BattleTech, page 24
Sylas had spent nearly a decade in the bosom of the enemy, and they’d never even come close to sniffing out his true identity or unraveling any of his contingency plans. He’d spent years planting explosive devices in Halas Manor in such a way that not even casual accelerant detectors had noticed them. If anything, the scent his explosives gave off would’ve been mistaken for the aroma of aging mahogany all throughout the centuries-old mansion.
The tingle and itch from the ring finger of his left hand—where he’d have worn a wedding ring, had he been allowed—it was just phantom limb syndrome, he told himself. The plastic prosthetic tip—an old-school magician’s trick, of all things—hid where he’d severed the digit at the first knuckle, but that damnable itch, despite how well he’d cleaned and cauterized the self-inflicted wound, irritated him to no end.
But it was for a good cause. “Joel Collins” was a corpse. No one would be looking for him, a nobody, especially not here, right at ground zero of the greatest event to occur within the Free Worlds League since its initial sundering in 3079. Oh, that the League might finally fracture again, hopefully for good this time! Such a fitting punishment for such a corrupt nation. And no one was looking for a “Sylas Mitchell” either.
He’d more than earned the freedom this new identity gave him, and he was determined to enjoy it for a while. Let this case play out. Watch Nikol thrown in prison or even given the death penalty for willfully conspiring to commit matricide. Then he could return to his true home.
All of it—the Joel Collins mask, the years of gaining Philip Hughes’ trust, the skulking about as Carsten Valentini, grooming the real Valentini to take the fall, even the sacrificed fingertip to “prove” Collins’ death—all of it had been worth it to sit here and watch the most important force left in Jessica Marik’s family slowly roast over the coals.
His sole regret involved Philip Hughes’ death. Sylas had grown somewhat fond of the doddering old man while in his service, and even though he’d intended to kill Philip after his usefulness ran out, it rankled Sylas to no end that someone else had beaten him to the punch. He still did not know who had caused Philip to plummet to his death, but Sylas knew foul play when he saw it, especially considering that foul play was his stock-in-trade. Perhaps once this trial concluded, he would have ample time to investigate that mystery himself, just for his own peace of mind.
And time was the one resource he had plenty of now. All of his schemes had taken nearly a decade to orchestrate, and he couldn’t have planned it better. He could finally revel in the fruits of his labors, having drawn on those embers of hatred for so long.
Lubov might shoot him for treason next time they met, for acting without direct orders from above, but he would die with the satisfaction of knowing his plan had ultimately borne a massive harvest.
At this point in the trial, the defense had called Sergeant Alejandra Escudero of the Amur PD to testify, and Sylas fought to contain his satisfaction. Nikol’s attorney, Sharise Morello, was working the angle that Carsten Valentini—the real Carsten Valentini, not the name and face Sylas had borrowed—an immigrant from the Regulan world of Clipperton, had been a Regulan spy or, at best, a patsy subverted by the Regulan government to target Jessica Marik. Oh, they were going about this all wrong, and it was positively delicious. True, the real Valentini had indeed been an immigrant from Clipperton, which was why Sylas had appropriated the man’s identity, but he’d planned for Valentini’s origins to subtly point at part of the reason Jessica had been targeted.
Once Nikol’s judgment went down, Sylas would quietly slip out of the fracas, leave this planet, and link back up with Lubov for his next assignment, with her none of the wiser about his involvement in the destabilization of the Free Worlds League.
And yes, the League was in danger. Once Nikol was convicted, she would forfeit her office. She was unmarried, without children, and had not yet made an official nomination of her successor. With Julietta disinherited, that meant Elis would likely become Captain-General. The easiest of Jessica’s children to manipulate. Once she took office, Regulus and Andurien would carve up the League around her, and not even sage advice from her Rim Commonality prime minister of a husband would keep the vultures at bay. She would be removed from office, and Parliament would either become deadlocked in choosing a new leader or complete the coup Grandin and Stewart had attempted to initiate with the no-confidence vote. And with a lack of strong leadership and attacks from the Regulans, Anduriens, Canopians, Steiners, and Marians, the League would collapse once more.
Hmm. Perhaps Lubov wouldn’t shoot him after all.
* * *
DUCAL GUARD HEADQUARTERS
Staring at the static image of the dead man, Wil wracked his brain for possibilities. There had to be more to this; he knew it down to his marrow. But what wasn’t he seeing?
Fact #1: Joel Collins had served as Philip Hughes’ personal valet since 3140.
Wil had personally vetted the young New Delos native. He had a clean record, an upstanding disposition, and an honest willingness to serve. Nothing about him suggested violence or duplicity of any kind.
Fact #2: Philip Hughes died while Collins was in the vicinity.
The investigation into Philip’s death, including the forensic evaluation of the scene, had cleared Collins of any possible involvement. Muddy footprint analysis showed the sheer distance between Collins’ position and the point where Philip fell. Also, given the subjects’ known positions, several large-bore trees obscured Philip from Collins’ view, and vice versa. If an untraceable drug were to blame—Wil’s personal yet unprovable theory—then Collins could not have successfully fired or blow-darted any such projectile.
Fact #3: The prosecution had a scurrilous document retrieved from Nikol’s desk.
Fact #4: Wil had just caught Collins on camera putting something in Nikol’s desk the night before the bomb detonated.
Fact #5: Collins had died in the explosion.
Or at least that was what the official records claimed. He would never have thought to look for a dead man: you cannot put a corpse on trial. So being dead—or at least being allegedly deceased—was the perfect escape pod. You find a dead suspect, that trail goes cold.
But what if Collins had somehow faked his death?
Many of the bodies in the event had been pulverized in the collapse, identifiable only by fingerprint, dental, or DNA records. It was possible that either Collins had been misidentified or only a fingerprint or DNA sample matching his biometric data was found. Or someone had falsified Collins’ data—but that would mean an inside job. Would Agents Bashe, Huli Jing, or Jiangshi have gained anything from altering these records?
In a fit of pique, Wil pulled up the casualty report, went straight to “Collins, Joel,” and scrolled down:
Method of ID: Fingerprint, DNA sample. (Source: fingertip, left ring finger)
He quickly perused other records of those killed in the bombing. The vast majority of the victims had been crushed by falling debris by when the manor collapsed, as the explosions themselves had targeted structural supports, not people. This meant there were lots of identifiable remains found among the wreckage—whole bodies, torsos, skulls, and limbs. More than just a mere fingertip.
Someone disturbed enough to weave a plan like this would be more than willing to sacrifice a single finger or two to convince people like Wil that they had died in the collapse. Which means Collins could still be alive…
His heart pounding in his throat, Wil pressed a few keys on his keyboard until he reached the public surveillance system—the sniper-scope cameras of his Ducal Guard detail on nearby rooftops, the courtroom camera feeds, the public-safety cameras mounted near important intersections and monuments in Atreus City. He fed Collins’ known biometric data into the feeds, told it to check for facial recognition and flag anyone with a missing fingertip. He also altered the algorithm to account for variances in Collins’ facial structure—sunglasses, swollen cheeks, slightly different jawline, scars, and so forth; easy cosmetic alterations. Even if Collins had undergone major facial reconstructive surgery in the intervening time since the bomb, the underlying bone structure would remain mostly the same, and there would still be telltale signs of the procedure because his new face wouldn’t have completely healed yet.
Wil set the task to run, then leaned forward as the computer threw little white boxes around every face it saw on camera. Protesters carrying signs of disdain. Supporters holding up placards of goodwill. Passersby going about their business. Drivers and passengers in cars travelling the street in front of the courthouse. Spectators and media in the courthouse itself.
After three minutes of execution, the computer beeped a match.
He perked up, then immediately zoomed in on the image…and stared at the face of a dead man, only slightly thinner, with different hair, seemingly a decade older than the custodian seen in the security footage.
Wil’s heart soared. Instantly he was on the horn to his nearest squad of troops running protection detail while he transmitted the computer-flagged photo to his squad leader. “Eagle Team Delta, this is Eagle Prime. We have a suspect at large. Converge on coordinates zero-three-two-seven-niner and apprehend the perp in the image I am transmitting to you now. Nonlethal force only.”
Once Delta’s sergeant acknowledged the order, Wil stood, ready to leave his roost to help them make the arrest. He wanted to be there, to unmask this bastard’s role in killing the Free Worlds League’s greatest leader.
But then the computer chirped again. A second match, elsewhere in the city.
Another chirp.
A fourth.
A fifth.
All in different places.
His decades of military training fought down panic to manageable levels. Some of these were obviously false positives. All of them could be, for that matter.
But he only needed one true positive to nail this bastard to the wall.
Time to gamble.
He called out the flagged positions to other squads as he snatched his uniform jacket from its hook and took off in search of his prey.
* * *
PALACE OF JUSTICE
Sylas watched the prosecution finishing cross-examining one of the defense’s character witnesses and smiled in satisfaction. None of the testimony would matter. Guilty was guilty. The evidence was already stacking against Nikol, and if things didn’t go the right way, he had a few other aces that could nudge the tribunal justices in the right direction…
Justice Torres was supposed to call the next witness, but instead she hesitated, letting silence reign in the courtroom for about half a minute while she held two fingers against her ear. “Let’s take a brief recess,” she announced. “Court will resume in one hour.” She banged the gavel, and all three tribunal membered rose from the bench.
Sylas frowned. There were several more witnesses on the schedule for today. Why would Torres call for a recess right now?
When the courtroom doors opened, he looked past the spectators who had stood to leave the courtroom. Between the gaps in the crowd, he caught sight of an entire squad of armed, combat-uniformed Ducal Guard waiting for the room to empty.
At the head of them stood General Wilburn Kirkland.
Sylas was already in motion, away from the double doors. He pushed through the crowd, then vaulted over the wooden bar at the front of the spectator seating. Then he ducked into the side door that led into the judges’ chambers—the secondary escape route he’d planned out before coming here.
“After him!” Sylas heard Kirkland shout from behind, right as the door was swinging shut.
Wil and Eagle Team Bravo bashed open the door after Collins—or whatever his real name was—and found a lavish but deserted corridor with doused lights.
A muzzle flash lit the far end of the hall for a split second, and one of Wil’s troopers went down with a grunt. How in heaven’s name did that bastard slip a slug thrower past court security? Wil’s squad ducked inside nearby rooms for cover and returned fire with tranquilizer guns. His tranq pistol kicked as he fired toward the muzzle flash—now a floating purple afterimage in the near darkness—but there was no sign he’d hit anything but wainscoting and sheetrock.
One of his troopers found the light switch and bathed the hall in bright fluorescent glow, but the hall was empty; likewise all the rooms they passed. Wil used hand signals to advance the squad down the hall and around the bend, through a push-bar door that led out of the judges’ chambers and into the main public foyer. Panicked court workers, all dressed in semiformal attire, were fleeing from the squad, away from the sounds of gunshots and commotion. Wil grimaced. Even if he had a positive sighting of Collins, none of his troops would’ve been able to get a clean shot with so many innocent bystanders around. But the perp was nowhere in sight. And none of Wil’s troopers stationed in the foyer and at the front door or any of the building’s other entrances had seen Collins exit the judge’s chambers.
Wil pushed past the growing crowd, scouring every single face for their quarry, but all he saw was pandemonium and confusion.
“All Eagle teams, all Eagle teams,” he called into his radio, his eyes still darting around the foyer, “converge on my location. Tighten the dragnet around the federal courthouse. Suspect is armed and dangerous, but try to take him alive. Hawk Teams Alpha and Bravo, patrol all routes leading into and out of the city. We can’t let this bastard escape.”
He switched over to the law-enforcement channel and said, “Chief, this is General Kirkland. We have a suspect of national interest on the run from Courthouse Square. I want you to lock down this city, ground all DropShip traffic, if you can. I’m uploading the perp’s particulars to you now.”
“Understood, General,” the Atreus City chief of police replied. “We’ll do what we can on our end.”
The channel clicked dead, and Wil had the sudden urge to punch something, anything.
Where had the bastard gone? More importantly, where would he go next?
Nikol’s fate—no, the future of the whole nation—rested on answering that question.
Part III
Open Season
34
ATREUS CITY, ATREUS
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
25 MARCH 3148
Sylas ducked down a shadowed alley littered with puddles, ignoring the sounds of unrest behind him. The commotion of protesters, the march and clatter of troops and police trying to tighten the noose around his neck—none of it truly frightened him. He would never have gone into that courtroom without a contingency plan. He’d known where the sight lines were in the judges’ chambers, exactly where and how to blend in with a crowd—everything necessary to avoid pursuit. Before Justice Torres had even banged her gavel to bring court into session that first time, he’d already considered six different escape routes with branching paths, and he could alter any of those paths to align with the other five options if he needed to adjust on the fly. Kirkland understood tactics, but no way did that fool and his goons think like Sylas did.
First thing he’d done upon ducking into the courtroom’s public bathroom after exiting the judges’ chambers was to retrieve the flattened cap tucked in his pocket, pop it open with a wrist flick, and put it on. Second thing: remove his jacket and reverse it, which completely altered the cut, style, and color. Third thing: pull a zippered thread on his pants’ outer seams, which tore off the discardable outer layer and left him with trousers that matched the reversed jacket. Fourth thing: pull off the false soles of his shoes, which changed the shape and tread of his footprints. Then he’d shoved the outer pants and false soles into the covered garbage can.
Whole process had taken about twenty seconds, start to finish. On a different assignment, he would have added a short glued-on beard that would have withstood both manual inspection and a tug test, but there’d been no time for that. Even the twenty seconds spent changing his appearance seemed like too much of a risk. From there he’d blended into the crowd in the main foyer, found the back entrance and jiggered it open in such a way that the alarm failed to sound, then he’d taken a short access path he was sure Kirkland didn’t even know about. From there it had been a straight shot to an alleyway about a block away from the courthouse.
As he loped down the alley, he remained completely calm, no panic in him at all. Panic had been conditioned out of him long, long ago. His heart raced only due to the physical exertion of sprinting, not from fear. These Marik dogs would not find him. Could not find him. He knew how to cover his tracks.
Of course, there’d always been a risk in going to the courthouse, but it had been well worth it to watch Nikol squirm while on trial for her mother’s murder. Now he just needed to disappear into the ether, shed this Sylas Mitchell façade and embrace yet another, like a molting spider. Return home, let his superiors know what he had accomplished of his own volition, and be celebrated for the patriot he was. Then run back into this fray to ensure the League’s imminent death was as spectacular and messy as he could make it.
But first, he had to avoid the dragnet threatening to scoop him up. Child’s play against soldiers and cops like these.
From the alley, he stepped onto the sidewalk and blended into the foot traffic like nothing was amiss, his stance relaxed and casual, like he was supposed to be there. And he was. Sylas Mitchell was an insurance adjuster in town to meet with a client, and he was taking out his noteputer to check for directions to a nearby eatery. Even though he wasn’t anywhere approaching hungry, he nodded at the device, put it back in his pocket, and strolled down the sidewalk as though FWLM and ACPD troopers weren’t scouring Atreus City for him.
