has been working at surveillance a long time. We have a network but not nearly enough people to monitor every communiquÉ that comes in or goes out. Even though most of the capital city was destroyed—the lower west side, near the spaceport—the intact areas, and the occupied ones—still operate on an all-is-well basis. Though many of the supporters are visible with their Word of Blake pins. There is still limited commerce, and the citizens are encouraged to continue their lives as relatively normal.”
“Normal?” Aris looked at each of them, even at the woman he’d not been introduced to. She was shorter than the others, but carried a much stronger presence. She radiated authority and seemed to be simply—watching. “How can any of this be normal with these Manei Domini moving about? They’re nightmares.”
“Yes,” Colonel Holden nodded and took in a wheezing breath. “But most of the forces aren’t the MD. There are only perhaps four Manei Domini on Farandir, with the host of them centered on Canopus. At least none of the angel-demon-named.”
“Angel-demon-named?”
“The MD believe themselves to be the messengers of Blake, Mr. Sung,” the shorter woman spoke, and her voice held as much authority as her presence. “Their hierarchy is determined by their devotion to the Master, who delivers the word of Blake. They rename their most devout after angels or demons from different Terran pantheons. Their leader—a terrifying creature that refers to himself as Apollyon—is at the very heart of the invasion. And he is the only one I am aware of that speaks directly to the Master.”
Aris kept his features as unreadable as possible as he looked this woman. He again thought of Setiwah. Angel and demon. “I’m sorry—but we’ve not been introduced.”
“I am acting General Erzulie March,” she said and gave him a curt bow.
“General,” Aris returned the bow. “Your intelligence operatives are indeed well trained to have garnered this information.”
“This doesn’t come from operatives,” March said. “This comes from personal experience. I spent the first year of this war in one of their re-educations camps, Mr. Sung. I know first hand what it is to have one’s mind—” she pursed her lips. “Altered.”
“But you escaped?”
“I slipped my handler,” she nodded. “I managed to keep a part of myself free from their brainwashing techniques, but I also remember everything. Which has proven a boon to this operation.”
“It’s kept us off the radar,” Holden said. He wheezed. “Until this message,” he pushed several buttons on the console. The image shifted closer, giving a detailed terrain map of the city and the mountains on the left, but then opening a rectangular inset of sound waves on the right. “The upper bars represent a commercial—broadcast on the holovids. It ran three times during a four-hour span, and each time something in the broadcast tripped this.”
One of the aides stepped forward with a small, black square the size of a juniper berry. Aris recognized it as a Capellan sub-dermal communication device. He and Mikhail had been implanted with them specifically for the mission. All of them had. “Where did you get that?”
“From the lab where we found you,” Holden said as he retrieved the small device from the aide’s hand. “I can only assume the Blakists removed it.”
He handed it to Aris.
Aris stared at it—remembering the slight surgery needed to embed it into his wrist.
Something ached behind his eyes and he closed them.
“Mr. Sung?”
He opened them and handed the device back to Holden. “It’s nothing. You said there was a message?”
He nodded. “It makes no sense to us—none of the translators we use can decipher it. Therefore we can’t even authenticate it. But because it came through this,” he set the device on the dome. Its presence didn’t interrupt the image above. “We hoped you could.”
