CHAPTER 5
I shortly had a quandary on our targets.
Ten of them were going to be attending a major industry forum at the Parliament Hall. There’d be security all over the place, government, private, everything.
Now, it was possible that the forum was a useful distraction for him while he went after a target elsewhere. However, it was also possible he planned to wade right in for a target at the forum, and use the intermeshing security as a cover, and rely on them to get mixed up for additional distraction.
The good news was the ten at the conference were much easier to track, and for some matters could be considered one target. So we were down to eight.
Silver reported, “Masterson is going out to the mountains for a week.”
“He was never a strong chance anyway,” I said. “But we can pull him off the list for the week and add him back in if we need to.”
Seven.
Three of the six individuals had solid, consistent patterns and whereabouts at present. That was a bad idea from a security point of view, but indicated they didn’t feel threatened. A secondary input, but worthwhile. It also meant I could rule them out. None of the traces we found were anywhere near their routes.
So, three individuals, one group.
I was betting on the group.
For one thing, the odds did favor it being one of them, from a straight statistical analysis. There was no strategic calculus I could use at this point; it was not a military matter.
It fit, though, with the training and mindset I’d used. I’d taught him everything he knew to that point, and there was little he could pick up elsewhere that would be comparable. My plans, training and doctrine colored his.
Hell, mine were what everyone in the galaxy was going to use until something even more brutal came along. I should be proud of my legacy.
If it were me, I’d hit the conference. Lots of distractions. So much muscle in one location would make people lazy. They’d worry about protesters, press and commercial spies. They wouldn’t be looking for an assassin. It would send an object lesson to others, that nowhere was safe. It would allow peers to witness the matter, which would have psychological impact for any future threats, offers or other negotiations.
Lastly, it took serious balls and was a way to show off. That was something we knew about his personality before we deployed. He had to fight hard to keep subordinate and invisible, even when we were building our personae on Earth.
He was going to hit the conference. He was going to be very methodical and high tech, and he was going to laugh at them while he did so.
Silver had been working with me all along, with the scans, the mapping and other details. Now I needed her expertise on gear to determine how this would go down.
“So, if he’s going into the conference, where is he going to hit them and what is he going to use?”
She stared for a moment, made a gesture for “wait,” and turned to her system.
I sat patiently. She pulled up maps, blueprints, floor plans, seating charts, ran them in different pans and layouts. I’d let her have the desk. I had the bed. I liked being able to sprawl, though it was hard on the shoulders, eventually.
At last, she said, “It comes down to three probable methods. Please check me.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“He can hit them on arrival or departure, but there will be a lot of crowding. He can hit them while they’re seated in the auditorium, but that increases the likelihood of either collateral damage, or a miss because of a collateral in the way. Or he can hit them during their presentation at the podium.”
“That’s when he’ll do it,” I agreed. “It’s the easiest and most dramatic. Everything he wants. A separate, visible target and easy to exfil after the fact. So let’s figure out how.”
She said, “You tell me, how hard would it be to get a rifle in there?”
By “rifle” she meant any weapon to conduct a shot with. I’d probably use a long-sight radius pistol myself.
“I expect they’re going to have scanners dialed up. Whole weapons, components, anything questionable. In this case, the security are professionals and will be harder to fool.”
“What else might you use?”
“Explosive. Again, easy to detect most of them by vapor.”
“And he’s never had a collateral, nor used explosive in close quarters.” His MO was gadgets.
“Chameleon suit,” she said, pointing at the screen.
I looked over. A previous victim had been killed in semipublic, smashed into a tree and the ground, and no one had seen anything.
“Are modern suits that good?” I asked.
“I can’t find you a node because they’re still heavily classified, but yes.”
“Damn. What do I need to know?”
She stretched back in the real leather chair, showing nice lines, and said, “Well, the current ones are spectrally near perfect. They’re also thermally near perfect if you’re willing to seal one up. Of course, there’s limited wear time in that case. If he has a small oxy bottle, he can probably manage twenty segs or so. Call it half-an-hour in Earth or adjusted Caledonian time.”
That was disturbing.
I said, “Okay, let’s look at this. He gets in early when security is lax, finds a cubby hole, waits them out. He could even have press or maintenance ID, and have access to some areas, including restrooms and food. When it’s time, he throws on the suit, walks across the stage, shoots or nails someone up close, then sprints in the confusion.”
“They’ll see distortion at that point, she said”
“Yes. I wouldn’t do it. I’d go for a shot. I’m a better marksman, though.”
“He’s not up to standard?”
“He was one of my backfills. Never had the full pipeline of training. I just focused them on the espionage aspects, not the combat.”
“Ah.”
I flipped the file in my mind. “He shot low Master. I shot perfect every year.”
“Perfect?” She looked stunned.
“Yeah, it’s one of the things I’m good at.”
“I’m impressed. Is that common?”
“No, not even among our unit. We were expected to make Expert, and they preferred Master.”
She shrugged. “Marksman will have to do me.”
“That’s better than most, and better than almost any other military.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Am I right, though?” I asked, ignoring the compliment exchange. “I don’t want to plan for something and be wrong.”
“We’re guessing,” she admitted. “It’s a good guess, though. Scents point to location. MO points to method.”
“Right, so let’s assume we’re wrong and plan a backup.” Of course, that backup would have to assume this was the right place. We couldn’t cover two at once.
I wished I had an entire platoon now. Of course, an entire platoon, even of Operatives, left a deployment signature that could be traced. For this, it had to be me.
“Poison?” she suggested. “Tagged binary neural toxins, one before, one on location.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
“No. I’m theorizing.”
“Research it.”
“Looking.” She used hands and mic and queried quickly. I wondered how traceable these searches were to the Caledonian Intelligence Service, and if there were moles in there. I was paranoid, but was I paranoid enough?
“Possible,” she said. “Expensive. Would take a professional lab, nothing you could do in a home shop. It would definitely make people wonder.”
“Not that, then. He likes to do things himself.” Or at least he did a decade before. “Okay,” I decided, “we assume the chameleon. If he goes for a shot, I chase him down. If he tries anything else, I chase him down. It doesn’t matter if they arrest me after I shatter his spine. As long as I maim him, we’re good.”
“That makes sense,” she said. She looked disturbed.
“Yeah, we’re going to kill him, and it’s not going to be a fair fight.”
“I know,” she agreed soberly. “It’s not just that it’s unfair. He’s a hero, really.”
“A broken one,” I agreed. “Think of him as an abused pet turned vicious.”
“I’d rather think of how to deal with a chameleon,” she said. “The best method would be sonar or laser detection. I assume they’d notice that and neutralize us instead. So we use mics to determine he’s moving, then blow dust through the ventilation system, or scatter something on the ground. He’ll leave footprints or a swept area. Ionized dust will stick and degrade the screens. After that, anything directed at him—dust, pellets, that will bounce or shadow him.”
“I like the dust. We have two local days to prepare it and sneak it into that ventilation system, hide it so they can’t see it, exfiltrate, fake some kind of ID to get us back inside, and get near the podium.”
“You don’t want much.” She looked a bit put upon.
“I trust you to do the job.” I did.
“Thanks . . . sir.”
“Can we triangulate with mics?”
“Easily. But you can’t see the sound.”
“Can we put directional indicators in a pair of glasses and hook it to earbuds? There’s enough press around no one should notice the gear.”
“I could. I can’t do that in the allotted time.”
I nodded. “And I want them to see him, too. That hinders his escape. Hopefully.”
“Will do,” she agreed as she grabbed shoes and a touristy backpack. She was out the door with a wad of cash in seconds, leaving me to figure infil, exfil and cover.
Eight hours later, we both looked dreadful. Greasy hair, dust, grime, general dirt. We were at the back gate to the convention center across from the Parliament Annex, with a backpack full of nastiness. It was early autumn and quite comfortable in the temperate coastal zone. Humans do try to pick comfortable environments when possible.
My earlier recon had revealed what I thought I could use. The gates were designed to stop traffic. Patrols and fences were to stop pedestrians. There were gaps we could get through. I surmised they relied on regular patrols to keep homeless out, but we weren’t going to be homeless. Silver had fabricated us two generic ID badges. Staff often appeared in the back of technical photos or candid shots, and the blowups were good enough for placement of bar code and picture. No one ever actually looks at an ID up close anyway. Not the kind on menials.
Getting into the grounds wasn’t hard. We lurked near a pedestrian gate with nicotine inhalers charged with scented water only, and made a point of waiting in shadows out of view of the entrance. It wasn’t long before someone else came out. He was another menial of some kind, and he already had inhaler in hand as he reached the gate.
I said, “. . . but I guess we need to get back to work. We’ve been out too long.”
“Okay,” she said.
I nodded at him and grabbed the open gate as he nodded back, and waved my ID in the general direction of the scanner, but not close enough to actually trigger it yea or nay.
I nudged her, we grabbed two rolling grease dumpsters and headed toward the refuse dock. I whipped out a trash bag from a pocket, she slid the backpack in and it went into the slimy filth in the tub.
At the door, I spent five minutes running the fake ID over the scanner, wiping it off, scanning it, bending it, scanning it again. I kept a dopy expression on my face. She managed to do the same, but I could feel the tremors of nerves through the air. She still needed practice in this.
Eventually, someone walked by inside, saw the movement and opened the door. I looked stupid, and in a slow monotone said, “It’s no workin’.”
“Do you know where to get it replaced?” He was security of the generic type. Older, probably retired. Merely a uniform, badge and scanner to provide official color.
“No,” I said, keeping to my cover.
“Pass and ID office is in the front foyer on the mezzanine half, left side, through the glass doors. They open at eight a.m.”
I stared blankly, then nodded slowly.
The man sighed and moved on, muttering about “’tards.”
We started to park the dumpster and he called back, “Hey!”
“Whu?” I said, hoping it was nothing serious.
“Why’n’t you use her card next time?”
“Oh.”
He sighed and kept walking.
Once he was out of sight, Silver pulled the pack from the protective plastic. It was still mostly clean. I led the way, having memorized the map.
We went upstairs on padded feet. I shimmed a maintenance door; she picked a secured padlock in ninety seconds flat with a rake, tension wrench and magnetic coder, then we were in the far upper mezzanine where the ventilation systems were. I checked by eye and number. That one there.
Silver trembled after crossing the catwalk. Heights were definitely not her thing. She didn’t hesitate, though. Good troop.
We pulled a cover quickly, used a foam block to stop it slamming, then fastened the dust dispenser to the inside wall, up out of reach. Rather, she did that, showing long, sinuous curves through the filthy coverall. The device was a drum with a radio-triggered servo. The drum looked like an antiseptic dispenser. It had fake wires that led to an area near one of the outside boxes, where she cut them and jammed them into the insulation so they’d look deliberate. A drop of cement to hold them, and we closed up carefully to avoid any loud noises. The dust was mildly antiseptic and harmless, so even if it was discovered, there was a good chance it would be left alone. Its purpose wouldn’t be apparent to anyone.
We skinned out of the coveralls to regular clothes, a bit sweaty, and wiped the fake grease from our hair, until it turned back into styling gel. A flip of her comb and a wipe of our faces and we were normal staff. The badges went on our pockets. The pack and coveralls went into a fresh trash receptacle for some real menial to dispose of after a few liters of real trash found their way atop. Silver kept a handful of tools in an apron and pockets, and we went about hiding a spare transmitter, in case we couldn’t get our main one in.
Then we slipped out the back, faking punching out on the time scanner en route, and wove back out onto the street. It was cooler by then, but not bad.
She grabbed another small pack from a deep shadow under a bush. A quick trip into a chippy for a laborer’s snack and the bathrooms, where we put on clean shirts more appropriate to our tourist status, and took a ricktaxi back to the hotel, munching fish and chips as we went. Their local whiting is so-so. It probably has to do with both the environment in general, and the lower and different brine concentration of their oceans, than Earth’s.
I cleaned up and went to bed, running through mental practice for the upcoming face-to-face. I was interrupted a few segs later by cool, damp, firm breasts against my spine.
“Uh . . .” I mumbled and woke up.
“Sorry. I’m very unnerved. I need to hold something to calm down.”
I had suggestions on what she could hold, and dammit, I was not going there.
I gave her five segs. I could feel her heart pounding, slowing, reaching normal, and her warmth against me. When she seemed better and I couldn’t take any more, I gently detached, rolled out, climbed into the other bed, and said, “I need to sleep alone or I won’t be rested.”
It was literally and figuratively true.
Tomorrow I might kill a friend.