The loop train took them to Mexico City followed by Rio, down to Buenos Aires and then over the ocean to Sydney. A Directorate helicopter was sitting on the station security division pad, rotors spinning idly.
Paula and Christabel started putting on their armour as it lifted into the dark sky cloaking the city. Nelson watched enviously.
‘If you do need back-up…’ he said.
‘Then the city police will be happy to provide it,’ Paula said.
He sighed and gave up.
The ancient harbour bridge was illuminated in orange and blue holographic outlines as they flew in parallel to it. A wall of skyscrapers punctured the cityscape behind Circular Quay, their surface illuminations throwing cold monochrome light down onto the deserted night-time streets below. They landed on the roof of the fifty-storey Wilkinson Tower. Five of the Directorate’s tactical team were waiting for them.
‘Stay here,’ Paula ordered Nelson as she hopped down onto the roof.
Dimitros Fiech’s apartment was on the thirteenth floor, looking inland. The Directorate team were evacuating the residents above and below.
‘Fiech is a legend,’ Christabel said as the lift opened on the thirteenth floor. Three tactical team members were waiting for them, dressed in black armour and holding big ion pistols.
‘Basker validates an eighteen-month employment record with Colliac Fak, Fiech’s CV and general background are false. It’ll withstand a standard employment agency search, but our RI burned right through it. Records were inserted, referees are false. He’s a genuine undercover agent for someone all right.’
‘Thanks,’ Paula said. Her red virtual finger touched a communication icon, opening a secure link to the tactical team. ‘Be aware, we confirm target is hostile. He has access to weapons, and does not hesitate to open fire. Civilians are not safe. Squad sergeant?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Can you immobilize him?’
‘We’ve got a nerve jangler drone, but we’ll have to blow the door open to get it in there. We don’t know if it’s reinforced.’
‘Has he rigged the approach?’
‘No sensors detected in the corridor.’
‘All right, let’s go. Be careful.’ Paula called up feeds from the cameras on the suits of the entry team. Seeing jerky images of the corridor as they hurried along. The wooden door to Fiech’s apartment was painted a dull green. They gathered round it and quickly rolled an explosive tape along the edges. One camera showed the drone being held ready, a small triangle of grey plastic.
‘Go!’ the squad sergeant ordered.
The explosive tape detonated, shattering the wooden door. The remnants crashed inwards. Suit sensors went active, cutting through the smoke and dust, producing a sharp black and white image. The drone streaked in. Icons blinked green and amber, showing the nerve jangler field was active. Theoretically it would stun Fiech’s nervous system, giving the team time to get in and cover him before he could go for any weapons. Unless he was ready and protected.
The icons turned blue and the entry team charged in. Fiech was sprawled on a couch in the living room, still wearing the yellow shirt Paula had seen through so many camera images. His head was flung back, hanging over the edge of the cushions as his limbs shook from the aftermath of the jangle. Drool leaked out of his gaping mouth.
Paula was running down the corridor, turning the corner. The wreckage of the door was in front of her. Four more team members were charging through it into the apartment. She followed them in. Fiech was still spread out across the couch. One of the suited figures was pressing an ion pistol to his temple. The second was providing cover. The remainder spread out through the apartment, guns held ready, sensors on full power, scanning ahead.
‘Clear,’ the squad sergeant called.
Fiech was given a full deep scan. His body had a few inserts and a couple of OCtattoos, simple unisphere interfaces and a standard memorycell, none of them combat grade. They turned him over and secured his wrists. Two ion pistols remained trained on him. He was white and shaking now, on the verge of vomiting.
Paula removed her helmet, shaking out her hair. Fiech gave her a terrified stare.
‘It’s going to be rough on you,’ Paula said. ‘Even if you cooperate, memory reading is never pleasant. But if you give us the names and structure of your movement we can keep it to a minimum. We’ll just verify your information. Trust me, it’s worth it.’
Fiech started sobbing, tears tricking down his cheeks. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ he wailed. ‘What is going on?’
Paula gave him a contemptuous look. She’d expected more professionalism. ‘Take him down to the office. Prep him for a memory read. I’ll run it myself.’
A whimpering Fiech was dragged past her. Christabel came into the apartment, taking her helmet off to look round. ‘I’ll get forensics in, rip this place apart.’
‘Sure.’ A formality, Paula knew. The apartment was part of his cover, it’d be clean.
‘Hell of a first day back, boss. What are you going to do tomorrow?’
WHAT I KNOW HAPPENED
I was up early that morning, just like bloody always these days. Damn company is squeezing its staff to husks, always raising our performance targets. You can’t keep doing that year after year, people can only do so much.
Anyway… the first wave of commuters was buzzing about on the streets when I left the tower lobby. Poor bastards. Just like me. Squeezed on all sides. You can see it in their null expressions. All that effort and angst etched into their faces, and it was only five past seven.
I walked down O’Connal Street to the underground metro station. It’s steep ground just behind Sydney harbour, and the skyscrapers are so high you don’t see sunlight that time of the morning. Some of my fellow sufferers were gulping down Bean There coffee from plastic cups. I hate that. Food on the run gives me really bad indigestion.
The metro station has a direct line to the CST station on the south side of the city. It took eleven minutes. Three longer than usual. Every bugger is conspiring to make my life worse.
I missed the first train to Wessex. Typical. So I waited on the big platform, with its white wing roof. Me and two hundred others. Time was I used to be excited just being in CST’s Sydney station. Think of it. Out there past the end of the platform there’s eighteen wormhole generators, each one with tracks leading to a different phase one world. One line goes to Wessex, the junction to phase two space, with another twelve worlds beyond that. They’re going to open five more in the next three years. All that opportunity, the potential out there, and what does my life amount to? Bugger all. Corporate drone, that’s me. Worlds aren’t new starts and fresh hope, all that crap in the brochures. I’ve been to all of them. They’re just more developments that I’ve got to flog Colliac Fak’s bloody software to. We’re covering every H-congruous planet in the galaxy with concrete; building little nests with a window we can look at the neighbouring squalid skyscraper with. Yeah, we’re a really progressive species, us humans.
So I got the next train to Wessex. Standard class coach, and I just managed to grab a seat next to a window. Beat some woman to it, who looked real pissed at me when I slipped in ahead of her.
The Wessex station made its Sydney cousin look small. Three big passenger terminals with gold and scarlet
