EVE®: Templar One (39 page)

Mens would have strangled him if he could.
The Providence began a lumbering turn toward the next stargate, some fifty-seven AUs away.

“Your comms aren’t routing through the gates,” Rali said.
“We’re on a secure fluid router.
And to Amarr Customs, your IDENT tags read as belonging to Holder Laurus Fahyed, a reclusive historian and avid collector of antique war vehicles.”

The technology that Rali could throw together on a moment’s notice would impress even the craftiest starship engineer.
As always, Mens didn’t know the details of exactly how he was going to locate a single ship in an area the size of a cubic light-year.
He just knew Rali would figure out the best solution, and that would have to be enough.

“Holder Fahyed’s profession gives you good reason to be in the New Eden system,” Rali continued.
“Your cargo bays are loaded with random junk and about two hundred decommissioned Wiyrkomi ‘Corsair’ fighter-bombers from the first Caldari-Gallente War, which won’t raise much suspicion since they’re packaged and stowed.”

Dozens of gold-plated ships of all different sizes were coming and going through the stargate; the space lanes were bustling with traffic.
Mens felt uncomfortably out of place here.
Amarr space was spectacularly vibrant.
For some reason, it also struck him as deceptively sinister.

“When you reach New Eden, a series of navpoints will register on your scanner.
These are references for your drive computer to plot warp tracks.
I hope you’re prepared for a long trip: There are more than six hundred of them, and each one is at least a one-hundred-AU warp.
All told, you’re taking the scenic route through a light-year of space.”

“Shit, Rali, it’ll take—”

“Your freighter is equipped with a prototype Propel Dynamics warp engine.
I’ve set it so you can’t fully open her up until you reach New Eden, but it allegedly averages twenty-five AUs per second, with a minimum ninety-second cooldown between hops.
That’s nearly twice as fast as the next best ship in the cluster.
At least, that I know of.”

“Twenty-five AUs?”
Mens said.
“How the heck did you—”

“Don’t thank me yet, because technically you’re a test pilot.
Propel Dynamics needs the stress metrics, and you’re going to beat the hell out of that drive for them.
Unfortunately, there’s no warranty if it happens to go nova on you midflight.”

“That’s reassuring,” Mens grumbled.
“Where’d you get the nav data?”

“Federation Navy archives, minimal security clearance.
It was a simple hack.”

“Brilliant.”

“Thanks.
Once you’re a light-year closer to Point Genesis, those junked Corsairs will spring to life,” Rali continued.
“Those are state-of-the-art APEX-Eleven warp-capable frontier drones in disguise, all with entangled comms, enough of them to work a border-zone sector.
They’ll break into their preset search patterns, working toward Point Genesis and broadcasting your contact data to the
Significance.
”

“How long will it take?”

“Anywhere from a few minutes to never.
If that ship doesn’t want to be found, we just won’t find it.
They’ll see us coming from far away.
Its captain probably dropped sensor buoys years ago.
We’re not sneaking up on it.”

Mens considered for the thousandth time that this was all just another one of Haatakan’s jaded, twisted antics.

“Is our side of the bargain secured?”
Mens asked.

“You mean our role in the assassination of a head of state?”

“Yeah,” Mens grimaced.
“That.”

“A very good Ishukone pilot with good Ishukone equipment is standing by.
The cargo is due in just a few hours.
He doesn’t know anything.”

Mens wondered if he knew who it was, then decided it was probably better he didn’t.

“What did all this cost us, Rali?”

“A lot,” Rali grimaced.
“Those APEX birds alone cost half a billion each.
It’s going to take some creative accounting to explain this to the board of directors.”

“Seriously,” Mens asked, “do you think this is worth it?”

Rali reflected a moment.
“All we have is hope, our convictions, and the word of a sadist.…” He paused, then added: “I love our odds.
We’ve got Heth
right
where we want him.”

Mens smiled.

“You’re a good man,” he said.
“Thank you.”

“One more thing,” Rali said.
“If you are stopped before reaching New Eden, for any reason, self-destruct.
You
cannot
get caught with that cargo.”

“Understood,” Mens said.
“Has Mila contacted you with more information?”

Despite all the pressure of Ishukone, all the danger posed by Tibus Heth, and all the risks he was taking to mitigate both, the sad truth was that he hadn’t been able to get Mila off his mind.
For a moment, Lorin and Amile seemed secondary.
What began as something he thought he could ignore had metastasized into a potentially crippling obsession.

It was highly uncharacteristic of him, and that made him nervous.

“No,” Rali said.
“But I would imagine she’d just call you directly.”

“Is that a bad thing?”
Mens asked.

“Well.
It’s not good for everyone.
You know better than most that doing the right thing is usually difficult.
Call if you need me.”

Rali signed off as the freighter lurched into warp.
The New Eden system was twenty jumps away.

HEIMATAR REGION—HED CONSTELLATION

AMAMAKE SYSTEM—PLANET II: PIKE’S LANDING

THIRTY KILOMETERS SE OF CORE FREEDOM COLONY—BADLANDS GRID

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Garrett was seething with frustration but wouldn’t allow it to bubble through to his comrades.

“Sarge, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what the hell this material is,” Corporal Tines reported.
“I’ve tried plasma torches, explosives.… I think we need a damn starship cannon to punch through.”

It was embarrassing.
What was supposed to be a classic breach-and-clear on a gunship—something they’d done a thousand times—instead turned into an hour’s worth of messing around trying to find a way to break in.
They’d made it as far as disabling its cloaking system, but that was it.
Specialist Flaherty was equipped with cyphering implants—cutting-edge stuff that could hack third-generation AIs—but wasn’t having any luck, either.

“This is some kind of hull-repair tech,” Corporal Tines continued.
“Same as starships, but a lot smarter and faster.”

The gunship, about forty meters long, twenty meters wide, and six meters high, had aerodynamic contours along the wingspan that blended into bulging nacelles where the plasma thrusters were housed.
The fuselage material was light gray; some seams were evident, but it almost appeared as though most of it was built from one continuous piece.
There were no serial markings or insignia of any kind.

Most disturbingly, the surface felt wet to the touch, even though it was clearly bone dry.

“Can you get some shaped charges up there?”
Garrett asked, pointing to the engine nacelle.
“If that doesn’t work, I’m asking command if we can just blow it up with the Kruk’s cannons.”

“Yeah, but let me go around to the other side,” Tines said.
“I can use the rocks to climb up.”

“I’ll go with you,” Corporal Evans said.

“Sarge, I gotta put her down to save fuel,” the pilot said.
“Found a good spot about half a klick from you.
I’ll keep her on standby in case we need to get airborne in a hurry.”

“Okay, do it,” Garrett said.

It was still dark, and the valley—what little he could see of it—was brimming with life.
The desert landscape had sparse vegetation, but he swore he could hear running water from somewhere.
Odd sounds—slithers, rustles, clicks, and chirps—created an ambience that was equal parts beautiful and intimidating.
You never knew if a life-form’s sound was a tiny thing’s defensive measure or a big thing’s way of drawing you in closer for a meal.

As Evans and Tines disappeared around the engine’s tail, Specialist Flaherty tried to jack into the ship’s network again.
He settled into his trance, resting his hands on the surface of the gunship, his eyes glowing slightly.
He could “hear” electrical systems humming on the inside; he just needed to follow one to the feed supplying its network core inside.

Out of habit, Garrett raised his rifle to scan the area through his scope.
And the moment he did so, his heart stopped: The rangefinder was dead and so was the rifle itself.
When he glanced over at Flaherty, the specialist was convulsing, apparently having a seizure.

The radio was silent, and all their electronics were dead.

“EMP!”
he shouted.
“Melee weapons!”

Few things in life are more useless than firearms that don’t shoot.
In basic training, cadets are taught to immediately discard weapons and equipment that relied on electricity following an EMP strike.
That ruled out plasma rifles, most beam weapons, communications gear, and the optics on any scopes.
If you were prepared for the strike, you were equipped with a legacy chemical-explosive or nanolever spring-action firearm, and short of those, a combat knife.

The 626 was prepared.
They even had hardened weapons that could withstand lower yield pulses.

Garrett crouched low, hands wrapped tight around his combat knife and pistol.
Specialist Flaherty was dead; he was fitted with dozens of cerebral and spinal implants, and the circuitry was integrated with his nervous system.
He had literally been cooked from the inside out.

Something moved across the shadows near the top of the gunship; he tracked it with his sidearm but did not shoot, fearful it could be Corporal Tines.

Four silenced shots—he could hear the suppressed
chewt
sounds as they left the barrel—were fired in quick succession.
There was a cry—like someone in pain—and then silence.

The EMP burst had to originate from the gunship,
Garret thought.

He heard something heavy land on the ground behind him.
Whirling around with his weapons raised, he saw it was Corporal Evans’s corpse.

Diversion, he knew.
The real attack was coming from behind—and he stepped aside just in time as a fist glanced against his helmet; he dropped and rolled away, expecting to turn and pull the trigger.

When he came out of his tuck, he realized the gun had somehow been removed from his grip.
His attacker—whom he could only make out as a female silhouette—casually stood across from him, holding the weapon in her hands.
But instead of shooting, she merely removed the clip, cleaned the barrel, and tossed the parts off into the darkness.

It was a challenge, and Garrett still had his knife.

He launched himself at the shadow, faster than a man his size should have been able to.
He was cybernetically modified, both stronger and quicker than most.
His target was the shadow’s midsection, aiming a lightning-fast strike with a cutting, thrusting motion from left to right.

But he wasn’t nearly fast enough.
The attack was parried, and the knife detached from his grip as his wrist was snapped in two.

The attacker effortlessly gained positional advantage, using his momentum against him.
Garrett felt his head pushed down and accelerated at incredible speed toward the ground.
There was a flash—his helmet had made hard contact with granite—and he suddenly felt nothing.

He was rolled over, and though his mind screamed for his limbs to obey, they would not.

It was dawn, and he could see a little better than when this nightmare first began.

She’s pretty,
he thought.
What a strange way to die.

Garrett watched as she picked up his knife and drove it into his heart.
He felt nothing, astonished at her complacency as the world faded from view.

*   *   *

THANATOS STOOD AND BRUSHED
herself off, admiring her work.
The knife placement was perfect, as with the break at the C5 vertebrae.
A powerful surge of endorphins flushed through her, causing a tingling sensation of pleasure.
Killing these Federation soldiers was unavoidable; they had practically landed on top of her ship.
Their deaths were necessary to complete the mission, so she was immensely pleased to have managed the unexpected contingency so easily.
The bodies would need to be disposed of, and the ship had to be moved.
The pilot and copilot of the Kruk, whose necks she had also broken, would have to be lugged back here.