PHILIP II,
king of Macedon
Standard year circa 356 B.C.
PLANET ALGERON
It felt good to exist. That’s what Private Roy Sykes was thinking as technicians aboard the Combat Supply Vessel Victoria brought him up out of the drug-induced coma he’d been in since departing Earth. After all, why would the swabbies use the space required to transport a hundred spider forms when they could store unconscious borg brains in racks of fifty? Just one of the many indignities that cyborgs were forced to endure. But, Sykes thought philosophically, it’s better than the long sleep that never ends.
A female voice rolled like thunder through his consciousness. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead. Can you hear me?”
Sykes thought “Yes,” and knew that the resulting electronic impulses would be converted into synth speech, which the technician would hear.
“Good. I’m going to disconnect your brain box from the rack. You might feel dizzy. Then I’m going to drop your box into a spider form. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Sykes had been through the process dozens of times before. The grayness that surrounded him morphed into a different grayness and remained that way for what might have been seconds or minutes. There was no way to tell, and he felt the suspense start to build. Then there was light, and he was reborn. His vision was restored first, quickly followed by his hearing and sense of touch.
Sykes discovered that he was in the ship’s cyber center. Other cyborgs were standing to the left and right going through the same process. Uniform-clad bio bods moved from borg to borg checking to make sure that the transfers went smoothly. Sykes knew the machine’s interface by heart and went straight to the spider form’s readouts. What he saw made him angry. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This piece of shit has more than twenty-six thousand hours on it!”
A tech appeared in front of him. She had short red hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her face, and was wearing a headset. “That’s true,” she replied. “But that rig had a major overhaul at 20K—and all of your readouts are green. Of course, you can refuse it if you want to.”
That was true. No cyborg could be forced to accept a form they thought was unsafe. But chances were that a refusal would mean more rack time while he waited for a new ride. And Sykes couldn’t face that. “No, I’ll take it. What outfit am I slated for? Maybe they can give me something better.”
The tech consulted the tablet in her hand. “It looks like you’re going to take a swim in the replacement pool.”
Any outfit that needed a replacement could get one from the pool, and that was fine with Sykes. Once on the ground, he would find out what unit Sergeant Andromeda McKee had been assigned to and put in a request for it. That was no guarantee, of course, but it was worth a try. “Roger that. So what’s next?”
“Follow the yellow line,” the tech replied. “And welcome to Algeron.”
Sykes had been to the planet before and knew what awaited him on the surface. “Yeah,” he said. “Lucky me.”
Servos whined intermittently as he followed the yellow line down a corridor and onto a platform already loaded with five spider forms. They began to shoot the shit on the squad-level freq as the elevator jerked into motion. Sykes let the others do the talking and quickly concluded that they were out of touch, too.
When the lift came to a stop, the cyborgs spidered out into a lock. A hatch closed behind them, and the air inside the chamber was pumped out. Any bio bod not clad in space armor would have been killed. But each borg had his or her own onboard oxygen supply and could operate in a vacuum for up to a week if necessary.
When the next hatch cycled open, the spider forms trooped out into one of the Victoria’s docking bays. It was currently open to space so that shuttles could come and go. One of them, a boxy ship with the letters CSV-012 painted on her hull, was crouched about a hundred yards away. As the legionnaires appeared, a space-suit-clad sailor was there to direct them. His voice crackled over their radios. “You’re slated for a ride on zero-one-two. Go straight out and wait by the ramp. The loadmaster will tell you when to board.”
Sykes followed another borg out across the blast-scarred deck. According to his sensor package, the outside temperature was minus two hundred degrees Centigrade and falling. A bit chilly to say the least. Not that it mattered to Sykes. His onboard computer had registered the drop and activated the microheaters that would keep his brain tissue from freezing.
Then it was time to stand around while the swabbies continued to load more cargo. Finally, after a bright orange robo loader deposited the last pallet of field rations in the hold, the legionnaires were given permission to board. But, rather than sit in seats as their biological counterparts would, the cyborgs were strapped to O-rings set into the deck. That’s what we are, Sykes thought to himself, cargo.
That opinion was reaffirmed when the ramp came up, the hatch closed, and the shuttle took off without any of the announcements bio bods would receive. And that made sense since the cyborgs had been strapped down, couldn’t free themselves without help, and weren’t going to barf.
The trip down through the atmosphere was bumpy but otherwise uneventful, for which Sykes was grateful. Like the rest of the legionnaires, he could “hear” the pilots talk to each other on the intercom—and access basic information from the ship’s NAVCOMP. As the shuttle descended below thirty thousand feet, he checked to see if the ship’s vid cams were locked out and discovered they weren’t. There were six views for Sykes to select from. He chose the port camera and the landscape to the south.
It was a clear day, and as the ship continued to descend, Sykes had a spectacular view of the planet’s famous mountain range. They were called the Towers of Algeron and circled most of the globe. The tallest peaks topped eighty thousand feet, which made them higher than Everest on Earth, or Olympic Mons on Mars. In fact, they were so massive that if placed on Earth, the Towers would sink through the planet’s crust.
But Sykes knew that wouldn’t occur on Algeron because it completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes. A rotation so fast that it created a bulge at the equator. In fact, Algeron’s equatorial diameter was 27 percent larger than Earth’s. And that explained how the Towers of Algeron had been formed. They represented the top of a world-spanning bulge. And, thanks to the gravity differential that existed between Algeron’s relatively small poles and its equator, the mountains weighed half of what they would on Earth. Sykes’s thoughts were interrupted as the pilot made her only announcement. “We’re five out from Fort Camerone.”
As the shuttle passed between two hills and came in for a landing, Sykes studied the fort via the camera located in the nose of the ship. A new defensive wall had been added since the last time he’d been there, a sure sign that the Naa were still causing trouble. But some things hadn’t changed, couldn’t change, like the fact that the fortress had been built in a valley between three hills. And even though that valley was quite broad it was still possible for a sniper to score from the surrounding slopes. Not with a locally manufactured weapon, perhaps, but with a .50-caliber sniper’s rifle that had been stolen from the Legion. That’s why outposts (OPs) had been established on all three hilltops, and patrols scoured the area every day.
Sykes knew all of that better than most because that was how he’d been killed, or almost killed, when a high-velocity slug went through his body armor. He could still fell the shock of it as he was thrown down, and the darkness took him in.
But the presence of a good medic, and the fact that his patrol was still within sight of the fort, meant his buddies were able to get him back quickly enough to be saved. His brain, anyway, even if his biological body was damaged beyond repair. He’d been sent to Earth after that, trained to pilot T-1s, and sent off to fight on a succession of far-flung worlds. There was a thump as the shuttle touched down on one of the fort’s many landing pads. Sykes had returned from the dead.
• • •
A harsh greenish blue light flooded Staging Area 6 from above as five bio bods and five T-1s prepared to go out on patrol. The cyborgs were standing in a row, their fifties cradled in their arms, with a combat-ready bio bod positioned in front of each. And as McKee got ready to inspect the squad, she was conscious of the fact that her platoon leader was present and looking over her shoulder.
Lieutenant Cassie Dero had a broad, open face and was built like the amateur weight lifter that she was. McKee liked the officer’s blunt, straight-ahead style but sensed that Dero wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. And she figured that was why Dero was present. To find out if the sergeant she had assigned to lead the third squad, second platoon, of Bravo Company was a competent NCO—or the lucky recipient of a medal she didn’t deserve. Because it wouldn’t be long before McKee was expected to lead patrols up into the hills by herself. Such responsibility would inevitably force her to make life-and-death decisions on behalf of her tiny command.
All of which made McKee feel very self-conscious as the inspection began. Each bio bod was responsible for performing basic maintenance on the T-1 they had been partnered with, and she was no exception. That’s why McKee had worked late the evening before to make sure that all of her cyborg’s systems were green. She turned to Dero. “Ma’am? Would you care to inspect Private Ree-Ree?”
Dero looked up into the T-1’s predatory face. His paint was faded, there were dings in his armor, and patches of bright metal could be seen where repairs had been made. “How ’bout it, Ree-Ree? Did you get that knee actuator fixed?”
Ree-Ree’s vid pickups were fixed on a spot over Dero’s head. “Sergeant McKee repaired it last night, ma’am.”
Dero looked at McKee. “That’s a tech-level repair.”
McKee was careful to keep her face expressionless. “Yes, ma’am . . . But the techs were busy. So I pitched in.”
Dero frowned, and McKee knew what the officer was thinking. A sergeant who could make tech-level repairs would be an asset—but a sergeant who took problems and made them worse would be a liability. T-1s were equipped with ten inspection plates, and Dero went straight to Ree-Ree’s left knee, where she applied pressure to a tiny hatch. It popped open, and she eyed the readout within. “Ninety-six percent . . . That’s damned good. Well done.”
After choosing three more readouts at random and finding them to her liking, Dero stepped over to where Larkin and a T-1 named Jaggi were waiting. The officer went over Larkin’s combat rig first and delivered a grunt of approval before turning her attention to Jaggi. And so it went until the entire squad had been inspected. There were some dings, including the fact that a bio bod named Axler was one grenade short of a full load-out, and a T-1 named Tanner had a bent antenna. The latter was something that McKee should have noticed.
Still, it was a good turnout, all things considered, even if Dero’s praise was somewhat muted. “I’ve seen worse,” she said phlegmatically. “Let’s mount up.”
Each cyborg could carry a bio bod or dual missile launchers. And since the purpose of the patrol was to chase Naa snipers out of the hills rather than attack enemy armor, the T-1s were going to serve as cavalry mounts. Once the flesh-and-blood legionnaires were strapped in, Dero led them up a series of ramps and onto the so-called grinder at the center of the fort. From there it was a short walk to the main gate.
It was dark and would remain so for another hour and twenty-two minutes. Then the sun would make a brief two-hour-and-forty-minute-plus appearance before setting again. McKee wasn’t used to that yet and wondered if she ever would be. But that was one of the reasons why Emperor Ordanus I had ceded Algeron to the Legion. Because it was unlikely to attract settlers. Of course, there was a political reason as well. Had the Legion been stationed on Earth, it and its leaders would have been a threat. And that’s how it had always been. Governments of all stripes were happy to use the Legion—but always sought to keep it at arm’s length.
Snowflakes twirled through a spill of light as the patrol approached a massive gate. A sentry said something to Dero as the barrier rumbled out of the way—and she raised a hand by way of an acknowledgment.
Then they crossed the moatlike defensive ditch that surrounded the fort, and McKee heard the gate clang behind them. The lights of Naa Town glowed up ahead. The locals didn’t like the way the fort smelled, and as the patrol passed between a couple of domed roofs, McKee caught a whiff of the incense they used to combat the off-world stench.
While the roofs were visible, most of the space in the surrounding dwellings was underground. Even so, McKee could see rectangles of light here and there and knew that the town’s shops were open for business around the clock. That included taverns, where bio bods went to unwind, flirt with the Naa barmaids, and get into fights. There was nothing else to do.
The Naa who lived in the town were outcasts, misfits, and criminals for the most part, not unlike the humans they sold things to. And they were trapped because, now that they had associated with the humans, the people of the so-called “free” tribes would never take them back.
That didn’t mean the townspeople liked their benefactors, however, and as the patrol passed a group of males who were standing around a burn barrel, McKee could feel the animosity they exuded. But friendly or not, she had to admit that the Naa were generally attractive. The males were typically six or seven feet tall while the females were a bit shorter. All of them were covered with short fur that came in a wide variety of colors and patterns. Their heads were humanoid in shape but had a vaguely feline aspect to them. And, like humans, the Naa had four fingers and opposable thumbs. Their feet were different, however, being broader, flatter, and without toes. One of the males said something in his native tongue, and the others laughed. McKee didn’t need a translator to know that she and her companions had been on the receiving end of an insult.
But if the adults harbored negative feelings about the off-worlders, that didn’t seem to extend to their offspring. As the patrol plodded through town, cubs ran alongside the legionnaires, laughing, dodging in and out, and very nearly getting stepped on.
After clearing the fort and settlement, Dero led the patrol up the path that led to the summit of High Hump Hill, a name that stemmed from the fact that it was a little taller than the others and supplies had to be “humped” up to the top during winter storms. “This is Bravo-Two,” Dero said, over the squad-level push. “Bravo-Eight will take the point. Over.”
The point position was the most dangerous because the two-person team would be the first to get hit during an ambush and stood a greater chance of stepping on a mine. Did that mean Dero was out to get her? No. McKee knew that everyone had to walk point—and it was the officer’s way of testing her. So she said, “This is Eight. We’re moving up. Over.”
Ree-Ree had been listening, and his servos whined rhythmically as he passed Dero and her T-1. Now it was McKee’s responsibility to lead the squad up a trail that she’d never been on before and do so in the dark of night. Fortunately, she had Ree-Ree’s sensors to rely on as well as her own.
Thanks to night-vision technology and the heads-up display (HUD) projected on the inside surface of her visor, she could see. Not as well as during the day but as well as a Naa could without benefit of technology, and that put them on an even footing.
But having spent time with the Droi insurgents on Orlo II, McKee knew that the indigs still had a number of advantages. The Naa knew the land in ways the off-worlders couldn’t, they could choose the time, place, and conditions under which to attack, and they were more motivated than the legionnaires were. So there was every reason to pay close attention to her surroundings and to be scared.
Ree-Ree began to work harder as the incline steepened, and the trail turned into a series of switchbacks. With a steep bank on one side, and a drop-off on the other, there was very little room for error. And worse yet was the fact that while trails were often the easiest way to travel, they were inherently dangerous. Ree-Ree interrupted her thoughts. He was speaking over the intercom, which meant no one else could hear him. “I see something on the trail, Sarge . . . It looks like a leather pouch.”
McKee searched, saw the object, and zoomed in. Ree-Ree was correct. It was a beautifully decorated pouch, and the first thing she noticed was that the object was lying on top of the crusty snow rather than beneath it. As if placed or dropped there recently.
But what to do? If genuine, the pouch could contain valuable intelligence. But what if it was meant to serve as bait? The sun had started to rise by then, and as McKee looked uphill, she could see that the lead gray sky was getting lighter. And she could see something else as well. “This is Eight . . . Prepare to take fire from above. Over.”
That prompted a quick response from Dero. “Whacha got? Over.”
The answer came in the form of a huge boulder that suddenly broke contact with the hillside above, rolled downhill, and landed on the pouch. Then it took a bounce, dropped over the edge, and triggered a landslide.
The pop, pop, pop of rifle fire followed, and McKee heard the distinctive ping of a bullet glancing off Ree-Ree’s armor as Dero ordered the squad to open fire. The engagement ended seconds later, as the Naa broke contact and faded away. If Dero was impressed by the manner in which her new squad leader had dealt with the situation, there was no sign of it in her matter-of-fact response. “Two here . . . What are we waiting for? Over.”
McKee grinned and let her weight rest against the harness as Ree-Ree carried her upwards. The clouds began to burn off, and by the time they reached the summit, it was mostly clear. Viewed from above, the fort looked like something a child might construct in a sandbox. Fingers of smoke rose from Naa Town, and a large bird floated on the wind. It was beautiful, and, for the moment, it was home.
• • •
As the elevator carried Colonel Richard Bodry down into the Command Center located deep under Fort Camerone, he felt a pleasant sense of tension. The sort of buzz he always experienced when tackling a difficult task. And selling his plan to General Mary Vale wouldn’t be easy. She was getting close to retirement and more cranky with every passing day. But the facts were on his side, and Vale had a reputation as something of a visionary, so there was at least some chance of success.
Double doors hissed open, and Bodry stepped out into a beautifully paneled lobby. From there it was a short walk to the conference room, where all of the usual players were seated along a rectangular table. They included Colonel Malcom Whitmore, Vale’s XO, Major Wendy Tomko, who was in charge of intelligence, line officer Lt. Colonel Sean Avers, who commanded the 4th REI, and his counterpart, a rapier-thin cavalry officer named Lt. Colonel Youssef Zedan. Some others were present as well, including the Chief Medical Officer, the captain in charge of Flight Operations, and a portly major who had responsibility for logistics.
Bodry took a seat halfway down the table and exchanged pleasantries with Whitmore while they waited for Vale to make her entrance. The general was always five minutes late, and Body had never been able to figure out if that was due to a busy schedule, or a bit of theater intended to emphasize how important she was. He figured either could be true; as she entered, the other officers stood. “As you were,” Vale said as she took her place at the head of the table. She had white hair. And with the exception of the carefully conceived wave that fell down over her left eyebrow, the rest was combed straight back along both sides of her head. She had a high forehead, an aquiline nose, and lips that were pursed as if in eternal disapproval of whatever was taking place in front of her.
But imposing as her other features were, it was Vale’s eyes that took command of the room. They were durasteel gray and just as hard as they swept the faces around her. “Good morning. We’ll begin with the usual intelligence assessment, followed by the operations report, and a proposal from Colonel Bodry. Major Tomko? Please proceed.”
Bodry had no choice but to sit and wait while Tomko told the group what they already knew. The Naa were increasingly restless, attacks on Legion outposts had increased, and the indigs were making good use of the weapons acquired when they overran Forward Operating Base (FOB) Victor a few weeks earlier.
The ops report from Whitmore was equally gloomy. There had been 118 attacks on Legion personnel during the last thirty days—the most recent having occurred that morning on High Hump Hill. Still, depressing though the negative data were, Bodry saw it as the perfect preamble for the presentation that he was about to give. Once the XO was finished, Vale turned her gun-barrel eyes his way. “That brings us to a presentation by Colonel Bodry. Colonel?”
Bodry felt his heart start to beat a little bit faster as he rose and went over to a huge wall screen and the podium that stood next to it. He’d been working on the concept for months by then and had no need to use notes as he aimed the remote at the flat-panel display. Motes of light chased each other, then came together and coalesced into an image that all of them recognized: the snowcapped Towers of Algeron. The shot had been taken from a shuttle, and as it flew along next to them, the mountains looked like fangs. “Here,” Bodry said importantly, “is the barrier that separates north from south, and Naa from Naa. And it has been that way for thousands of years.”
Vale’s attention span was notoriously short and she shifted in her chair. “That’s common knowledge. Please get to the point.”
Bodry battled to keep the resentment he felt from appearing on his face. “Yes, ma’am. The point is this . . . While the mountains keep the northern tribes separated from the southern tribes, there is some contact via high mountain passes and a naturally occurring subterranean tunnel. That’s why there are many cultural similarities between the two groups, including a common language, some shared mythology, and a near-universal hatred of us. However, the passageway is very narrow and difficult to negotiate.”
“This is a strange presentation by the officer in charge of an engineering regiment,” Vale observed testily. “You have a proposal . . . What is it?”
Bodry fought to contain his temper. “My proposal is this,” he said evenly. “I suggest that we open a large tunnel between north and south and let the Naa attack each other.”
The plan was so audacious, so unexpected, that even Vale sat silent for a moment. And when she spoke, Bodry could tell that she was still in the process of assimilating the idea. “So you’re proposing that we facilitate a war between the north and south so as to weaken both.”
“Exactly,” Bodry replied.
“It sounds good,” Whitmore said cautiously. “But the tunnel you mentioned. How difficult would it be to create such a passageway?”
“It would be difficult,” Bodry admitted. “Both because of the technical challenges involved and the fact that the Naa would try to stop us. But it can be done, and the results would be worth the cost.”
Avers was impressed. “I think it’s fucking brilliant,” the stocky infantry officer said. “How many troops would you need?”
That gave Bodry an opportunity to share the charts, graphs, and computer animations he’d been working on for the last few months. And by the time Vale called a halt to the meeting, more than three hours had passed. “All right, Colonel,” she said. “In order to pull this off, we’ll need more people, specialized robots, plus the tunneling machines you mentioned. That will cost money and require some high-level approvals. I can’t spare you for a trip to Earth, so prepare a holo presentation, and we’ll send it off in a message torp.”
Bodry was thrilled. He would have preferred to make the presentation in person, but remaining on Algeron had its advantages as well. Because now that he had Vale’s support, he could perform the kind of research that hadn’t been possible earlier. “Thank you, General. The presentation will be ready by this time tomorrow.”
• • •
It was dark, or would have been if the fort’s lights hadn’t been on, as Sykes spidered out onto the grinder. It was covered by a thin layer of scuffed snow, and the cyborg left even more marks on it as he made his way over to Sally Port 3. That was the small, doorlike entrance used by legionnaires as they left the fort to visit Naa Town and to get back inside once they returned. Assuming they were sober enough to find it.
Sykes stopped so that one of the sentries could scan the bar code on his torso. An indicator light flashed green, indicating that the cyborg was authorized to leave the base. Another legionnaire waved him through. “Have fun and keep your sensors peeled for scrappers.”
Naa outlaws wouldn’t dare attack a T-1, but they were perfectly willing to go after spider forms, which could be taken apart and sold as scrap. The tribes were hungry for metal. Especially alloys, which they couldn’t produce for themselves.
As for the cyborgs, which was to say their brain boxes, they were ransomed or destroyed. Not a pleasant way to go.
But like most borgs, Sykes had bribed a tech to install a shock mod in his spider form. Which meant that any scrapper stupid enough to grab him was going to get a six-thousand-kilovolt surprise. That kind of tinkering was contrary to regulations, of course, but well worth the risk. Sykes said, “Thanks,” slipped out of the fort, and started down the road. A T-1 raised a “hand” as an incoming patrol passed him. Sykes answered in kind.
Five minutes later, Sykes entered Naa Town. Having been stationed on Algeron before, he knew it well. A muddy thoroughfare led him past a series of domes to the tavern called The Bunker. The name stemmed from the fact that it was a bunker, or had been, back when the fort was being constructed. Then, after it was vacated by the Legion, an enterprising Naa had taken possession of the fortification and turned it into a bar. It was the only establishment of its kind that catered to bio bods, cyborgs, and the occasional Naa.
Sykes followed a couple of bio bods down a ramp and through a doorway protected by nothing more than broad strips of dangling leather. The interior was dim, the air thick with the scent of incense, and mismatched tables sat all about. The tavern was about half-full, and heads turned as Sykes entered. Then they turned back again. Most of the bar’s clientele were busy gambling, shooting the shit, or getting drunk.
Sykes paused to scan the crowd. He was looking for a civilian, a man who had been hired to teach the legionnaires the ins and outs of the new personnel-management system that was being implemented throughout the Legion. He also worked part-time for Max, and whomever Max worked for, which remained a mystery. Or a partial mystery since the government was involved somehow. No one else would have been able to spring him.
Sykes’s gaze came to rest on a man seated in a corner of the room with his back to the wall. He nodded, so Sykes crossed the room. “Mr. Travers?”
“That’s right . . . Have a seat.”
Sykes couldn’t sit. Not really. What he could do was let his body rest on the duracrete floor. “So,” Travers said. “I was told to expect you.”
Sykes took note. Message torps sped back and forth between Algeron and Earth all the time. Each one was like a miniature spaceship complete with a hyperspace drive. Was that how Travers communicated with Max? Yes, that made sense. “Good,” Sykes answered. “I was told to gather information about a certain legionnaire and pass it along to you.”
Travers took a sip of beer. His sandy brown hair topped a face that was home to a pair of bloodshot eyes and a bulbous nose. He was wearing a parka and what might have been body armor underneath it. “Yup, that’s part of it,” Travers agreed. “If the sergeant is what she appears to be, then tell me, and I’ll send the information to Max.”
“And if she isn’t?”
Travers wiped some foam off his lips with the back of a hand. “Then give me some proof, the kind of proof that will hold up under scrutiny, and make sure that she dies a heroic death. The press will like that.”
“Why not arrest her?”
Travers frowned. “You must be joking. After all the hero hype on Earth? The empress gave her a medal, for God’s sake! If we sent her back for trial, it would imply that Ophelia is fallible.”
“And she isn’t?”
“Of course not.”
Sykes was silent for a moment. “The proof you mentioned. What would that be?”
Travers grinned. His teeth looked like tombstones. “Beats the shit out of me. Good luck.”
• • •
For the first time since arriving on Algeron, McKee had a few hours of free time to fritter away. There were all sorts of things she could have done with it, but before getting a haircut, or going to the gym to work out, there was something she needed to do. Something important.
After arming herself with directions, McKee made her way through a labyrinth of hallways to the fort’s media center. Doors swished out of her way as she entered. The lighting was dim, and the room was quiet. In most cases, McKee preferred to watch vids, play games, or read books on her data pad. But what she was about to do required some privacy. The kind she couldn’t get in the squad bay.
Most of the booths were available so McKee chose one at random. After the door slid closed behind her, she pulled the chair out of the way and dropped to her hands and knees. Odds were that the computer consoles were safe so long as the wireless connection was turned off. But what if they weren’t? What if the Legion was monitoring what the legionnaires watched, read, or sent to their families? It was better to be safe rather than sorry, so McKee aimed a penlight up into the wiring. And sure enough, even though the terminal had a wireless connection, it was hardwired to the fort’s communications network as well. To monitor what the legionnaires did? Or to provide a backup system? There was no way to know.
McKee stuck the flashlight between her teeth to free up her hands, pulled two cables free, and let them dangle. The terminal was offline. Would that show up on a trouble report? Probably. But when a tech came by to check on it, they would discover that the station was up and running properly. Then, pleased to discover that the problem wasn’t a problem, they would tackle the next item on their list of things to do.
McKee sat down in front of the console, clicked the wireless connection off, and removed the chain from around her neck. Data-storage devices came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. So public terminals were equipped with universal readers, and the terminal in front of her was no exception. When McKee touched a button, the pod-shaped player opened like a flower.
Having removed the silver cat from its chain, she placed it within, touched the button again, and watched the petals close. Data flooded the screen. The information consisted of two lists. The first included the names of the people that the Imperial Bureau of Missing Persons planned to murder, and the second was a planet-by-planet roster of the Bureau’s agents, all downloaded from a synth on Orlo II. And that was the list McKee wanted to check. Did the BMP have a presence on Algeron? If so, she needed to know as soon as possible. She realized that the list was already months old and would become less useful as time went on.
Algeron was near the top of the second page. McKee clicked on the name and watched one entry appear. “Lee Travers.” No rank; just the name. A civilian then.
McKee felt a slight queasiness in the pit of her stomach as she closed the document, reconnected the computer, and opened the fort’s personnel directory. A search brought up, “Lee Travers, Director of Personnel Management Systems,” plus a photo and some contact information. McKee took a moment to memorize the man’s face.
Having recovered the silver cat, McKee left. It was time to go away and give the situation some thought. Which would make more sense? To keep well away from Travers and maintain a low profile? Or to kill him?
There had been a time when the second option would never have occurred to her. McKee smiled grimly. That was then. This was now.