Chapter Sixteen: I Am Gabriel

Chapter Sixteen: I Am Gabriel

            Cygni Twelve

            Port

            Cygni Twelve was famous as a mining settlement, to which its volcanic environment testified. Beneath the planet’s magma-veined surface, rich deposits of diamonds, rubies, and other precious metals could be found. The promise of these drew many individuals from all over the galaxy, which created a melting pot (though some called it a cesspool or yet more colorful things) of men and aliens mingling together. In between the cities, hardscrabble outposts had taken shape, using scavenged or repurposed environmental shield-and-filter technology to protect themselves from the unforgiving elements of the world. Chemical residue from mining operations had left the surface toxic to most travelers, as though the lava and mortar fish were not deterrents enough. The planet was home to a species of large black bird with thick, flame-retardant feathers, which faced a threat from below the coursing magma rivers. A species of large fish lurked beneath the molten rock, launching congealed balls of magma with lethal force into the air. Such projectiles mimicked the volcanic bombs that exploded from eruptions of an active volcano. The spaceport had similar environmental shielding to the other surface settlements, s good thing, as it was located close to an active volcano. It was into this spaceport that the refugee freighter pulled on that fateful day, carrying its latest shipment of fleeing citizens from the core. Although the core was the place of the greatest galactic wealth and power, it was also where the most decadence occurred, which drove many people from the Core. Such were these refugees, driven from their homes by the fear of the corruption of their society. As they began stepping off the ship, customs agents began optical scans to confirm their identities. Ruby stepped closer to Connor, her eyes darting from one agent to another.

            “Those scans…” she started.

            “Grey’s on it,” he replied. “He’ll see to it that we’re not found.” Connor paused for a minute, then added, “I hope.” In truth, he was not at all sure that the artificial intelligence could actually be able to falsify so many scanners at once. Still, he determined to trust his companion despite the misgivings, which proved a wise idea. After a few agonizing minutes, the customs officer waved their group through, and the duo stepped through the gates.

            “Any weapons or imported goods to declare?” An agent called. “Come on over here. We’ll register them for you.” Ruby gestured to Connor.

            “Come on,” she said. “There are metal detectors down the way, and we don’t want to get caught with these unregistered.” He nodded. Over at a computer monitor, a man was entering serial numbers and ticket information into a computer monitor for a large family with several children. One of them, a girl of about eight, looked up at Connor with big brown eyes, her face forming a shy smile. Connor was about to return the expression, but a memory ripped through his mind. The scorched air…the blood…the bodies…the whizz of bullets through the air and their ping off of metal…the impact in his ribs…then them…he could still see them as though they had been captured with an imager’s lens. Two bodies, one small, the other large, lying in pools of their own blood. While before the memory had given mere headaches, now he felt a surge of bile from his insides. He covered his mouth, and when he removed his hand, the expression on his face was bizarre, to say the least. Ruby watched this, an expression of shock and confusion on her face. While she currently said nothing, she made a mental not to ask him about that later. After an agonizingly long time, the customs officer waved the family forward and gestured for the duo to come up. Connor was first, putting up his newly modified assault rifles, electrified Escrima sticks, pistol, Khukri, bowie knife, and three different bandoliers of ammunition. After further investigation of the Justice, Connor had found a locker of modifications for an assault rifle, which he used to deck out his in all the latest toys. In addition to a holographic thermal-imaging site, he had also incorporated a self-propelled grenade launcher and a cluster-explosive shotgun attachment onto the gun. Ruby put her warp rifle up on the table, along with the HELLCAT pistol, a gift from Connor, and a combat knife. The officer stared at the weapons in disbelief.

            “Some of these are military-issue,” he said. “Are you guys ex-military?” Connor nodded.

            “Served a few places in my time. Scorpio was one of them,” the officer nodded.

            “Had a friend that served there,” the man told him. “Said it was like hell on earth.”

            “I don’t think hell could have been much worse,” Connor agreed. The officer was typing into the computer.

            “From the sound of it, yes.” The computer monitor beeped. “All right, everything’s in order.’ Twenty nodded, stowing the weaponry under his jacket, even the rifle. First, though, he checked and rechecked the safeties on the gun. Wouldn’t pay to have the thing blasting his rear end off, after all. Ruby did as well, and the officers looked at them. “There are hotels and places to stay in town if you want.” Ruby shook her head.

            “First things first. I need food.” The man nodded.

            “I can recommend a few places,” he said. “What are you in the mood for?”

            “How about something big?” She asked. “I need a lot.”

            “I know just where to go.”

            Cygni Twelve

            ICRF Depot

            Stefan was sitting at a computer monitor, putting his hands over his eyes. His head hurt, and it hurt badly. He and Natalie had been running algorithms and computer information over the past seven hours, and they hadn’t even left the computer room since they arrived on the planet. One of the technical assistants, Kurt Weismann, had even offered to help, but the duo declined. The new theory they were working on for the Ministry’s play against the ICRF involved a lot of technical work and circumstantial evidence, neither of which they felt comfortable sharing with their teammates, let alone someone they didn’t know.

            “This doesn’t make sense,” the Russian said finally. “All of the evidence suggests that these murders are being carried by only one person. But there’s no way one guy’s killing all these people, unless he’s…oh no.”

            “You think he might be one of the Clipsers?” Natalie asked.

            “He’d have to be,” Stefan muttered. “No other way he could actually have killed this many people in this many ways. Plus, it’d explain all the ridiculous stunts he pulled. But who…there’s no on he matches, and these disguises couldn’t have been executed without surgery.”

            “He didn’t use surgery,” she answered. “It’s holographic.” Stefan rolled his chair over to the holographic screen.

            “Say what?” He asked. “Can you strip it away?”

            “I can,” she answered, typing line after line of code. “Here…we…go…” the façade disappeared, revealing Twenty’s face. Stefan stared at the screen in disbelief. Holographic camouflage was hardly anything new to him; after all, he had dealt with all manner of disguises in counterintelligence. Rather, it was what the screen had been concealing that startled him.

            “That looks like…”

            “Spymaster,” she supplied. “But how would he have done something like this?”

            “He didn’t,” Stefan answered. “The face shape is wrong. It’s all wrong. This looks like him, but it’s not him.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh no.”

            “What?”

            “All the subjects from the Alpha Group were cloned, at least in part, from Circle members. But the only other Alpha…”

            “…was Ruin, right?” She asked. “So who is this guy?”

            Stefan put his head in his hands. “I don’t know. There’s no way any of them survived. Half a dozen had visceral organ failure, two had heart attacks, one’s limbs went necrotic…wait. Can you run a time check on radio signals in the area?”

            “Why?” She asked.

            “Division Four developed a…an explosive insurance policy for noncompliant agents with health issues. Did the Professor tell you what the frequency was? Did he even tell you about the vests at all?”

            “He did,” she said. “And he told me about the one that used to be in your head.” She began typing, accessing Venusian municipal frequencies. “Hmmm….yes. I see a sustained transmission that follows him from one area to the next. It looks like he might have a bomb in his head.”

            “Maybe, maybe not,” Stefan replied. “Either way, this guy is our man.”

            “Any trace of him in Ministry records?” Natalie asked. “I couldn’t find any.”

            “That’s because there isn’t,” the Russian answered. “It seems he worked incognito. There’s no evidence he was even alive except for the fact that Subject Twenty of Alpha Group’s record is more heavily redacted than the other seventeen subjects that died in the program.”

            “A more heavily redacted service record and some holograms don’t make a brainwashed killer.” Natalie sounded unconvinced, but she had a hunch that where he was going might be the right idea. “I f we find him, can we kill him? If he’s one of you, he won’t go down easy.” Stefan shook his head.

            “If he’s one of us, he might not go down at all.”

            Depot

            Dormitory Area

            Dani was sitting on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. Stefan was distant these days, and the amount of time he spent with Natalie didn’t help her perspective on the situation. In addition, Stefan seemed to be changing. Not in an easily quantifiable way, but still, he seemed…distant was not the right word. More like he had been emotionally removed from the situation. Tyler Kane, too, seemed disconcerted, though exactly why was unclear.

            “Dani.” The voice was Kurt Weismann’s. The technology expert had been monitoring the news feeds for the past month, trying to find anything additional on Anders, and it looked like he had news. “I found something.”

            The girl looked up, real hope filling her for the first time in months. “Really? What happened?”

            “That’s the bad news,” he told her. “Anders has been ordered executed in three months for treason, subversion, espionage, double agency, falsification of government documents, and a few other minor charges. The treason one pushed the court over the edge, though.”

            Dani felt her heart sink. Anders, like her or want to strangle her, brought the Ex-patriot team together, and further had provided them with everything they had. If it were not for Anders, she would still be a scared little pyromaniac in a forsaken corner of the universe.

            “Is she going to be executed in the prison?” She asked, feeling numb. In truth, Dan wanted to disbelieve everything that she was hearing, even though she knew it was true.

            “I don’t know,” Kurt said. “The government hasn’t decided on where she ought to die.”

            “Where are the other team members?” She asked.

            “All over the base,” he replied. “Do you want me to call them together?”

            She nodded. “In fact, call everyone in the base together. Let’s knock these morons for a loop.”

            Depot Barracks

            Arthur Brooks was busy in his room, though what he was doing would probably have drawn some stares. A complex array of pipettes and distilling containers spread across his workbench, and he periodically dipped his bullets in the chemical mixture in front of him. His attire was equally odd; he wore a special breathing mask, eye protection, and thick, non-absorbent gloves. This process actually made a lot of sense if one knew what to look for. In truth, he had made a customized blend of three different tranquilizing substances that he knew would knock almost anything out. Further, once it coated the bullet, it rapidly hardened, only to liquefy again when the weapon fired, allowing the mixture to directly enter the target’s bloodstream. Though a gifted sniper, Brooks often took offense to the thought of killing anything, even for food. His hunts did frequently end in the death of his quarry, but that was because he knew his siblings needed the food, not because he relished killing. This new mission, though, took on a different dynamic. Breaking Anders out of jail would entail a confrontation with the government, which in turn meant facing Special Crimes Unit offices and quite possibly Blackjack riot drones with full authorization to utilize lethal force. This required a tantamount response on his part, but the prospect was far from joyful. Especially given the fact that these were not mindless animals, but rather human beings, albeit ones intending to do the same to him. Further, what right did the ICRF have to dictate to him what was morally acceptable and what was not? What confidence did he have that these people telling him what to do were any better than the government they were fighting? These moral considerations had often bothered him; since joining the team, he had been called upon to do all manner of moral dubiousness. If this was what they asked of their agents in the name of defending the public good, could the government logically be any worse?

            “Arthur.” It was Psyn. Since their conversation a few weeks before, she had been spending more and more time with him, although why eluded him. Perhaps it was the telepathic connection she had established, perhaps it was simply the fact that they had simply discovered something between them. Either way, she sought his company, and he didn’t mind.

            “What can I do for you?” He asked, capping the tranquilizer mixture and putting his newest dipped bullet on a towel to dry.

            “It’s Dani,” she told him. “She wants everyone in their briefing room, stat. Plus, General Price is here.” A shiver went up Brooks’ spine. During his stay on Ceresia, Anders had described Price as ‘The only member of the ICRF tougher than me. Plus, he’s a bigger pain in your backside than anyone would believe.” That he would be here, now, for the express purpose of discussing Anders’ imprisonment, indicated just how serious things had become for the ICRF. He sighed.

            “And they’re briefing now?” He asked. Brooks didn’t want that to be the case; if they were already briefing, he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

            “Not right now,” she answered. “But soon. And it looks like there’s going to be a big announcement, too. Price isn’t the only heavyweight here.”

            “Great,” he muttered. “Just what we need. More bigwigs breathing down our necks.” The girl hesitated before she spoke.

            “Actually, they seem to be deferring to us. Letting us call the shots. Which is at least a promising sign.”

            Brooks nodded, undoing the apron and removing his safety gloves. Then, having taken of his facemask, he said, “Well then, maybe things are looking up after all.”

            Coordinates undisclosed

            The Premier was angry, which was never a good sign. But this time, he was royally upset, as the Bishop was learning. The man had already destroyed six artificial intelligences in brutal tactical battles, and he showed no sign of slowing down. The man, in truth, often vented his frustration in such fights, as they had been a thorn in his side for a long time. For six years, in fact, ever since Thirteen had beaten him in a ruthless combat. To put it in perspective, only the Premier’s mentor had defeated him in such a fight, and that three decades prior.

            “You’re upset,” the Bishop stated, in his slightly accented English. The Premier ignored him, his eyes riveted to the holographic battlefield rendering in front of him. “What happened?” A platoon of shimmering troops on the enemy’s side went down, followed by another. “Division Four had been in a tizzy for almost a month. Why?” That snapped the Premier out of his vicious reverie, dropping the headset he was wearing.

            “Twenty escaped,” he told the Bishop. The religious leader blinked, unsure how to process this. Twenty had served the Ministry faithfully for years, showing no sign of disciplinary aberrations until his defection. In fact, thanks to some creative brainwashing on the part of the Premier, he had not even been given the chance to rebel. However, his mental programming had to be deactivated after each mission. Otherwise, he would have been quite capable of and willing to slaughter everything in sight. Worse yet, the Premier had fine-tuned the vocal commands to work with his voice and cadence alone, meaning Twenty could not be stopped, except by him alone. The Bishop repeatedly warned that such a course of action was risky, and that in the event of Twenty’s revolt against his commands, there was absolutely no way to stop him.

            “So the brainwashing failed. I told you so,” he murmured. The Premier’s dark eyes narrowed.

            “It did not fail,” the other man countered. “It was not functional at the time, I fear. And there is a way we might feasibly have to get him back, if he hadn’t ditched the Justice.”

            “So you don’t know where he is?” The Bishop asked.

            “What’s more important is where he will be,” the Premier explained. “And I think I know where that might be.”

            “Do you indeed?” The Bishop queried, interested now. The Premier had always prided himself on his ability to analyze an enemy to predict their next move, and he often boasted that he could do it to anyone, no matter what they tried to hide from him.

            The Premier smiled coldly, that same chilling smile he had every time he destroyed an enemy. “I do. The District 12 prison on Anders’ execution day. He’ll be there, I guarantee it.”

            “What makes you think so?” His compatriot asked.

            “He objected quite strongly to her public execution, and I believe that his newfound resistance to our demands comes from a weakness for others. I think he wants to save her, to save lives in general, perhaps in atonement for his past. And that weakness will drive him out to face us as we take lives, and that will in turn provide us the confrontation we need to get control again.”

            “You mean reactivate his brainwashing? I thought…”

            “You thought I kept him under my control alone, and you were right. But I have override words in place for others in the event of such a contingency, which would then allow them to take temporary command. And I stress temporary, my friend. If he is not back in our hands within a week, he will be once again lost. And that is something we cannot afford.”

            “What are the words?” The Bishop asked.

            “That depends. How’s your Swedish?”

            Cygni VII

            Dragon’s Tale Bar

            Ruby looked at the walls, her eyebrows rising as she did. The room itself was not vast, but then, the building had looked like a glorified hole in the wall anyway.

            “I didn’t see that coming,” she whispered. Connor shook his head.

            “Just because the place is small doesn’t mean the food is bad,” he replied, his voice strangely soft. Then, he just went quiet; after all, he was busy eating. When the bartender had asked him what he wanted, he had responded “Bottom half, page two.” And, indeed, the waiter brought him heaping piles of everything, which he happily dug into. For her part, Ruby had simply ordered a bowl of chowder, which she had picked at all evening. She remained content to people-watch, something she found herself doing more and more these days. Ever since being rejected by the Ministry, she had been looking over her shoulder, wondering when they would send agents after them. Still, none of these types looked like Ministry agents; they were rough, unkempt, and simply, resembled Neanderthals. They had obviously had too much to drink, and one of them had started verbally abusing another person. Which was to say yelling in the man’s face and pushing him, which looked like it was about to turn into a fight. He turned, fully intending to get up and stop this before it escalated.

            “Leave it,” she whispered. “You don’t want to draw attention.” He shook his head.

            “I don’t care,” he answered, shaking her hand off. “I’m going to stop this.” Then, raising his voice, he growled, “That’s enough.” One of the men looked over, surprised that anyone had said anything. This man based on the way he was moving, had far more alcohol in his blood.

            “Or what, runt?” His voice, though slurred, exposed a cocksure demeanor that grated on Connor to no end. But he struggled to maintain his self-control

            “Or nothing,” Connor replied, his voice remarkably controlled. “You’re done and will leave this man be.” The other man looked at Connor, unsure what to say. Then, he decided that nothing at all would be best.

            The first man turned, his boots scraping the metal floor. “And if we say no?” Connor let his jacket drop from his shoulders, revealing the brown undershirt. In place of his scorcher gauntlets, he wore a simple set of reinforced gloves.

            “Then I’ll change your mind,” he replied, his voice losing their controlled mask. The man pulled his arm back and slammed his fist into Connor’s jaw. To his surprise, the man’s head barely moved. His hand, by contrast, cracked painfully, and he actually felt three of his knuckles break. As he cradled the injured limb, Connor reached out and grabbed the man by the neck. “How many things I have to break to do that is your decision. So, are we done?” The man wrenched free of his grip and swung again, though Connor sidestepped this blow and, extending his arm as the man went past, added just enough momentum to slam him into the wall. The man crashed against it and collapsed, stunned. One of his partners got up and swung at his gut, only for Connor to catch the punch.

            “Not good enough,” he admonished. “Please tell me you can do better.” The man swung again, but his enemy sidestepped, grabbed his head, and knocked it against the table. Not too hard, but just enough to set the man’s ears to ringing. The others at the table could do little more than sit and stare, their eyes wide. Connor looked from one of them to another.

            “Anyone else really want to fight? No takers? For the best, I suppose.” The bartender had come over, his face wrought with concern.

            “What happened?” He asked. “Who started this?” Connor shrugged.

            “Could you be a little more specific?”

            “The fight,” the man responded, putting his hands on his aproned hips.

            “Him,” the other witness replied, pointing to the unconscious thig on the floor. “Though it didn’t really go his way.” Connor smiled a little at that.

            “Helps to be sober,” he put in. The bartender knelt beside the man and rolled him over, then pulled back.

            “Oh yeah, he’s drunk. Jack, get in here. Leave the tramps!” He called, and a burly man came out of the back. “Haul this sack of trash out of here.” The man nodded wordlessly and picked up the dead weight, which he hauled out the door.

            “Sorry,” the bartender said, turning back to them. “They come in here all the time and raise Cain. Thanks for doing Jack’s job for him. He was busy chasing the squatters out of the alley behind here. They leave the place an awful mess.” Connor shook his head.

            “Don’t thank me,” he responded. “He had it coming.” And with that, he sat back down. The bartender shrugged and went back into the kitchen, he said to do dishes. Several minutes after the fight, someone came over and sat beside Connor. He turned to see an older man with greying hair and beard, wearing what looked like miner’s gear.

            “Is this seat taken?” The man asked. His voice was deep, but not grating like Connor’s was.

            “Is now,” Ruby piped up from beside him. The bartender had come back out and he looked at the new arrival.

            “What’re you having, preacher?” The man shrugged.

            “I’m just here to pick up my things, Daryl.” The bartender nodded.

            “I’ll get them from the back. Have a nice trip,” he said, ducking through the kitchen door. Connor raised an eyebrow.

            “Preacher?” He echoed. The man laughed.

            “That’s what they call me around here,” he told them, “though it isn’t my name. That’s Eli Gabriel. I’m heading out to Aster Station tomorrow with some friends; that’s why I’m here.”

            “Ah.” Connor looked down at his food, wondering how to ask what he was thinking. “Is this an actual mining venture?” Eli nodded.

            “It is. By the way, saw Jack dumping your mess on the curb. Nice work. Jack you didn’t even hit him.” The other man smiled.

            “The wall did that for me,” he responded.

            “That’s interesting. Would you two be interested in tagging along? The work’s good, and the pay’s enough to live on.” Connor looked at Ruby. What do I say? He asked. She grinned at Eli.

            “Yes,” she replied. “When are you leaving?”

            Conference Room

            ICRF Depot

            General Price stood in front of the video monitor, the expression on his face more tense than usual.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, I think the situation is clear enough to dispense with the formality of announcing it. Anders is in prison. She’s a potentially high-risk leak, and we can’t allow the government to gain any knowledge of us they don’t already have. Anders created a black ops strike team before her capture, and they’ve joined us here. However, I don’t think the strike team would prove sufficient for this task, and so I recommend a larger strike force.”

            “A strike force for what?” One of the other cell generals asked. “We can’t seriously be considering breaking into that prison.”

            “You are aware we really don’t have any other option,” Price lectured. “She cannot be allowed to be interrogated, or, if she is, the information cannot be permitted to leave that prison.”

            “You want us to extract her?” Dani asked, curious.

            “If you can,” Price told her. “The execution would be the best time to strike.”

            “Why?” Stefan queried. “What’s so special about then? Is security supposed to be more lax or something?”

            “No,” Price responded. “That’s in case we need to enact plan B.”

            “Which is?” Another cell leader asked.

            “If Anders can’t be saved,” Price said heavily, “then she’s far to dangerous of an asset to allow to fall into the wrong hands. If we can't save her, if there's really no other option...she has to die.”