Provenance I - Flee The Bonds (9 page)

On the way out, he stopped and picked up the brass plaque. Perhaps if everyone had been created equal Jason would still be alive.

* * * *
 

When Steve returned to
Cool Breeze
, daylight had succumbed to dusk and a misty veil hung over the canal. He secured the boat and made his way to the galley. While the coffee brewed, he mashed a banana into a bowl of muesli.

Back in the saloon, he tapped the MCD screen and waited as the software navigated through a series of security gateways.

He scrolled down the chronological list and tapped an entry from the previous Saturday, ‘Jason Valenbrotti 10.15 London.’ A map showed a dotted tracker line of Jason’s last journey. Selecting the
Palace’s
surveillance records produced a frown. Either the cameras weren’t working when Jason was in the store, or the records had been erased. From the vertical list of icons, he selected the sword. A photograph and text appeared.

The serious man with hardened blue eyes was Paul Nicholson, a CONSEC Gold Agent. Jason’s Guardian.

Steve grabbed his Private Network Phone off the table and tapped in the call ID.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Paul Nicholson?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Steve Arrowsbury. I’m — was a friend of Jason’s.’

‘Is this official?’

Calling Paul at home had already answered that. ‘No. It’s off the net.’

‘I see.’

Steve reached for his coffee and took a sip.

‘What can I do for you, Steve?’

‘Have you made any progress?’

‘Very little. I uploaded Jason’s MCD to your Quad bin. He did a tail-break into the
Palace
department store, although I’m not sure he realised he was being followed at that point. A woman, skiing jacket, tanned, brunette, bob haircut. She had a valid biofield ID so
Palace
security let her go. I picked her up later, but lost her after Jason was hit. She just disappeared.’

Steve rubbed his chin. ‘Can we meet?’

‘Yes, so long as it’s off the net.’

‘Thanks, Paul. Do you know Mitzys?’

10:52 SUN 22:10:2119

Blue Zone, Bordeaux, France, Sector 2

A tramcar rattled by, following the
Quai de Chartrons
as it curved around the Gironde estuary. Autumn sunlight warmed the back of Steve’s graphite leather jacket, although not enough to counterpoise the crisp Atlantic breeze.

On his left, cream stone facades climbed into a deep blue sky. Tall windows, ornate wooden doors, and cast iron
balcons
added classic French style. A variety of broad canopies sloped out over the wide granite pavement. Steve headed for the maroon one, its sides and roof embellished with a gleaming golden apple.
La Pomme D’Or
— the rendezvous point.

He sat in the far left corner with his back to the café window. A man leaning over a newspaper and a couple conversing with a liberal sprinkling of hand gestures occupied two other tables. The glass door to his left creaked open and a thin man with a ruddy complexion examined his fingernails.

‘
Monsieur
?
’

‘
Un café, s’il vous plait
.
’

The waiter spun, letting the door clatter behind him. Steve took out his MCD and laid it in his lap. A map of Bordeaux’s inner Zones appeared, superimposed with dots: Continuity white, Defender grey, Agent gold, and Advocate platinum. There were no yellow or black dots, no suicidal Drones or SIS Prosecutors to assist them.

Everyone had a biomechanical chip implanted in their left wrist at birth. From deep within Colorado’s Cheyenne Mountain, Integrated Network Command controlled EAGLE-EYE, a global network of satellites. If INC detected a human signature without a biofield ID, it would task a weapons-free Prefect to investigate.

For Steve and the other members of CONSEC, the biomechanical chip inducted through the MPS, monitoring biomed status as well as location. Only Advocates and Prosecutors could switch it off.

The platinum dot in the map’s centre represented him, the other Francois Thibeauchet. Steve tapped the screen again; Captain Thibeauchet would arrive in six minutes.

While he waited, Steve reviewed his new 2IC’s file. Twenty-seven years old, Francois had been with PSYOPS before joining CONSEC.
Unusual route
. Equally unusual were his exemplary training scores. Eight-five percent of applicants failed Advocate selection, some permanently. Francois, and his eclectic mix of specialism’s had been assigned to Sector 1, which probably explained why they’d never met. The file also showed Francois to be a hundred millimetres shorter and considerably lighter than Steve. However, monetarily Francois towered above. He was heir to one of Sector 2’s largest industrial dynasties.
Thibeauchet Technologie
.

Francois Thibeauchet strode in under the canopy wearing a beige trench coat. Judging by the upturned collar, pocketed hands and pinched face, the tanned Francois preferred warmer climes.

Steve stood and shook the extended hand, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Francois sat and lowered his collar. ‘You have been here long?’

‘No, just ordered a coffee.’

As if on cue, the door squeaked open. ‘
Monsieur?
’

Francois’s head tilted towards the waiter. ‘
Café.
’

When the door clattered, Steve pushed the MCD across the tabletop. His right hand remained below the table, inside his jacket. Francois returned the MCD and Steve lowered it into his lap, waiting for the handsome image to appear before looking up.

‘Thanks, that’s fine.’ While pocketing the MCD, Steve re-clipped the Cogent’s holster.

Francois rubbed his hands, ‘I have booked for us a table at
Chez Henri
. Do you like duck?’

‘Very much.’

Thirty minutes of casual conversation later, they left the café and ambled towards the City centre. Steve stared out over the estuary’s turbid water. He’d called Penny last night, but it’d been fraught, she couldn’t understand his remoteness and he couldn’t explain the reason for it.

Francois played the perfect host, stopping every so often and pointing out various landmarks. The two exceptions were the Lyon Class missile cruiser moored alongside the quay and the twisted hulk of its predecessor rusting on the far shore. What the Resistance lacked in weaponry, they made up for with ingenuity. They’d recruited a young artificer, whose lowly duties included cleaning the ship’s magazine.

The guided tour continued across the gravelled
Esplanade des Quinconces
. Francois stopped in front of a soaring stone monument topped with a bronze statue. ‘The
Monument des Girondines
.’

On the monument’s immense stepped plinth, Steve contemplated a more recent addition. A two-metre black granite monolith inscribed with columns of names and a single inscription in large gold letters, ‘
Pour les enfants de Bordeaux
’. Support for the Resistance had temporarily dwindled after that attack. Rumours surfaced in later years that that had been SIS’s intention.

Francois pointed. ‘
Chez Henri
.’

The oak-panelled restaurant throbbed with lunchtime patrons. Steve inhaled deeply. Aromas of fine cuisine drifted up from cluttered tables.

An exuberant
maitre d’hôtel
stepped out from behind the bar and greeted Francois with a vigorous handshake.

Francois extended his hand. ‘
Julian, je vous présente mon ami de Angleterre, Stephen
.’

The maitre d’hôtel rung Steve’s hand, ‘
Bonjour, Monsieur
.’

‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

Steve handed over his jacket and adjusted his shirt collar, acutely aware that Francois had dressed for the occasion. Julian led them up a narrow wooden staircase to an empty room with a solitary table overlooking the esplanade.

Francois ordered for them both.
‘
Deux canard et une bouteille de Margaux
.’

As the
maitre d’hôtel’s
footsteps descended, Francois spoke, ‘I am sorry that Jason has been killed.’

Steve sipped at iced water. ‘Me too.’

‘Do you know what happened?’

‘No, not yet. Command has begun an investigation. Rumour has it the Resistance have infiltrated CONSEC.’

Francois steepled his fingers. ‘You intend to investigate also?’

‘Yes.’ Steve banished punitive thoughts with a smile. ‘But not now, we have business to attend to. Right here.’

Francois cocked his head. ‘Yes, I am curious why you asked to meet in Bordeaux.’

‘I want you to recon RS 26.’

‘RS 26? Why?’

‘We’ve been tasked with an infiltration mission, security analysis. Did you receive the orders?’

‘Yes. The team meets at training facility sixteen tomorrow, so I must do this tonight. Is it a test?’

‘Not at all. I’ve read your file, we’re lucky to have you. It’s just that I need the recon data for PreOps and you know the area.’

At the end of the two-hour lunch, they took a leisurely stroll to the central tram station.

‘You must go back now? Francois eyebrows rose. ‘You have not seen Bordeaux at night.’

Steve compressed his lips. ‘Sorry, duty calls. I’ll be back, and next time I’m paying.’

As the flight hub express accelerated away, Steve raised his hand. Francois appeared nervous; perhaps he really did believe it was a test.

20:22 SUN 22:10:2119

Intra Zone, Wiltshire, England, Sector 2

Cool Breeze’s
sensors had logged the couriered delivery at 13:53. By a macabre twist of events, Jason had been recorded as the consignor. Steve sat on the settee, pressed his thumb on the container’s biofield lock and watched the lid retract.

His face wrinkled at the sight of a gunmetal box stamped
Spectral Analyser KV17
and a black rectangular pouch.

The Spectral Analyser appeared to be a dismantled Cogent, although not a variant he’d seen before. As he assembled it, he noted the differences. A larger plasma pack, an extended barrel and a serrated wheel where the amplitude slider should have been. As the wheel rolled under his thumb, it changed colour: blue, yellow, red, white. His model didn’t have a white setting. Neither did anyone else’s.

He placed the Cogent on the table, unzipped the black pouch and removed the IMK. Possession of an Identity Masking Kit carried the same punishment as identity masking itself. SIS removed your biofield implant, and then released you. Then they released the Prefect.

Swiping the pin-chip over his MCD opened the instructions. The emboldened red heading was hard to miss, ‘
WARNING - PROTOTYPE. READ INSTRUCTIONS CAREFULLY
.’ Steve skipped to the interesting parts. Black-market IMKs already existed, but they were unreliable, and painful. This one offered several identities, with both cyclical and random configurations. Whoever had manufactured it had access to Provenance’s research labs,
and
the authority to hide it.

He sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. Jason had sent him an IMK, a modified Cogent and a riddle. There were many benign uses for an IMK, none for a Cogent that powerful. The inference seemed clear. It had been enhanced to kill something non-human. Something he had yet to meet.

After removing his MPS, Steve fastened one of the IMK’s clear plastic strips, ensuring the metallic square covered the inductor on the underside of his wrist. He then swallowed a capsule, which according to the instructions contained a synthetic compound of UV11 polycyclic hydrocarbon, capable of altering his bio photon emissions for up to twelve hours. He replaced the MPS, selected an identity from the list displayed on the MCD and passed it over his wrist.

Mr Wilkinson, who worked for the Environmental Standards Authority, was going out for the evening. He’d arranged to meet Paul Nicholson at 22:00.

* * * *
 

Mitzys resided in an impressive stone building on the corner of Edgware Road and Star Street. It covered two floors and was one of the most popular nightspots in the Black Zone.

Steve moved to the front of the queue and nodded at the doorman who opened the opaque glass door. Noisy protests followed him into the pulsating interior.

Fashion-conscious socialites flowed around circular metal tables that grew from the glassy floor like thin mushrooms. Ahead, behind the blue crystalline bar, shelves of unlabelled bottles radiated white, illuminating bright eyes and even brighter smiles. Steve turned left towards the glittering stairs and the pounding beat.

The first floor was no less crowded; a swell of bodies gyrated to deafening music on kaleidoscopic glass tiles. Sweet perfume and heavy cologne swirled in the conditioned air. Booths lined three walls, their leather seats and glass topped tables changing colour beneath the whirling strobe lights. Another blue crystalline bar lined the far wall.

Steve weaved his way to the bar, veered left and jostled through the humid mass. At the end of the bar, he broke free from the crowd and headed to a booth. The blond haired Paul waited in the unlit corner, gripping the edge of the glass table. Steve eased in opposite.

Paul leaned into the light. ‘It’s a trap.’

Steve froze. Paul’s blotched face grimaced, blood flowed freely from his nostrils, and the whites of those hardened blue eyes had crazed into a myriad of red lines. ‘Go!’

Steve jerked up and pushed back into the crowd. He didn’t look back. He knew what was coming.

Behind him, a woman’s scream ripped through the melodic beat. Steve twisted his head and peered over the crush of bodies. Light flitted across Paul’s tortured face and glinted in his solid black eyes.

Steve spun around and ploughed through. Before he reached the other end of the bar, the music stopped and the soft colourful lights flickered into a hard glare. Those closest to the stairs surged back, the hum intensified, everyone turned towards it, their silence broken only by the occasional whimper.