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by Alasdair Shaw
A basket of oranges scattered across the corridor, bouncing orbs of colour against the monotonous grey of the station interior. Dave pushed a market-trader out of the way with one arm. The green-robed man sprawled over his stall and knocked more fruit to the floor.
^Suspect headed towards junction seventeen foxtrot,^ sent Dave as his feet pounded on the metal deck.
The blast door at the end of the corridor slid down, but not before his quarry ducked through.
Dave growled to himself and urged himself to run faster. ^Open it up again, he got past.^
The door began to rise as he reached it and he rolled underneath. He came up to one knee, sidearm pointed down the corridor, just in time to catch a glimpse of the thief as he disappeared round the corner ahead. ^Left at seventeen foxtrot. Tell me you’ve got someone between there and the Warren.^
Pumping his arms, he took up the chase again. He slowed for the corner, bringing his weapon up as he cautiously advanced.
^Negative. He’s all yours, Sir.^
The thief was nearly at the entrance to the Warren. He glanced back as Dave closed the distance. The grin on his face showed he knew he had enough of a lead. Dave’s hand twitched. He could shoot him down. No-one would see; the cameras on this level hadn’t worked since he’d been assigned to Arancha Station.
Dave shook away the thought. Even after all these years, he couldn’t stoop that low. ^Any luck identifying him from the picture I sent?^
^Not yet. Likely he’s unregistered.^
A garbage robot trundled out of a side passage just in front of the fugitive. With a clatter of falling metal, he sprawled on the floor. He clawed his way back onto his feet but his ankle gave way and he half-collapsed, supporting himself on one of the knocked-over bins. He looked up and met Dave’s gaze, the cocky grin replaced by worry and pain. He limped towards the entrance to the Warren and safety.
Dave lowered his shoulder and tackled him. They hit the floor and slid in the decaying rubbish strewn moments earlier. The thief struggled, but Dave knelt on top of him and managed to get hold of a wrist. He twisted the arm up, forcing the man’s face against the deck. Pulling a set of restraints from a pocket, he cuffed his prisoner then pushed himself back, resting his back against the wall.
His chest heaved as he sucked down air. ^Suspect apprehended.^
^Well done, Sir. Officer Barcos’ll be along shortly to help bring him in.^
Dave couldn’t help wondering if they’d waited until he’d got the guy before bothering to task someone to help. He rolled his sleeve up and felt his forearm, finding a bruise forming.
The prisoner rolled onto his side and studied his captor. Some of his earlier arrogance returned to his eyes. “Ya can’t touch me. I work for Mister Harrassa.”
Dave narrowed his eyes. “I’d be very careful about making claims like that.”
“Mister Harrassa looks after his family. If ya arrest me, he’ll fill your world with pain.”
“You sure?” Dave wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand.
“Ya don’t wanna get on his bad side.”
“The thing is,” said Dave, holstering his sidearm. “I happen to know you aren’t part of Mister Harrassa’s family.”
The thief’s eyes flickered sideways.
“I also happen to know that Mister Harrassa wouldn’t take too kindly to someone pretending to be one of his own.”
The blood drained from the thief’s face. “You’re... You’re one of his men. Please. Please let me go. Don’t give me to him.”
Dave shook his head and stared at the floor.
#
Dave followed a muscular, suited man into an office. The bright, polished walls gave an idea of what the station had once been like, and gave him an overwhelming urge to check his uniform was tidy.
A middle-aged man in a white jacket and trousers stood before a ceiling-to-floor viewscreen, apparently admiring the savannah currently being displayed. He turned when the muscle coughed.
“Ah, Lieutenant Dave. So glad you could make it.”
Dave tried to see him as a businessman, but couldn’t keep the blood-stained images out of his head. “It’s not as if I had much choice, Mister Harrassa.”
Harrassa smiled. If he hadn’t known better, Dave would have thought it kindly.
“Quite so, quite so.” Harrassa indicated a cabinet. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Dave swallowed. “Why did you ask to see me?”
“Straight down to business. I can admire that.”
Dave was pretty sure he didn’t want Harrassa’s admiration. Having his attention was bad enough. Watching Harrassa pour boiling water into a teacup summoned up a memory of an autopsy on a badly scalded turncoat.
Harrassa sipped his tea. Lemon and bergamot wafted through the air. “I hear that you arrested a thief this morning. Quite an impressive chase, by all accounts.”
“He wasn’t one of yours,” said Dave.
“Don’t worry, I know. You’re free to prosecute him.”
Dave’s mind and pulse raced. If that wasn’t the reason for the summons...
“You know, Dave, I have a problem. There seems to have been a rise in unrepresented thieves in recent months.” He held up a hand, forestalling Dave’s response. “I’m not blaming you. In fact, after this morning, I think you can help me with the solution.”
Realisation dawned, bringing with it a flush of relief. “You want me to remove your competitors.”
Harrassa chuckled. “Oh, Dave. They aren’t competitors. Their impact on business is inconsequential. It’s a matter of principle.”
At least this job would see him arresting real criminals, even if they were only low-level miscreants. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Harrassa placed his teacup reverently on the table then straightened. “Do I need to remind you what life on this outpost would be like if we weren’t on the same team?”
Dave shook his head. When he’d first arrived, he couldn’t make any arrests stick. Everyone closed ranks against him. Only after he accepted Harrassa’s offer of patronage did he make any headway into the criminal world of Arancha.
Harrassa smiled warmly. “Of course I don’t. I shouldn’t have doubted your intelligence, Dave.”
“I feel I have to warn you, it won’t be a quick job.” Dave studied Harrassa’s face for any sign of a reaction. “I only have four officers.”
Harrassa narrowed his eyes, staring straight at Dave. He nodded. “I understand. Perhaps I could lend you some of my men?”
“Thank you, but I’m not sure they’d be much help right now. I’d have a better chance of catching these guys if I continue to appear to be independent of you.”
Harrassa laughed. “Appearances are indeed important.” His face hardened. “But so are results. You have two weeks to show me you’re up to the job.”
Dave didn’t dare ask ‘what then?’
“Don’t let me keep you any longer,” said Harrassa. “I’m sure you’re keen to be getting home. Maisie and George’ll be back from school in a few minutes.”
Dave’s heart thudded and he swallowed back rising bile. He fought to keep a neutral expression as he left the office.
Outside, the muscle handed him back his sidearm. “The name’s Frank. Mister Harrassa asked me to keep tabs on your investigation. Looks like we’ll be bumping into each other more often.”
#
“Breakfast, Maisie. Breakfast, George.” Jessica placed a large bowl of fruit in the middle of the table and turned back to the counter.
She turned back with four plates of pancakes balanced on her arms.
“Let me get that for you, dear,” said Dave, rising from his seat and reaching out.
Jessica carefully put a plate in front of each of the three empty chairs at the table, then plonked one in front of Dave. The syrup spilled over the edge and stuck to the tablecloth.
“If you don’t hurry up, it’ll get cold,” she called.
“Urgh. Coming,” said George. He emerged from his bedroom a moment later, hair sticking up on one side, pink-striped pyjamas dishevelled.
Dave rolled his eyes and cut up his bacon.
“Maisie. Now.” Jessica poured three orange juices and placed the carton beside Dave’s glass.
Maisie padded into the main room, tying her mauve dressing gown as she went. She hopped up onto a chair and picked up her glass of juice in both hands. Three big gulps later, she put it down and gasped.
George shoved a large piece of pancake into his mouth, hardly chewing before swallowing. “Screen, on.”
Jessica scowled at him.
George sighed theatrically. “Got to watch the news, Mum. Project on the election for school due end of the week.”
Jessica turned her glare on Dave. He held his hands up. “If he’s got a project, he’s got a project.”
“Opinion polls suggest that Senator Jenkins is on course to be re-elected in the traders’ vote,” said a reporter on the screen.
“This is boring,” said Maisie, looking around the table for acknowledgement.
“Whilst in the law enforcement vote, former Chief Constable Smith appears set to replace...”
Maisie threw her knife on the floor. “I want to watch Mister Piggy.”
“You can’t watch Mister Piggy.” Jessica picked the knife up and wrapped it in a knapkin. “We’re watching the news.”
“Screen, play Mister Piggy.” Maisie folded her arms.
“Screen, news. Lock,” said Jessica.
Maisie screamed and pinched George. He shoved back, knocking over the remains of Maisie’s juice.
An alert popped up in Dave’s vision. With a groan, he put his fork down. “Sorry. Work. Gotta go.”
“Really? You’re just going to leave me to deal with this?” Jessica mopped the table with a cloth.
Dave grabbed his sandwiches from the counter and slipped them into a pouch. “It’s the job.”
“Why can’t you do a regular eight ‘til six job like other fathers?”
Dave steeled himself against saying something he’d regret. “Regular jobs don’t come with a free apartment and a good school for the kids.”
Maisie knelt up on her chair and put her head between George and the screen. George poked her in the ribs.
“Are we still on for lunch?” Jessica said, separating the children. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
He reached his ID and sidearm from the wall safe and clipped them to his belt. “I’ll call you.”
#
Dave sauntered up to the crime scene tape, knackered overhead lights flickering in succession as if marking his progress. He nodded to Barcos and drained the last of the gritty coffee from his thermal mug. “Where’s the body?”
Barcos flicked his head backwards. “In there. The doc’s with it now.”
“Do we know the victim?”
“Nope. Not a registered resident, and no record of him entering the station.”
Dave ducked through the hatch behind Barcos. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he pulled up the compartment’s access logs. No entries appeared for the last three standard days, until Barcos arrived, responding to an anonymous message.
“I’m putting the time of death six hours ago.”
Dave looked around for the source of the voice, and found the doctor behind a grime-streaked table, kneeling under a large horizontal pipe. “Dammit.”
The doctor looked up. “Not fit with your timeline?”
Dave shook his head.
^Sir? There’s a crowd gathering out here.^
^Hostile?^
^Curious,^ sent Barcos. ^For now.^
“Looks like we might have to hurry this along, Doc.” Dave crouched beside her. “What else can you tell me?”
She pointed to a circular entry wound in the victim’s forehead, the edges puckered and torn. “Probably a pistol. Note the stippling.”
Dave peered closer. “Execution?”
“Looks likely.” The doctor closed up her bag. “Let’s get him back to the morgue.”
Dave helped her lift the body into a bag. “Anything on the forensics front?”
“The blood’s his. I didn’t find anything else in the room. It wasn’t even cleaned up, they must’ve used sealed suits.”
“As usual.” One of the biggest problems on a space station was the ease of access to suits which rendered most forensic tools useless. “Probably destroyed them too, so we won’t even be able to match them to traces from here.”
^Chan’s here with the cart,^ sent Barcos. ^And the crowd’s growing.^
Dave ducked out into the corridor and surveyed the gathered people. “Chan, Barcos. Go help the doc with the body.^
A familiar face caught his attention. Dressed in a worker’s boilersuit and wearing a peaked cap, Frank held his gaze for several seconds before disappearing into the crowd.
“Fancy a lift back to the station?” asked Chan.
Dave turned to the two-person electric cart, with the body bag on a trailer behind. “No, thanks. I’m going for a walk to feel the streets.”
Chan nodded. “Gotcha, boss.”
“Want me to tag along?” asked Barcos.
“Nah.” Dave glanced at the crowd. “Make sure the doc gets back to the infirmary OK.”
Barcos nodded. “Will do.”
The crowd broke up after Chan had driven off with the body and Barcos had walked the doctor to the nearest lift. Dave strolled along the corridor, vaguely heading for the market but letting his feet take him where they felt like.
A few junctions later, Frank stepped out of a shadow and fell into step beside him. “It wasn’t us.”
“It sure looked like a mob hit.”
Frank tutted. “It doesn’t do calling us the mob. Mister Harrassa’s an above-board businessman.”
“Whatever. This wasn’t you?”
“There were no active termination orders. And no-one’s movements are unaccounted for.”
Dave skirted a bright orange puddle beneath a dripping, corroded pipe. “Could someone be trying to muscle in on business?”
“We’d know if they were. They’d leave a message, not the corpse of someone we don’t know in a rarely-used utility chamber.” Frank shook his head. “This suggests someone with an altogether different agenda.”
Dave turned at the next junction and found a young boy in welfare-red clothes daubing something on a wall. He looked back, but Frank was nowhere to be seen. The boy’s face was haggard, his fingers bony, and he didn’t seem to notice Dave’s approach.
Dave clapped his hand on the waif’s shoulder, making him jump. “What you doing here, boy?”
The boy’s eyes struggled to focus.
Dave looked at the crude Separatist symbol smeared on the wall in white paint. “How much they pay you to do this?”
The boy twitched his head.
“How about I give you some food for you to stop?” He pulled his lunchbox out of a pouch. “Beef and mustard roll?”
The boy’s eyes locked onto the sandwich. He reached out slowly then snatched it, like a feral creature unsure about being hand fed. He took a bite then ran off, clutching the food to his chest.
One deck down from the market, in a corridor with few working lights, a man saw Dave and hastily stepped into a lift. Against a wall leant a woman wearing only a micro skirt and pair of boots. Red and gold swirls covered her skin, artistically highlighting her narrow waist and perky chest.
She lit a perfect smile and winked. “You going to book me, or hire me, officer?”
“Neither,” said Dave, transferring a network address to her datapad. “Just give you the number of someone you can call. If it ever gets too much.”
He took the lift up and stepped out into the market. A wall of noise, colour and smell hit him. Foodstalls offering cuisines from across the Republic took up every available space between the larger trading establishments. He sauntered through the crowds, catching snippets of conversations, reading the mood of the populace. Everything seemed as it should. Apart from a nagging worry in the back of his mind. If Harrassa hadn’t ordered the hit, who had? And why?
#
Dave strolled into the station and hung his jacket on the wall by his desk. He settled into his fake-leather chair and loosened his collar. A drunk rattled on the bars of her cell, eliciting protestations from her neighbour who was obviously well on the way through his hangover.
Barcos got up from his desk and pulled a seat up in front of Dave’s. “Thought you’d want to see the reports from the morgue. Cause of death’s a no-brainer.”
Dave took the proffered pad and skimmed through the autopsy report. The cause of death, gunshot wound to the head, was confirmed. He glanced up at Barcos, attempting to decide if the no-brainer comment had been deliberate. The doctor noted several old injuries, including several broken bones, two knife wounds, and a thermal shotgun hit to the abdomen.
“Somewhat of a fighter, our victim,” said Dave. “Ex-military?”
“Not showing on any database we’ve got access to,” replied Barcos. “But that’s not the best bit. Check out the trace report.”
Dave flicked across to the document detailing the analysis of substances found on the body. His eyes widened. “Explosives residue?”
Barcos nodded. “I checked it out. He’s been handling some pretty potent stuff. A few hundred grams of that in the right place could breach a blast door.”
Dave leant back, the wood-effect frame of his chair creaking. “What’s their target?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?” Dave looked up. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking out loud.”
“Could be a heist. There’s plenty of valuable merchandise in dealers’ strongrooms.”
“True.”
“Or sabotage. A covert Congressional attack, or someone with an axe to grind,” suggested Barcos. “They could cost the outpost thousands a week by taking a docking tube out of commission. They probably killed the bomb-maker to tidy up a loose end.”
Dave gave voice to the fear inside him, speaking calmly and slowly. “We could have a terror cell active in the outpost. The target could be anything that would give them publicity for their cause.”
#
Dave wandered through the Park. An entire level on Arancha Station was given over to this green space, and another below to handling the irrigation and other support requirements. It formed part of the station’s atmospheric processing system, as well as being home to several farms growing real food for high-end customers.
The area Dave was in was one of the public recreation areas. People ran and played all around him, couples relaxed on the manicured grass, children chased each other through undergrowth. Trees arched overhead, glowing animated signs for all sorts of products and services hanging from their branches. He stopped at the base of one tree and studied the screen embedded in its trunk. A reporter talked enthusiastically, waving his arms around; the caption below related that Fleet was mobilising a task force to meet a new separatist threat. Dave reached out and tapped a few commands, displaying the datestamp on the report. It had been filed two weeks previously, only now reaching Arrancha Station.
He walked on. The bonded rubber-crumb path curved round a fountain, its jets of water lit a kaleidoscope of colours by submerged lamps. On the far side, his wife sat in the middle of a bench, watching a shark-shaped balloon that swam through the air, covered in strobing adverts. To one side of her sat a bearded man in a casual jacket.
Jessica’s eyes met Dave’s and she stood and waved. He waved back. She smiled as he sat down beside her. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled at him when the kids weren’t watching.
“You came,” she said.
“I said I would.”
“You’ve promised things before, but work...”
The man on the other side of her coughed.
“I’m sorry.” Jessica leant back. “This is Doctor Lasca. Doctor Lasca, my husband, Dave.”
“Glad to meet you, Dave.”
Dave stared at the fountain. “What happens now?”
“Well, that’s up to you.” Lasca scratched under his chin. “You’ve already made the hardest step by seeking counselling.”
#
^We caught a break, Sir,^ sent Barcos.
Dave continued perusing the shimmering fabrics on a stall on the market level. ^Go on...^
^I finished reviewing the security footage,^ sent Barcos. ^As you guessed, there were no working cameras covering the room or the hatch. But both ends of the corridor were covered. The camera at one end was panning, so there are gaps where someone could have got through unseen, but it’s a start.^
Dave ran a gossamer-thin, iridescent scarf through his hand. George would love it. ^Excellent.^
^I ran everyone through the database. Chan and Singh have been running down the alibis for those we could ID, everyone has checked out so far.^
Dave transferred a couple of credits for the scarf and tucked it into a pocket.
^I was able to track the three men we couldn’t ID,^ continued Barcos. ^Two are somewhere in the Warren. The other’s on level three.^
A tall woman with a tray of flashing toys accosted him. He smiled at her and cast an eye over the gadgets. Maisie had a thing for tacky gifts.
^Good work. You got a specific room on level three?^
^Yep. Sending it to you now. It’s registered to a woman and her three-year-old son. No mention of a man.^
Dave apologised to the toy-seller and hurried to the nearest lift. ^Meet me there.^
Barcos was waiting at the end of the corridor when he arrived. “No-one else was available, Sir.”
Never a dull moment, eh?” Dave shrugged on the body armour that Barcos offered him, and drew his sidearm. “Ready?”
Barcos nodded.
“Go.”
Barcos led the way along the corridor at a gentle jog, thermal shotgun pointing at the suspect’s door. Dave stayed behind him, the pair presenting as small a target as possible. When they reached the apartment, Dave pressed himself against the wall alongside it, and Barcos stood across the corridor, still training his shotgun at the blistered paint of the door.
Dave checked Barcos was watching then banged on the door with his fist, keeping his body to the side. “Security! Open up!”
He thought he could hear chairs scraping across the floor. “Stand away from the door! We’re coming in!”
He sent his override code to the access panel and the latch clicked off. A firm push with his hand and the door swung open. Barcos went in first. Dave followed a step behind, scanning every corner of the room. Two adults stood by a table with their hands up, a small boy hugged the man’s leg. Steam curled up from several bowls of rice on the table. Dave’s stomach gurgled, reminding him that he’d given away his lunch.
He covered the people with his sidearm while Barcos cleared the bedroom and the washroom. The woman and child matched the pictures on file. The man stood in front of them both, hands held out protectively. There was something of him in the boy’s face. Dave crossed off the possibility that the man was holding them captive.
“No-one else here,” said Barcos. “And no obvious weapons.”
“Thank you, Officer Barcos.” Dave holstered his sidearm then smiled and waved his hand to the table. “Please, sit down Mister and Missus Kym.”
The woman hugged her son closer. The man looked from Dave to Barcos and back to Dave.
“It’s all right. I’m pretty sure we’ve got the wrong address. We’d just like to ask you a few questions to be sure.”
The room seemed stuffy. Dave checked his safety badge. The carbon dioxide level was high; not dangerous, but uncomfortable. He looked around the room, registering a few things that could be heirlooms, but nothing of any value. The apartment’s environmental control panel was beside the door, and he set it to full scrub. The woman’s eyes widened.
Dave walked the couple of paces to the table and sat. “As this is an official visit, none of the CO2 extracted from the apartment during our time here will be chargeable to you.”
Mrs Kym’s mouth dropped open for a second, before she bowed hastily and sat, tugging on her husband’s sleeve to get him to sit too. “What is it you want to ask?”
Dave stuck his tongue out at the child. He hid behind his father, but peeped back out again with a giggle. Barcos leant against the work surface that divided the cooking area from the eating area.
“We’re just talking to everyone who was in Section Twelve Bravo last night,” said Dave. “Finding out if they saw anything unusual.”
The couple paled and looked at each other.
“We’re not interested in how you came to be on the station, Mister Kym. Nor how you’re earning enough credits to feed your family without appearing on the tax roll. All I need is to be able to confirm your exact whereabouts between midnight and three this morning.”
Mrs Kym poked her husband. “Tell him where you go.”
He stared at the table. “I work shifts at a... club. Cleaning.”
“What sort of club?” asked Barcos.
Dave scowled at him.
“An... exotic one,” said Mr Kym, his voice almost a whisper. His wife shuffled away from him a fraction, face reddening.
“Can anyone verify this?” asked Dave, inwardly cursing Barcos’ lack of subtlety. “A manager, perhaps?”
Mr Kym pulled a communicator out of his chest pocket. He tapped a couple of times then turned it to show Dave a network address.
^Chan? Could you check Mister Kym’s alibi for me? He claims to have been cleaning at a club,^ sent Dave.
^Go ahead.^
Dave sent the address.
^Got it. I’ll get back to you...^
“Where you from?” Dave held his nose and popped his ears. “Sorry, sometimes I struggle to equalise.”
“We’re from Jamary-Seven.” Mrs Kym passed a handful of rice to the child, who shovelled it into his mouth.
Dave winked at the boy. “Why’d you leave?”
“It’s one jump away from Ixus. People are divided between supporting their bid for independence and affirming their support for the Republic.”
“Sounds like interesting times.”
Mrs Kym shrugged. “Interesting times don’t tend to be very safe for people at the bottom like us.”
^Alibi checks out,^ sent Chan. ^Shift manager and bartender both confirmed seeing him at the club.^
^Thanks.^
“I understand. You won’t get any grief from us about your residency or work status.” Dave pulled a face at the child, then rose. “Your alibi checked out. I hope you understand we had to check.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Kym.
Barcos sauntered out the door. Dave followed, turning back in the entrance passage. “Thank you for your patience. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
He closed the door and released his override on the lock.
“It’s not him, then,” said Barcos, slinging the thermal shotgun over his shoulder.
“No. Which means the perp’s probably holed up in the Warren.”
“We’ll never catch him, then. Five of us against how many hundred? There’s a reason we don’t patrol in there.”
The thought of people plotting to detonate a bomb on his beat ate at Dave’s inside. He couldn’t abandon the investigation. Two principles vied for supremacy in his heart. In the end, he knew which one he had to give up. “We could call for reinforcements.”
Barcos laughed. “You never even got the stun rounds you asked for. They’ll never send more cops in time.”
Dave ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I was thinking of asking someone closer to home.”
#
“It’s a terrible business,” said Harrassa, reclining in a soft chair. He flicked his arms out to the sides, adjusting the shirt cuffs, then stretched them behind his head. “Very bad for takings.”
Frank leant against a desk in the corner of the office, filing his nails.
“So, I decided to take you up on your offer of help,” said Dave. “I can’t search the Warren with the resources at my disposal.”
Frank looked up. “Word has it a small-time Jazz dealer just stepped up a league. Got outside money. Might be worth dropping in on him.”
“I thought you controlled all the drugs on this station?”
Harrassa coughed.
“Firstly,” said Frank. “Accusations like that aren’t helpful. Secondly, as you know yourself, exerting complete control over the Warren isn’t worth the expense it would require.”
Dave narrowed his eyes. “How do I know this is related to the bomb threat? That you’re not just using me to make a problem go away for you again?”
“It’s not exactly as if you’re the one with the power down there. If we hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t even have known there was a problem.” Frank resumed filing his nails.
“Let me remind you of our little arrangement,” said Harrassa, leaning forward. “You get to prosecute certain criminals. In exchange, if I ask you to deal with a problem, you deal with that problem.” He held Dave’s eye contact for a couple of seconds then settled back into his chair. “In this case, however, we’re inviting you as a courtesy. Seems that dealing with this situation is in both our interests.”
#
Dave led the team into the Warren. Eyes burned into him from the shadows, but no-one emerged. The twenty heavily-armed mobsters following him probably had something to do with that. After two junctions, the layout stopped resembling the plans in Dave’s EIS. He stopped and looked around. Squinting, he could just make out cut-marks and welds.
“The guy we’re after should be this way,” said Frank, taking the lead.
Dave followed, noticing more evidence of the changes made since the Warren had been declared out of bounds a few decades ago. He’d studied the history of the station after accepting the job, and had wondered why none of his predecessors had ever reclaimed it. Then he’d arrived and discovered how few of Arancha’s security personnel actually existed in real life.
The route twisted and turned, often squeezing past obstructions built into the corridor. Everyone they met made a big show of not seeing them. Dave got the impression that no-one saw anything down here.
“Just through here,” said Frank. “Best you let me do the talking.”
They ducked under a blast door, wedged half-open by an oil-streaked cart. A small boy sat against a wall, knees tucked up under his chin. His hand moved towards a box by his side, but then his eyes locked onto Dave. A smile cracked his dirty face, and he jumped up, scampering past the men and leaving the box behind.
Frank crouched and lifted the lid with the muzzle of his pistol. “Comm unit. Guess he was supposed to warn them.” Frank looked up at Dave. “He seemed to know you.”
“I gave him a sandwich this morning.”
Frank chuckled then pointed down the corridor. “It’s at the end of here then left. Two doors along.”
Dave nodded and drew his pistol. “Remember, this is a security operation. I go first. No-one shoots until I’ve identified myself, and then only if they shoot at you.”
The mercenaries griped amongst themselves, until Frank glared at them.
Dave paused at the end of the corridor and listened. A pipe dripped somewhere, but nothing else. He glanced back at his unlikely strike team and it occurred to him whether Harrassa lending them was a not-so-subtle way of reminding him who had the firepower on this station.
He held his left hand up, then counted down the fingers. On reaching zero, he made a fist and stepped round the corner. Soft footsteps followed him as he smoothly approached the target door. The chances of his override working down here were so miniscule he didn’t even try, instead attaching a lock-breach box. He stepped back and triggered it with a thought through his EIS. It flashed and clanged to the floor, a neat circle of door held in its grip. Frank grabbed the door, pulled it open, and chucked in a couple of stun grenades.
Twin bangs rang out and brilliant white light flashed round the doorframe. Dave stepped through the gap, weapon up. “Security. Nobody move.”
He scanned the room, heart pounding. It was empty of people, and almost anything else, apart from a table and chairs. Several mugs sat on the table, surrounded by food wrappers.
The rest of the team poured in after him. They moved professionally, covering their arcs and avoiding conflicts as they cleared the suite of rooms.
“What have you been training them for?” he asked Frank, then realised he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
“Protection.” Frank shrugged. “They’re all ex-military anyway. It’s not as if we’re running a boot camp.”
The last pair reported clear and Dave holstered his pistol with a heavy heart. Their one lead, and they were too late. He felt a mug of coffee with the back of his hand. Stone cold; they had a decent head start too.
“You should see this,” said one of the mercenaries.
He led them to a larger room in the suite. A table at one end was covered in bits of electronics. The wall above it had a map of one floor of the station.
“You think the target’s on that floor?” asked Frank.
“Possibly. It’s one of the main public areas. Lots of potential targets.”
He scanned around, looking for anything else.
One of the mercs returned carrying a pad with a broken screen. “Found this in a pile of smashed up hardware.”
Hope sprung up. Dave smiled. “I’ll take it back to the security centre. We’ve got routines that should be able to access it.”
“Why wait?” asked Frank. “Hattie. Get in here.”
A short woman with spiky black and red hair came through, slinging a thermal shotgun to her side.
“Reckon you can do anything with this?” Frank held up the pad.
Her eyes lit up and she cracked her knuckles. “You know I can.”
She dumped a bag on the table and pulled a device out of it which she connected to the pad.
“What’s she? Some sort of hacker?” Dave whispered to Frank.
“Digital security expert,” replied Frank.
“Ah, right.”
“The storage array is physically damaged, but I’ve connected directly to the individual nodes.” Hattie’s eyes defocused. “Let’s see what they had on here.”
Her fingers twitched and a tic developed on her left cheek. After a few seconds, her eyes refocused and she grinned. “Amateurs.”
“What?” asked Dave.
“They deleted everything before they smashed it.”
Dave struggled to reconcile her smile and her words. “Isn’t that a bad thing for us?”
Frank placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hattie’s rather an expert on recovering lost data. People leave all sorts of useful stuff on their devices.”
“Looks like they were making fake voter identification cards. There’s also a record of them hacking the registration system. Can’t tell you what they accessed, I’m afraid, but I’d speculate they inserted records to match the ID cards.”
“Any photos or names to go with those cards?”
“No such luck. They must’ve been on the nodes I couldn’t repair.”
“You have your target,” said Frank.
Dave swallowed. “I had hoped it’d be a heist. Not terrorism. I don’t have the resources to deal with this.”
“You’ve got us,” said Frank. “Mister Harrassa was quite clear that I was to take this outfit down. They’re bad for business.”
#
Dave pulled a loose-fitting beige shirt over his body armour and checked he could still reach the pistol strapped to the small of his back. Barcos strode into the cramped changing room and dropped his kitbag on a bench.
“We didn’t find anything in the sweep,” said Barcos, shrugging off his uniform jacket. “No bombs, no surveillance that wasn’t ours, no evidence of tampering at all.”
“So, the polling station might not be their target.” Dave put a foot up on a bench and fastened his shoelace. “Or they’re going to try to walk it in during the day.”
Barcos pulled on a pair of grey casual trousers. “I left Chan guarding the entrance. Santiago and Pritchard are being as visible as possible elsewhere on the station, to stop them thinking we’re concentrating here.”
Dave swapped feet. “Good. I take it the chemical sniffer’s working?”
“The portable one isn’t modern enough to detect the explosive we know they’re using. So I stripped the sniffer out of that passenger airlock that had to be refitted a couple of years back.”
“The Dockmaster give you any grief?”
Barcos put his arms through a long mustard-coloured jacket. “I didn’t ask him.”
Dave laughed. “That’ll come back to bite you. Just you wait.”
They finished getting ready in silence. Dave reviewed the upcoming operation, trying to get his head round all the possibilities.
Barcos sat on the bench next to him. “You could have told me, you know.”
“Told you what?”
“That you were working with Harrassa. I wouldn’t have judged.”
Dave sighed. “How’d you find out?”
“You started getting results. I’ve been around long enough to know there’s only one way that works.”
“Well, as it happens, I was going to tell you now, anyway. You need to know that we’ve got backup today. Harrassa’s private army.”
Barcos looked up. “That’s real? I mean, I’d heard rumours...”
“Bunch of former Marines and soldiers. Very effective team.”
Barcos sighed. “Guess that means we’ve got no chance of taking him down.”
“Not by force.” Dave rolled his shoulders. “But this is a discussion for another day.”
The pair left the security centre and made their separate ways to the polling station. Dave avoided making eye contact with Chan as he shuffled through the entrance following a group of young women draped in tinsel.
The hexagonal auditorium rang with loud conversation. Scores of people mingled, chatting and eating. Looped recordings of the candidates covered all six walls. A row of polling officials sat at tables in front of the voting booths, checking polling cards against their records before allowing people through to the tall red cubicles.
Dave lingered for a while, buying a fruit blend with a paper umbrella in it and sipping as he wandered around. After a few minutes, he caught a glimpse of Frank leaning against a foodstall. They studiously ignored each other; no point risking getting made. He continued to circulate, making small talk with a few people on the way.
After an hour, Dave approached the polling officials. He presented his card and waited while they pulled up his image on their screens. They gave him a token, which he took to the booth and inserted in the reader. It chimed and lit green, then invited him to stare at a red dot. A flash, and it had checked the pattern of blood vessels on his retina. The candidates in the law enforcement vote appeared on the screen. Dave tapped Candidate Smith’s image and then confirmed.
Leaving the booth, he did another slow lap of the auditorium. Part-way round, he bumped into a middle-aged woman in a smart green suit.
“Sorry,” he said, bending to pick up the pamphlet she’d dropped. “Oh, hello, Mrs Jones.”
“Er, hello... Just a minute... Maisie’s dad?”
Dave wiped his hand on his trousers and reached out to shake hers. “She talks about you all the time. Loves your lessons.”
Mrs Jones blushed. “Why, thank you. Always nice to hear.”
“Having a nice day?”
“Oh, yes.” She peered over his shoulder and waved. “Ah, there’re my friends.”
Dave inclined his head. “Don’t let me keep you. Have a good day.”
He checked in with Santiago and Pritchard. Neither had run into anything out of the ordinary, so he suggested they made their presence known on the main market level. His stomach rumbled and he headed for a foodstall.
One of the candidates displayed on the wall launched into an impassioned speech. The subtitles flowed fast, all about dignity and respect for tradition.
A woman’s shriek filled the auditorium. Dave span round, drawing his pistol and exposing his badge. People ran across his view. He pushed his way towards the source of the commotion. A boy, barely older than George, stood with an arm round Mrs Jones’ throat and a ceramic gun to her head. The crowd pressed towards the exit, where Chan tried to keep order.
A burst of gunfire came from outside the auditorium. Chan went down, crumpling against the wall. The panicked voters crushed together like sheep circled by wolves.
Off to one side, Barcos leant against the upright of a foodstall, weapon trained on the hostage-taker. Frank drew his own pistol and said something into his wristpiece. He advanced on the entrance. The two officers on patrol elsewhere confirmed they were on their way.
Automatic weapons-fire erupted in the hallway. A young woman stepped backwards into the auditorium, firing a carbine along the corridor the way she’d come. Frank raised his weapon and put a bullet in the back of her head.
The gunfire eased. A man crawled into the room, dragging a bag. One limp leg left a wide smear of blood on the floor. He reached into the bag. One of Harrassa’s mercenaries stepped in and fired two shots into his forehead.
More mercenaries followed, setting up a perimeter. Frank peered into the bag. A message popped up in the corner of Dave’s vision. <<Explosives, and a manual trigger.>>
Two of Frank’s men beckoned to the civilians.
“Nobody move,” shouted the boy with a gun to Mrs Jones’ head.
Her eyebrows went up as the boy squeezed her throat. Dave locked eyes with hers, willing her to remain calm.
The boy looked up at the camera in one corner of the auditorium. “This is happening because the Republic has not recognised the independence of Ixus.”
^Boss?^ sent Officer Santiago. ^I’m on your level, but I can’t get to you. There’s a bunch of mercs outside the polling station.^
Dave cursed himself for risking a friendly fire incident by not passing the information. ^It’s OK. They’re the good guys. For today, at least. Check on Chan.^
“We tried through the courts, we tried peaceful protest, but it fell on deaf ears.” The boy glanced at Barcos and then Dave, before looking back at the camera. “Now we have only violence to make ourselves heard.”
Another message from Frank popped up in the corner of Dave’s vision. <<One of my guys has a shot. Should she take it?>>
<<Negative.>>
The boy raised his voice further. “This will keep happening until the Republic sees sense. Your leaders could have stopped this. The blood is on their hands.”
“What’s your name?” asked Dave.
The boy frowned and looked at Dave. “I am a Child of Ixus. That’s all that matters.”
“I was just wondering, I’ve got a son about your age. My name’s Dave, by the way.”
The boy flicked his head as if trying to dislodge a bee. “You’re just another representative of the oppressors.”
Dave sighed. “Listen. There are two ways this ends. Either you let Missus Jones go and walk out of here with me, or I shoot you. I don’t want to have to do all the paperwork shooting you involves.”
“I came here knowing I would die.” He shifted his grip on the gun.
^Chan didn’t make it,^ sent Santiago. ^And Pritchard’s here too. What do you want us to do?^
^Stand by. Don’t let him see uniforms.^
“What subjects are you studying at school?” Dave smiled. “My son’s studying history, politics, and philosophy.”
The boy’s eyes refocused and his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I was doing history too. With exobiology and atmospheric science.”
“That’s a handy combination. Lots of good jobs in those fields.”
“That’s what my mum said. She was keen for me to join a colony prospecting...” The boy tightened his grip on Mrs Jones’ throat. “They warned us about this. Negotiators trying to ‘make a connection’.”
Dave’s stomach sank. He took up the slack on his pistol’s trigger. The boy looked up at the camera again. Dave squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked in the heel of his palm, the force absorbed by his arm muscles.
The boy’s head went back and his arm slid away from his captive’s neck. Barcos fired twice. The boy’s body collapsed to the floor. Mrs Jones stood, muscles locked, eyes wide. Dave swallowed down bile.
The rest of the civilians ran for the exit. Two of Frank’s team, rifles slung behind their backs, hurried them through; the rest stood alert, weapons ported.
^Help the mercs process the civilians,^ Dave sent to Santiago and Pritchard. ^There might be another separatist hiding amongst them.^
Barcos ran over and checked the boy. He holstered his pistol. ^Dead.^
Dave held an arm out to Mrs Jones. “It’s OK. He can’t hurt you now.”
#
Dave waited in the corridor for five o’clock. Most of the paperwork was done, what was left could wait until tomorrow. The school doors opened and scores of children rushed out. Dave watched intently.
George stopped in his tracks. “Is everything alright, Dad?”
“It is now.” Dave ruffled his son’s hair and put his arm round his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s pick Maisie up then get ice cream on the way home.”
George frowned. “I’m not sure Mum would be happy about us spoiling our teas.”
“I called her. She’s meeting us there.”
“Are you and Mum OK now?”
Dave looked at George. “It’s a start.”
-o-
Alasdair Shaw grew up in Lancashire, within easy reach of the Yorkshire Dales, Pennines, Lake District and Snowdonia. After stints living in Cambridge, North Wales, and the Cotswolds, he has lived in Somerset since 2002.
He has been rock climbing, mountaineering, caving, kayaking and skiing as long as he can remember. Growing up he spent most of his spare time in the hills.
Alasdair studied at the University of Cambridge, leaving in 2000 with an MA in Natural Sciences and an MSci in Experimental and Theoretical Physics. He went on to earn a PGCE, specialising in Science and Physics, from the University of Bangor. A secondary teacher for over fifteen years, he has plenty of experience communicating scientific ideas.
You can continue to explore the Republic and Congress in the Two Democracies: Revolution series.
Homepage: http://www.alasdairshaw.co.uk/twodemocracies
Mailing List: http://www.alasdairshaw.co.uk/newsletter/officer.php
