Rogue: Chapter Eight

    We hit the room, I showered and cleaned up, washing several cubic meters of grit and grime away, dressed in business combat wear—suit and shoes designed for maneuvers and wrestling—and went out on the hunt.

    They'd tightened communication protocols and Silver couldn't bust their signal in time. We blocked the city on map and drove, using traffic analysis. Lots of signals came from the north central. I tracked the news to rule out other incidents. We found signals only to have them fade, then find tantalizing taunts that went nowhere. We located other incidents including a vehicle crash that made the news about the time we arrived. Then there was a report of a police cordon on the RumorNet node. It did not show up on any official press. That was promising.

    Randall apparently really wanted his target. There must be a time limit, which was useful and bore more research. We finally had enough data to zero in on a cheap apartment block. About 1100 local, we identified which unit. It was the one with all the cops outside.

    That suggested to me that he wasn't here, and this was a setup. If I knew I was being tracked, I'd have left a lot of false trails. One very clear trail was a trap. They didn't know who they were dealing with, and they were between me and he.

    I gestured. Silver was already parking as I did so. I climbed out, put on my public spook façade and checked for the right ID. I sought the largest gathering of uniforms, blocking the walkways from the adjoining park.

    I strode up quickly, pushed politely through the gawkers and slowed as I approached, stepped over the official tape, picked one sergeant out by eye and said, "I need to talk to the scene commander."

    "That's nice. Just move outside the cordon, please, and—"

    Cops really piss me off. They need to stick to serving and protecting and not trying to be epic heroes.

    I interrupted him by grabbing his arm and shoved an ID in his face. I deliberately didn't raise my voice, just spoke clearly. "I am Captain Anders. I have pursued that suspect from outsystem, and I have important information about him. I need to speak to the scene commander."

    "Okay, sir. Please come with me." He pointed at the two approaching officers and then at the cordon. "Jasta, Lanning, take over here." They looked surprised, but diverted from slamming me to cordon control. The sergeant seemed very embarrassed, but realized his best bet was to bump me up higher. Good enough.

    We walked over to the commander at a trot. Others had seen our interaction, and followed me suspiciously. I eyed him as we approached. Gray, slightly overweight but with good tone. He seemed competent and not too standoffish or grandstandish, if that's a word.

    As I approached, he said, "Chief Malcolm. District Seven. You are?"

    "Captain Anders. Appointed by the Freehold Council."

    He looked at my ID at length. It was good. Silver had copied it with a real diplomatic blank. Officially, the military doesn't get those, for this exact reason—accusations of espionage. In actuality, Operatives steal them, use them for patterns, and destroy them.

    He said, "Interesting. I didn't know they did that."

    "Not often, no. This merits it, though."

    "Very well. So who is he?"

    "He's one of our Blazer troops, or used to be. He's had some mental trouble. After effects of the war. He's very dangerous, but I can talk to him. We served together. I can get him out without violence to anyone, if I can see him. If you go in, it's going to be messy and there are going to be multiple casualties."

    Actually, I was going to fucking kill him and make any excuse, or not make any excuse, as needed. I liked having the dialog, though. This could work.

    Malcolm gave me this squint that foreshadowed a negative. Dammit.

    First, he wanted to believe he could control this situation. Second, he didn't like intruders, and I don't blame him. Third, there was the political issue of him letting an outsider resolve it. Fourth, he didn't know me, or what my actual credentials were. Fifth, I just might be a distraction or accomplice.

    "Then you can remain here, and talk to him after we bring him out."

    There was absolutely no argument I could offer under the circumstances, and fighting him wouldn't help. Well, I could probably distract them enough to keep them alive, but then Randall would escape, and we'd start over.

    I just nodded, because I wasn't going to try to speak.

    "We'll be fine," he assured me in a deep, confident voice. "My team has the latest training and equipment. One traumatized veteran is no problem."

    I stood back, and hoped for an opening where I could inject some reason and wisdom. The problem is, a lot of these units like to kick in doors. Everyone wants to do their job, but these are people who have a bit of an ego trip. Sometimes, a lot of one.

    They had a murderer, an assassin, so they were going to wade in and bring him out, hold him up as an object lesson.

    I, of course, have developed a theory about object lessons…

    The team looked competent and fit. I had no doubt under any normal circumstances they'd do a bang up job, from the flash bang to the hauling of the subdued perp.

    That's the second problem. They come in en masse, with lots of noise and firepower, and maintain the upper hand. That's great on whacked out druggies, middle age money handlers, disturbed abusers and ganger kids. They were up against a professional, trained to do the same thing they were about to attempt, and do it better. If I could actually tell them who I was, as I'd led a raid to rescue their Princess, now Queen, some years before…but there was no time, and the lives of a few cops wasn't important in the big picture. I had to keep my cover.

    Part of me screamed to do something. This was a legitimate raid, well-intentioned, and these fifteen men and three women were going to die. Their families were going to suffer massive anguish. I knew exactly what was going to happen, what it was going to look like, how dreadful it would be to them. Heck, I'd done it myself once, while carrying a baby.

    Malcolm said, "Proceed," and they swarmed the building.

    I did not find an opening in which to suggest further caution. I forced myself to remain still.

    The tac team got placed fast. They were quiet, efficient and enthusiastic. I looked at their placement and dispersal and cringed. It was literally textbook, as I'd done it twelve years before. They'd learned from the best. Us.

    Then the explosions started. A flashbang, some cutting charges. Some shots. Malcolm looked very pleased and comfortable.

    Then the shooting continued, interspersed with shrieking screams of agony, gouts of smoke, and more explosions, including one that ripped the side off a floor above. It rained down onto the ground in drumming thumps of debris.

    Malcolm gave me a sideways glance, angry and tense, then headed in himself.

    I couldn't fault his courage.

    Four very worried officers with carbines followed him. I brought up the rear, not asking, just acting as if I belonged. They didn't question me, but I think they didn't notice me.

    Power and lights were out in the building. Once that was determined, I followed them up the stairs. Four floors, each of them seeming further away and with thinner air. I was having emotional flashbacks, traumatic stress pummeling me. Dammit.

    We got to the fourth floor, two cops with carbines went first, then the Chief and I, then the last two brought up the rear and skipped through between us.

    Then they stopped.

    There was some illumination here from their weapon lights, and some through a destroyed door. Tendrils of smoke floated lazily past. They didn't add much to the scene, because it was so outré nothing could add to it.

    The squad outside the door still smoked, doused in gelled petroleum, probably diesel or paraffin. Some oxygenating compound had been released, and the glop had burned right through their faces to bone and brain tissue. Guts still sizzled, and the corridor smelled like scorched bologna with the metallic sauce of blood and the tang of fuel, with a hint of ozone. Chief Malcolm turned and spewed, trying to avoid contaminating the crime scene, and splattering his hands and the wall. It wasn't going to matter much. It did add slightly to the smell.

    They'd shattered the door on entry. Textbook. Except Randall had planned for them to do that, and used that as a trigger. Three other bodies were well-bruised sacks of blood from a concussion wave, which had also peeled the wall sheathing. I gingerly moved to the doorway, wary of triggers. There could be more. Malcolm let me take point. Pity he hadn't believed me earlier.

    The room was full of rubble and bodies and lingering eddies of dust. I looked at the traps and could tell which page of which manual they came from.

    The two that entered through the door had run onto a hard floor covered in ball bearings. Even their grippy shoes hadn't helped with that. One had a broken neck. The other had a muzzle burn against his temple, just under the helmet brim.

    Two came through the window and caught on a transparent mesh. The first was prone on a bed of caltrops, and he hadn't died quickly. They were only a few centimeters each. His buddy had landed on him, though, which had probably driven some into his face and throat, judging from the crimson pool starting to skim over. They were probably laced with some neural toxin, since those would be crippling but not lethal wounds. Then I saw some of the window shards sticking out of him.

    His buddy had intercepted a spike. It was above the reinforcement on her armor, right through her lower jaw and spine. That had to hurt, too. Her face was in a rictus, and there was a stain under her. The spike had probably been driven in by hand, as she moved in free flight.

    The ones who came through the wall had fared no better. Sticky aerogel doesn't show on sonar scans. They blew a hole, dove in and got gooed, then were exterminated with pistol rounds through the atlas. Randall undoubtedly had garments with a keyed enzyme to counter that specific adhesive. The foam around them looked like soap suds tinged pink.

    I heard a faint noise, and very carefully eased through the door, looking for any kind of sensor or trigger.

    The one who'd come through the ceiling had carefully selected his spot to place him in a corner, facing into the room, with clear crossfire with his buddies. We have the same manual. The expression on his face could almost be sexual, until you deduced it was pain. He'd hit a bed of long, very slender, almost molecular spikes. A quick leap had pulled his feet free, but then he'd landed ass first on much longer ones back in the corner. He was impaled, right through the pelvic girdle and assorted nether regions, possibly as deep as his diaphragm. He might still be alive, and he might be salvageable, given that the puddle of slime under him was mostly gut contents and only a liter or so of blood. Every tiny twitch caused excruciating agony, though, which caused him to twitch more. He was in so much pain he couldn't even scream, which probably reduced those twitches a bit. His breathing was very shallow but apneic. He'd been there ten minutes with his brain undoubtedly cauterized by the hormones, convulsions and neural torture. He'd need to be doped to the teeth, then extracted carefully to avoid bleeding out—some of those needles were possibly through his kidneys and inferior vena cava--reconstructed with nanos, all under massive amounts of drugs, then he'd need physical and psychological therapy.

    I trod lightly so as not to shake the poor bastard. I looked above him.

    The team intended to follow him had never made it. As they blew that hole down, Randall's explosives had blown up. I guessed the frag as razor blades and molecular wire debris. Through the entry hole, I could see two of them tossed and dead. The bottom third of those men was ground meat.

    The whole place smelled as if someone had cut loose with explosives in a slaughterhouse which, in effect, he had.

    Malcolm looked stunned and traumatized just by the emotional overload.

    I said, "You figure you know how to handle one old troop gone bad, eh?"

    He gasped for breath and words, finally strangled out, "How did you know?"

    "Because it's what I would have done."

    I walked off in disgust.

    I realized then that I'd leaned well into the room. Luckily that moaning, impaled thing had not been intended as bait for more. Apparently, Randall lacked the real killer instinct some of us have. Either that, or he'd been pressed for time.

    I was downstairs and outside before Malcolm caught up.

    He shouted, "Wait, you! You don't just get to walk out of here after my constables died."

    I said, "I wanted to talk to him, and take the risk myself, of de-escalating. Now I have to chase him."

    "The bloody hell you will on my planet."

    My only excuse is that I'd shifted into combat mode. Randall was nearby, and could easily kill more. If he saw me, he'd be smart to shoot me at once. I had nerves like naked wires a meter out from my skin, feeling for any hint of danger...and Malcolm grabbed my arm.

    I disentangled, pulled, pushed and he staggered and sprawled.

    At that point things got much worse, because I didn't want to fight his nervous, trigger-on-finger constables, running would create visibility and a scene, and standing still meant I could still get shot by Randall.

    I decided I was safest surrounded by arresting officers.

    Within a local hour I was back in the hoosegow, charged with assault, battery, resisting arrest, hindering an investigation, conspiracy and probably obscene acts with kittens. Luckily, Silver was observing and had bail ready, in cash, before they even processed me.

    It would have helped, if there hadn't been a stop order on my release, from far up the food chain.

    Another hour, as Randall fled, and was probably unfindable at this point, and I was escorted by plain uniformed men, all almost exactly 190cm tall, with firm builds. The only uniform was plain blue coats with clipped-on badges and no other marks. I thought I knew what that meant.

    It didn't seem possible, and was either very good or very bad. We entered a van with no windows. I wasn't restrained. I saw no reason to evade in the midst of traffic, though, with these men around me.

    I was invited out of the vehicle. That put us in a bay that led to a corridor with lovely lighting and fine carpets, then inside a cozy, wood-paneled office with a carved desk. The woman behind it wore a plain, elegant suit to match her elegant hair and features.

    "What exactly is your rank at this point, Operative Chinran?" she asked.

    I did the only thing I could. I bowed enough to be polite, and said, "Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty."

    The House Guards left, except for one in the corner. He barely betrayed nervousness at my presence.

    Annette had been Crown Princess the three times we'd met, first at a dinner followed by a diplomatic intel tete a tete, later after she was taken hostage and I and some of my goons blew up everything around her and barely chipped one of her teeth, in the process of killing the kidnappers. Her mother had died five years ago, now.

    "Please sit," she said, polite even when angry.

    "Thank you, ma'am," I said. I really didn't want to be here, but it might be useful, and I had to be diplomatic. I went with the program.

    "You're stalking one of your own, loose on my planet, and I don't even get a courtesy note from your Ambassador?" she asked, sounding miffed but reasonable, for now.

    "The Ambassador doesn't know, ma'am, and we'd much prefer to keep it that way."

    That raised her eyebrows.

    "I see," she said, and leaned back while taking a sip of tea. She waved a hand in offer, and I nodded and poured myself a cup. No servants for this matter, and I wouldn't insult her bodyguard by expecting him to. I'd be disgusted if he agreed.

    "Ma'am, I can't tell you much more than you already know. Someone is loose. Very dangerous. I have to stop them. No one can know. Any leaks will only hurt my efforts, not them."

    "I suppose that makes sense, and I'll help you with that matter. You do realize this is an international, intersystem incident, of course."

    "Yes, ma'am, and we'd like to limit it to one."

    "Should I order the ports closed?" she asked, reaching for a phone.

    "Please don't. Anything that indicates anything out of the ordinary will make it worse."

    "Very well," she agreed. I hope something can be done for the families of eighteen Tactical Response personnel."

    "I'm sure something can, ma'am, and it most certainly should be, but that's something the Ambassador will take care of, after orders from the Marshall. Unfortunately, I have to resolve this first."

    "So what do you need from me?"

    "Ma'am, you are most gracious under the circumstances. I need as little attention on me as possible, and to be able to move freely."

    "Will a Royal Warrant and appropriate ID assist in that? And access to any reports from investigations?"

    "Very much."

    "I'll have them issued at once. I want you to understand, though, that this is because I owe you my life, I believe you are honest, and most importantly, it seems the fastest way to resolve this. I advise you not to make things worse by abusing the privilege I'm about to grant you." Her expression was not challenging, but it was not friendly.

    "Ma'am, that's exactly how I take it, and I am very thankful. My goal is to resolve this quickly."

    "This will be scannable and text," she said. "I advise discretion in showing it. The media will ask questions. I'll have to publicly deny anything. I dislike that." She frowned slightly.

    I knew that. She knew that. I really had her worried. She'd seen us work up close, and now knew what could happen one on one, as well as the activities during the war. She wanted him and me out of her system as fast as possible.

    Then the phone chimed. She clicked it on. "Yes?"

    Someone said, "Your Majesty, Mister Rothman has just been killed by a rocket fired through his window."

    She closed her eyes, sighed and turned back.

    "That is most unfortunate. Please express Our condolences to his family. We are discussing responses right now, but We cannot furnish details."

    "Yes, Ma'am."

    She looked back at me.

    "So, should I close the ports now?" She leaned on her hand and stared through her fingers. Very unroyal. I deduced that meant I rated fairly highly on her list.

    "Ma'am, he could easily lie low here for months. Or, he'll just falsify identity and walk through."

    "We have a DNA trace."

    "There are ways to fake that, even in a star port. He hasn't so far because it's been useful to him."

    "You're sure? We both used it to locate him."

    "He wanted found. If I find him, the worst is that I die. If you find him…"

    "Yes, though I'd rather end this sooner, even at some loss." She sat up and sighed.

    "He'll be leaving. I'll get him shortly."

    "See that you do. This code," she passed over a laminated card, "will contact my immediate staff, should you need support."

    The audience was clearly over. I took a polite gulp of the tea, place the delicate cup carefully down, stood, bowed, and said, "Thank you for Your gracious help, Your Majesty. I'll finish this as quickly as I can, and only call if I need to."

    "Good day to you, Ken," she said, stood and offered her hand briefly.

    As I left, I realized she was one of a bare handful who knew my real last name and rating.

    At least the House Guards were a little more open on the return.

    "Where are we to take you, sir?" one of them asked.

    Ten minutes later I was at a train station three squares from the hotel, and ten minutes after that I was back in the room. I had all my possessions in hand, including the "stolen" gun. Interesting.

    At some point, I'd have to tell Her Majesty what contemptible scum existed in Her prison system. For now, I had more pressing matters.