Starship's Mage 2 Hand of Mars (8 page)

“What are we supposed to believe? That none of what’s going on here makes it back to Mars? That Mars is somehow oblivious and Mage-Commodore Cor is blind?”

He shook his head and downed the whiskey.

“The truth is that Mars doesn’t care,” he told Amiri. “So long as Vaughn’s tame Councilor shows up to the meetings and tells His Majesty everything is going swimmingly, the economy is improving, everything is shiny… why would Alexander care?”

There was clearly nothing that Amiri could say, so the pair drank in silence for a while.

Then Amiri made her excuses and headed back to the room where her expensive frequency-hopping communicator was hidden. Today, that level of reach was unnecessary. Today, she would simply be posting on a forum, in a code only Alaura Stealey could read.

It was time for Julia Amiri, Special Agent of the Martian Protectorate Secret Service, to report in.

Hopefully before
everything
blew up.

#

The assault shuttle swept in to land on a pad completely cleared of any locals. Cam Mitchell and the other seven Marines who hadn’t accompanied Stealey to Normandy had swept
everybody
else away from the landing zone, and now stood sentinel in black body armor carrying battle carbines.

Mitchell had at least made the token gesture of asking Damien for
permission
to do so. Damien suspected that had been more to give him a stick to beat complainers with than any intention of allowing people to stay if the Envoy refused.

Damien waited until the ground around the shuttle had cooled and the landing ramp began to slide open before walking, quickly, out onto the landing pad. Four Marines, part of the contingent Harmon had sent down, exited the shuttle first.

They greeted him with crisp salutes and stood aside. Next out was a pair of Marines clad in Exosuit Battle Armor. Towering a head or more above their more conventionally armored compatriots, the two soldiers in the powered armor swept out of the shuttle wordlessly, nodding to Damien as they took up sentry positions.

Then, finally, Alaura exited the little ship. The Hand looked tired and met Damien’s gaze with a small nod.

“We’re all alive,” she said quietly as more Marines stepped out of the shuttle behind her. “Some good men aren’t - and neither are the innocents who were caught in the crossfire.”

“I saw the report,” Damien told her, his voice equally quiet. “It wasn’t your fault, Alaura. It was the bastards who came after you.”

“What’s Vaughn saying?” she asked.

“Freedom Wing,” he replied. “All over the news. ‘The depraved terrorists have struck at the representative of our beloved Protectorate.’”

“A little
too
all over the news,” Damien noted.

“Agreed,” Stealey said, her voice still tired. “I need a fucking drink, Damien. Let’s talk somewhere more secure.”

Damien glanced around, arching an eyebrow at the twenty fully armed and armored Marines now forming a perimeter around the pair of them.

“More concerned about ears than guns, Damien,” she told him sharply, but it got a small smile from her.

“I know,” he allowed, returning the smile. “We’ve kept our rooms clear.”

#

“This planet,” Alaura announced between sips of whiskey, “is fucked up.”

Damien said nothing, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for the Hand to get to her point. The Marines were busy settling in the new squad and the two senior Martian representatives were alone.

“The entire legal system has become a series of special case exemptions,” she continued, “and a good
third
of the population is in indentured servitude. I’m honestly surprised nobody is
starving
. I can’t
blame
the Freedom Wing for rebelling!

“But they’ve also crossed about half a dozen lines I
can’t
let them cross,” she finished, staring morosely into her glass. “Assassinating governors? That’s arguably a legitimate target.
Blowing
up a city
? Attacking
me
?”

“Assuming they did it,” Damien quietly pointed out. “
Vaughn
blames them. But Vaughn is a corrupt crook who’s been using this planet as his own personal factory.

“Look at the pattern,” he continued. “Anderson’s death was the end of a clean, precise, urban guerilla campaign. Evidence suggests a well-trained, well-equipped group with a solid plan. With their objective complete, they disappeared - only to reappear three months later, with a hack-job of a terrorist campaign.

“The two campaigns are completely different levels of accuracy, planning, and precision. Perhaps most importantly,” he reminded her, “the first campaign represents a group we’d negotiate with - and the second does
not
!

“Desmond hammered a point home a few times over the years -
always
ask who benefits.

“Who benefits from us thinking the Freedom Wing is the worst kind of terrorist group? The kind of group that would level cities and attack Hands?”

Alaura looked at him in silence for a long moment and then swallowed the tumbler of whiskey.

“There’s also the possibility of multiple factions in the same movement, or even them just growing desperate,” she pointed out. “But you’re right - we need to know
exactly
what happened. Both in Karlsberg and in Nouveaux Normandy.”

“You’ve got a plan,” Damien said. It wasn’t a question - he’d sparked her thought process, and he could see the wheels turning in his boss’ head.

“Not so much a plan as a division of labor,” she warned. “Sorry, Damien, but you don’t have the oomph to pressure Vaughn. You’ve the technical authority, but he won’t buy it. Even from me, I’m probably going to have to lean on the implicit threat of Mage-Commodore Cor’s squadron.

“So I’ll ride our dear Governor, and dig into their files on Karlsberg,” she continued. “I think I’m going to break out the Hand itself, too. See what those overrides get me out of some of their locked files.”

One of the very high level secrets Damien had been briefed on was that the golden amulet the Hands wore was not merely a symbol of office - it was also an override chip, capable of accessing any government system in the Protectorate at the highest levels of security.

“But first,” Alaura paused, crossing to the door and leaning out. “Maria, I need you.”

A moment later, Maria Wong - Alaura’s personal chief of staff - entered the room. The dark-skinned and red-haired woman glanced at Damien for a long moment, then turned her attention to her boss.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Maria, I want you to find the names of every trooper and civilian who died today,” Alaura told her grimly. “Then find their family and dependents. Whatever happens, I want a note adding
all
of their survivors to the Martian General Pension fund added our records. The soldiers died defending me, and those civilians got caught in the crossfire. We owe them.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Maria confirmed. “Anything else?”

“Arrange a meeting with the Governor,” Alaura told her, glancing at the clock. “Make it tomorrow evening, I’ll need some time to dig into what’s going on. Make sure the Marines get settled in, and give Mitchell a heads up that he’ll be escorting Envoy Montgomery shortly.”

“Of course, My Lady,” the Chief of Staff agreed. With a tiny nod to Damien, she slipped out of the room, the Hand closing the door behind her.

“Where am I going?” Damien asked.

“Nouveaux Normandy,” Alaura answered. “I don’t think I’ll be capable of being objective enough to investigate the attack cleanly. I need you to dig into it -
all
the way into it, Damien. Turn over every stone, follow every link - if you’re right, if it was Vaughn’s people, not the Wing, it changes
everything
. Follow me?”

Damien swallowed hard, but nodded.

“I’m sending Mitchell’s entire squad with you,” Alaura continued. “Anyone who decides to launch a follow-up round isn’t going to last long enough to realize it’s a bad idea.”

“I’ll find the truth,” he promised.

“Don’t worry, Damien, I’m not sending you off into the bush alone,” the Hand told him with a smile. “Some of this is paranoia, too. I’ve got an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades, and I want us in different cities.

“One of my agents checked in while I was on the flight back - coded message drop. She’s linked in with the Wing, and they’re telling their own people they didn’t do it,” she continued. “The drop included a contact code; I’m flipping it to your PC.”

“She’s in Normandy?”

“No, here in Versailles,” Alaura replied. “I don’t expect you to need to contact her, but I want to keep you in the loop - so no matter what happens, we see this through. Mars
owes
these people, Damien - and we
will
see this done.”

“You’re just nervous because someone tried to kill you already,” Damien replied, trying to make light.

The Hand shook her head. “It’s more than that,” she said quietly. “Either the Freedom Wing is what Vaughn says it is, and they’re very dangerous and very desperate, or
Vaughn
is behind a lot of this.”

“In which case, our dear Governor is very dangerous and very desperate,” he said softly.

“Exactly.” Alaura began to dig into a black briefcase she’d brought to Ardennes with her and removed a small velvet box. “Catch.”

“What’s th—” Damien opened the box to find the golden fist of a Hand’s insignia on a plain gold chain. He swallowed. “These are gene-locked,” he objected. “I can’t use yours.”

“That isn’t mine, Damien,” Alaura told him gently. “We both know what His Majesty intends for you - and today, it will be
damned
useful for you to have the Hand to crack the local files in Normandy.

“I’d say you can give it back when we’re done, but like you said. They’re gene-locked.”

“There’s formalities and training still to pass, but Desmond didn’t give me your Hand because he expected you to fail.”

#

Damien was more than a little distracted as he left the section of Government House that their staff and Marines had completely taken over. Nonetheless, he
had
been taught to maintain some semblance of situational awareness, and was
completely
taken aback when he managed to run into one of the cleaners.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately told the older woman, offering her a hand up.

“
Tout va bien
,” the woman replied, taking his hand and then bowing over it when she was on her feet. “It’s all right, My Lord,” she repeated, in heavily accented English. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Assurances and apologies exchanged, the Envoy of the Mage-King of Mars spent a minute helping re-assemble the cleaner’s cart, and then continued on his way - paying more attention, now, to where he was going.

Slipping
back
into the zone secured by the Marines, he quickly sought out Sergeant Mitchell.

“You got the word from Alaura?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the Marine replied crisply. “My squad will be ready to go in an hour, and I’ve checked in with the Navy pilots - they’ll be fueled up and ready to fly by then.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Damien replied. He paused for a moment and met the Sergeant’s gaze frankly. “I’ve been trained in this, but I’ve never led an investigation before in my life,” he admitted. “Any suggestions?”

Mitchell considered.

“I’m a bodyguard, sir,” he pointed out. “But… I’ve followed Stealey around like a heavily armed puppy on a few of these. I’ll keep an ear open, let you know if anything doesn’t add up to me.”

“I appreciate it, Sergeant,” Damien told him. “I
want
these bastards.”

“Assume nothing, verify everything,” Mitchell replied calmly. “This whole planet
stinks
, and I’m not talking about the air quality.”

The Envoy nodded, the gold amulet in his jacket pocket a surprisingly heavy weight. Unconsciously, he touched the amulet - only to feel a layer of paper over it.

“What the…?” he muttered. His suit blazer had both a sealed interior pocket - now containing the Hand - and a mostly decorative outer pocket. Reaching into the outer pocket, he pulled out a sheet of neatly folded paper.

“I’m guessing you didn’t put that in there yourself,” Mitchell told him, scooping the sheet out of Damien’s grasp with a gloved hand. “Better safe than sorry, sir,” he said by way of apology.

“I am wearing gloves, Sergeant,” Damien pointed out. Like Alaura - and most other Jump and Combat Mages for that matter - Damien wore skin-tight gloves to cover up the runes inlaid into his palm. His were the same jet-black as his suit blazer and ran all the way up to his elbows, covering runes most other Mages would
not
have.

“And if someone was being a clever bastard, they’d have accounted for that,” the Marine pointed out. “I’m expendable, My Lord. You aren’t.”

“Fuck that, give me the note,” Damien ordered.

With a long-suffering sigh, Mitchell quickly unfolded the note - presumably to trigger any trap concealed in the infinitesimal space between the halves of the sheet - and handed it back to the Envoy after a moment.

“Thank you,” Damien said dryly as he glanced at the handful of lines on the sheet.

If you seek answers on the Special Operations Directorate, find Colonel Elijah Brockson.

-
A friend

“That’s… rather un-useful,” Mitchell noted, reading over Damien’s shoulder. “The note could be from
anyone
. How can we trust it?”

Damien looked at the paper carefully.

“It was planted on me by a member of the staff,” he concluded aloud. “I think we can safely say it’s from the Freedom Wing.”