Rogue-ARC Read online

  I got her a lemonade and a seat, and pondered. He was military. Had to be. There’d been no hesitation in him taking command, no dispute from the Safety officers, his description was detailed, complete, and brief, and he spoke Mtali dialectic Turkish without trouble. That was an old conflict. He must have been a young enlistee and gone straight there.

  In less than ten segs, everyone was back, with a crying little lost boy in tow. He was unharmed, and threw himself on his weeping mother. Dan translated as a report was made, and kept reassuring her and refusing her offer of a reward. I was surprised to see Chelsea throw in a few words. That’s right, I recalled, she’d recognized the language and run for a translator.

  Ordinarily, the better you know someone, the easier it is to figure him or her out. With Chelsea and even more with Dan, the more I knew, the more confusing they were. Kids are talkative and boastful. Not her. Not a word about her personal life ever. I thought I was close to the family, close enough to know there wasn’t anyone else. And I knew almost nothing.

  ***

  Chelsea developed much like any normal adolescent. She pulled a few dumb stunts from rebellious hormonal exuberance. She came by with the usual boyfriends and occasional girlfriends until she decided she preferred boys. She worked hard, occasionally begging a schedule change for a concert or to go dancing—she still loved dancing.

  ***

  Now, it wasn’t common before the War, or now, but we had occasional violence during the aftermath. That had all ended after only a couple of years, however, so I was stunned one day when four kids came traipsing in the door, pulled out guns and demanded money and jewelry. It’s just not done here, and I was in shock. I was also unarmed. I mean, I usually go to the bank armed, but daytime? In my own restaurant?

  What I’m about to relay burned itself into my memory. It was unforgettable and staggering. And if anyone doubts it, there are witnesses to corroborate, and lots of them. Here’s what happened:

  Chelsea was near one of the punks, and moved like a leopard. She bent his gun wrist back on itself, kicked his ankle while leaning into him, and stepped forward. Her left foot ground his left arm into the floor, and her right was behind his head. His right elbow was braced against her thigh and she still held his wrist. He must have had a fantastic view right up her skirt, and an equally fantastic view down the barrel of his gun, now in her left hand. It was about two centimeters from his right eyeball.

  She was fast, but Dan . . . Dan was a striking snake. It simply isn’t possible to move that fast, only he did. By the time I turned to see what he was doing, the robber nearest him had Dan’s instep behind his head and the other toe in his guts. Dan was horizontal, turned in midair, and drove his heel straight back into the guy’s head. I could hear the neck snap.

  He landed on his hands, rolled behind a table, jumped forward into an arch, and snagged the fallen gun with his right hand. His left fingertips barely brushed the doorsill, and he was rolling, onto knuckles, wrist, elbow, shoulder, and back. His right foot was almost at his buttocks, and he landed flat on it, sprang upright onto his left and fired twice at the two remaining kids, now running down the street. He fired twice more as he flipped over a car and landed in a crouch next to a van. The gun waved in a motion that seemed to cover the entire sphere of space around him, then he teleported back inside in a hop. He landed on his right shoulder, and the gun panned from near left to far right corners as he rose, then down in a smooth arc to the left and toward Chelsea’s captive. It might have been five seconds. His jacket had an abrasion through it and some burned skin showed, but he wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Then he burst into sweats and shakes and flushed red. His breath panted and his eyes dilated. I thought it was some kind of seizure. He laid the gun carefully on the counter, dropped down, and began doing pushups. Chelsea shook her head at me as I started to move, then spoke to him. “Are you allright, Dad?”

  “Yes,” he grunted in between pushups.

  “CNS reaction?”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  She remained standing, and I figured if they knew what was happening, I should just stay out of it.

  City Safety was there seconds later. The kids’ guns were outsystem trash, unsuppressed, and the loud roars had brought a lot of response.

  Chelsea told her story, I told mine. They bundled up the surviving punk to hold him for trial and one of the officers looked down at Dan. He squinted slightly, nodded, and looked at Chelsea.

  “Combat NeuroStimulant?” he asked her.

  “Yes it is,” she confirmed.

  “What unit?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  The Safety Officer knelt down next to Dan and began speaking. They mumbled back and forth for several segs, while Dan probably passed the two-hundred mark on pushups. I was beginning to understand.

  I’d seen documentaries. Some of the Special Warfare soldiers have an implant for use in combat. It releases endorphins, sugars, oxygenating molecules, and synthetic adrenaline. The end result is a trained soldier with half the response time and twice the speed and strength of anyone else. That explained his speed. But if one stopped operating before the compound burned out, it created tremendous stress on the body. That explained the pushups. He was burning off enough energy for six normal people. And if I’d known for certain he was a vet eight years before, Chelsea would have had free room and board for the duration of her juvenile life without question.

  The Safety Officer was getting louder. “Sir, I don’t really care about that. I have orders to report this person’s location if he is ever spotted. I need to know if that’s you.”

  Dan dragged his legs under him, drank in seconds a full glass of water Chelsea handed him, and sighed. “Yes, I am,” he admitted. He looked sad, angry, dejected and disgusted all at once.

  The SO stood up. “And that’s all I needed, sir. If you are okay, and the witnesses agree, then we’ll have the bodies removed and that’s it. Please call if you need anything, Captain.” He saluted as he left.

  Special Warfare. Most of them died during the War. In the process, a few hundred of them took tens of thousands of enemy troops and six billion Earthies with them. Dan was one of the best trained killers in the galaxy. Yet he was the gentlest man I know.

  Except that he’d just killed three men in five seconds with no hesitation.

  He was upright now, and looked calmer if still sweaty. We stared at each other at length, and he finally spoke. “Boost takes a lot out of me.”

  “Is that the minimum dosage?” I asked. His breathing was almost normal now.

  “It’s a one-shot mechanism, and it’s not intended for surprise response,” he said. I looked puzzled and he explained. “Boost is used primarily as an offensive enhancement. Upon preparing to initiate hostilities, it adds an additional force factor, and is especially of psychological use, since it creates an overwhelming relative power factor against an opponent. It doesn’t work quickly. There’s about a five second lag.”

  Got it. He’d triggered it as the fight started, and it was over by the time he reached full speed. Then I did a double take—he’d been unenhanced during the fight. Just how fast was this guy when enhanced? How fast had he been during the War when younger, in regular training, and “boosted”? No wonder there were almost mythical stories about our Special Warfare people.

  “Is it time to talk yet?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I organized and trained the Earth mission troops,” he said. “I used every resource I could get, and stole what I couldn’t. Those were the best troops ever trained, no exceptions. We did what we had to do, because the choice was to let our society be destroyed. Some people seem to think that makes it easier.”

  “At least you were face-to-face,” I said. “Didn’t that help? I understand the bombardment controllers—”

  I should have kept my mouth shut and listened. He came out of his chair. “Bombardment zeros!” he snapped. “They pushed buttons and saw flashes. I had t
o look at people as I went in, knowing they were about to die. I had to look at them as I left. I had to watch the local news for comfirmatory intelligence as they tore each other to pieces over scraps of food, torched their own homes, ran screaming in terror knowing no one locally could save them, and we weren’t going to. I watched children—” his hand waved in the general direction of Chelsea, who was sipping tea a couple of meters away. This seemed familiar to her “—scream and die. Then I had to document it.” He was silent. So was I.

  He mumbled, almost into space, “Somewhere in the docs is a picture of a little girl, who looks just about like Chelsea did right after I came home. It was all over the news loads. I remember the kid; I saw her as I blew a water-pumping station in Minneapolis. There she was, dead from smoke inhalation, because there was no water available. It was a job, I had to do it, so I did.

  “Then I had to come home and look at my daughter, and wonder if her parents, if they survived, hated me as much as I hated the bastards who killed Deni.”

  I wanted to ask if he felt any different because his actions were technically justifiable, but I’ll admit I was afraid. He saw it, too.

  “Can’t talk to me now that I’m a killer, can you, Andre?” He had a disgusted, knowing grin on his face.

  “Once I get used to it,” I said, as firmly as I could. “The resistance people I sheltered had their own share of grief, but I knew about theirs ten years ago.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. I’ve done enough talking for now. I have things to do.” He stood and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Captain,” I said. He stopped.

  “Dan,” he corrected me, without turning.

  “Dan, then,” I said. He faced me half over his shoulder.

  “You and Chelsea saved my life, and my customers. Thanks.”

  He nodded and left.

  CHAPTER 1

  The next morning, there were two men waiting when I opened. They were clean cut, well-dressed, and didn’t register as a threat.

  “Gentlemen,” I nodded.

  One replied, “Hello. You are Andre?”

  “I am.”

  He brought out ID and I choked.

  Naumann, Alan D, Marshal, Freehold Military Forces. Image. Code.

  I looked up, and he said, “I’m discreetly trying to locate a certain veteran, going by the name of Dan, who was here yesterday.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Well, sir,” I said, “with respect to you, that’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss.”

  I waited for a nuke.

  Instead, he said, “Fair enough. May we purchase food, and wait?”

  “By all means,” I said, completely blindsided.

  Okay, so the number one man in our military, who was responsible for us surviving and winning the war, wanted to talk to a friend of mine, who apparently was the reason half of Earth blew up, who had then disappeared for a decade. For some reason, I didn’t want to be in the middle of this meeting.

  Naumann and the man I presumed was his bodyguard sat down in a booth where they could see the door but not be seen easily, selected easy-to-prepare stuff—a grilled salami sandwich and an anchovy focaccia—and sat. They ate slowly and seemed completely at ease.

  They talked little. They were there when the lunch crowd started filling the place, and requested juice shakes after a while.

  I clicked my phone on, and I know they saw me do it, but they didn’t seem disposed to any kind of action. Dan answered on the second buzz.

  “Dan’s Machine and Tool.”

  “This is Andre. There’s someone waiting here to meet you.”

  “. . . yes?”

  “The Marshal.”

  I heard him sigh, before he said, “Thanks.” He disconnected before I could say anything.

  I was pretty sure he didn’t want to make this meeting.

  ***

  I really didn’t want to make that meeting.

  It had been a decade since I came home, as much home as any place could be, and I wanted nothing to do with the military at all. Especially not with that rat faced dogfucker who’d used me as a lead pipe.

  But, my good deed of yesterday, if it could be called that, had left three dumb bastards dead, and my cover fragmented into orbit.

  It was my fault. If Chelsea hadn’t been there, I’d probably have sat back and ignored it. Andre has insurance, and it’s not as if they’d have made it far anyway. But when that gun swept my daughter, I went into combat mode.

  Still, there wasn’t much else to do, except go face Naumann and tell him what I thought. It’s not as if he could actually do anything to me.

  I’d be damned if I was going to dress up, though. I did the courtesy of washing the assorted coolant, solvent and grease off my hands, and headed across the street in work pants and a shirt. I did check my gun first. Not that I thought it would do me any good.

  Traffic control in this area is supposed to be managed by the city’s system. They’ve set it to stop-and-go traffic, to improve stop-by business, so the theory goes. No one really wants to stop in an industrial area near the port, unless they already have business. But it meant I was across the street fast, just under some clown who decided to go airborne in lieu of waiting for a signal.

  I hadn’t formulated any kind of response before I was walking into Andre’s place. The usual lunch crowd was there. A couple of them nodded to me, and I nodded back, perfectly relaxed on the outside. Acting is part of my job. Was.

  I stepped over and slid into the booth. Yes, it was Naumann. A little older, but remarkably well kept. Killing billions of people didn’t really bother someone like him.

  “You wanted to see me,” I said.

  “I’d prefer to discuss business in private.”

  Well, that was direct.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I stood, faced them and started talking about nothing. I turned, indicated the door, and walked ahead. Outside, we spread slightly, and they followed me across traffic. I glanced about for any obvious tails, and noticed they did the same.

  Then I gritted my teeth. It was frightening how automatic that training was. I kept situational awareness for myself, certainly, but here I was falling back into team mentality, for someone I despised beyond loathing.

  The door recognized me and opened, and the sign blinked from “LUNCH” to “OPERATING.” I left it like that, not that I expected a lot of traffic on a Berday afternoon.

  I knew the bastard wanted something military. If he wanted my remaining contract time he could get pronged. I didn’t think he’d make a public issue of it, for security reasons. If he wanted debriefed, I’d done that via post, and had nothing more to add. Whatever he was here for, I wanted to get it over with. That part of my life wasn’t one I cared for.

  His guard was just far enough back to give an indication of tété a tete, but with a hint of thug if anything happened. Not that I planned on anything, but I assessed him. He was like me a decade ago. I could probably take him if I had to, but I couldn’t take both. Unless I was suicidal.

  He probably shouldn’t test that, so I confirmed mentally that this was a peaceful meeting, and leaned against a stock rack.

  “So what do you want, Naumann?” I deliberately didn’t use his rank.

  He looked a little dazed as he spoke.

  “I need you to track down Kimbo Randall, your man from the Earth mission.”

  Uh? “He’s dead. They all died.”

  He shook his head. “No, he’s alive. So are twenty-two others.”

  For some reason I didn’t find that to be good news.

  “How?”

  “The same way you did, only most of them IDed themselves when they came back.”

  Damn. I felt . . . mixed. Twenty-three alive. But 176 dead. Our system saved with only a few million casualties. Earth destroyed as a power with six billion dead. All the anguish and soul searching came back and I had to fight it. I’d done it. My plan, my orders, my implementation. I’d k
illed more people than any monster in history.

  The HQ got attacked while I was out doing recon, though . . . or at least I call it recon. I was out going insane and trying to force myself to come to terms with it, when the UN forces attacked and killed my element . . .

  I said, “I saw corpses come out, but didn’t know which were which.”

  He nodded. “Randall survived. So did others. Most of them retired quietly when offered the choice. A couple served out their terms. Randall reported in, debriefed, took his back pay and disappeared.”

  He looked uncomfortable as he continued, “He’s been conducting assassinations. We only knew it was one of ours, not who, until we got a tiny scrape of DNA. I should say we stole it. Novaja Rossia doesn’t know.”

  “He’s been killing people for ten years?”

  “About eight, and he’s picked up the pace. About one a month. You trained him, you can stop him. I don’t know that anyone else can.”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation.

  “I trained him to wipe out cities. Assassination is your problem.”

  “I need you,” he said. He wasn’t pleading, he was stating a fact.

  “To fix another mess for you.”

  He shrugged. “If you want to look at it that way, I don’t mind.”

  I remembered this. He was the fucking sociopath. He could blithely demand a city be wiped out and not be bothered by it. He manipulated people, used people, and he got away with it because he used them effectively and sparingly. Completely, coldheartedly logical, without any compassion in him. He rewarded people not because he cared, but because it created the mindset he wanted in them.

  I’d mulled all this over years before. Why me?

  Because I’m a nice guy. I don’t even step on spiders. He groomed me and polished me to be his tool. You don’t send a sociopath to kill, because he will enjoy it. You don’t send one to infiltrate, because you won’t have any hold over him if he goes native, and he just might, if he thinks he can get ahead better. Earth had the oldest, most corrupt government in humanity. A sociopath could have gotten along with bribes and threats, and might either have not followed through, or followed through to gleefully and blown it all.