The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles) (5 page)

“Just concentrate on the driving, Sergeant,” said Jameson, curtly.

Hellius smiled to himself and hoped Lead-Out and Gadget had fixed the suspension correctly in such a short space of time.
But he had faith in their abilities. What Lead-Out didn’t know about repairing vehicles wasn’t worth knowing, and Gadget was a true artist when it came to electronics and hardware - a sociopath in personality type, admittedly, but nearly god-like with technology.

It took Hellius a full 20 minutes to get to the station entrance
, and several times the Rover’s big-wheeled suspension took a pounding from the rugged landscape. But, once there, Hellius pressed his control screen to open the rear doors and the team leapt out, ready for action.

“Lieutenant McGilvary, all systems functioning correctly?” inquired Jameson.

“Air supplies and radio are all running properly, sir. Looks like the Rover’s transmitter survived Hellius’ road rage,” she said, grinning at the Sergeant.

Hellius bowed mirthfully in reply.

“OK, people, let’s be careful in there,” reminded Jameson.

Crim and Hellius set off for the station buildings. The two Sergeants were well armed. Crim - who, at 6ft 3”, was tall for a woman of
Highland ancestry - held the large Pro-cannon high on her shoulder, while Hellius had a standard issue Macklin-Bilson strapped to his heavily-tattooed right arm - both weapons, and soldiers, could pack a punch.

Meanwhile, Jameson, McGilvary and Cox were making their way toward the rear compound of the Border Station. Cox picked up the muidog on his scanner immediately.

“This way, sir,” he said, pointing in the direction of the back gates.

Following the Flying Officer’s scanner signal
, they soon found the muidog. It was lying down in a small, fenced enclosure panting and breathing hard.

“It’s still alive, sir!” said Cox, reading the stats on the machine, “But only just.”

“OK. Let’s not take any risks here,” warned Jameson. “Knock it out, Cox.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, reaching over his shoulder for his Torq-Gun.

He loaded it with a single dart and fired, hitting the muidog in its long neck. The dog’s body spasmed with the impact, then immediately slumped onto the pink earth. “That should do it, sir. It’ll be out now for about 3hrs.”

“
Thank you, Cox. OK, let’s get this beast packed up.”

Jameson and Cox approached the dog - still with some caution - but Cox’s dart had done the job. McGilvary wheeled a specimen crate over beside the animal
, while Cox lifted it up and placed it gently into the secure box.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise and a bright flash, as Cox fell backwards into the fencing
!

McGilvary rushed to help him.

“Sir!” it was Crim’s Celtic burr on the radio. “We hae located a young laddie in the office buildings. Looks like a Code, sir.”

“A Code?” asked Jameson. “Be careful, Sergeant! He’s armed! I think he just hit Cox.”

“Aye,” replied Crim. “We just saw that, sir.”

“Take him in. Do not kill him. I repeat, do not kill him.”

“Roger, sir.”

Cox was still alive
; he was moving, but it was clear that his suit had been compromised. There was a massive rent around the upper chest area and he was losing blood fast. In this oxygen-low atmosphere he would die within 10 minutes.

“McGilvary, get the muidog. I’ll take Cox,” ordered Jameson, moving towards the injured airman. “Can you stand up, Lieutenant?”

“Uh… Yes, sir… I think so… Aaah! My shoulder!”

Jameson helped him to his feet. ‘McGilvary,
get that hell-hound out of here!”

McGilvary wheeled the muidog out of the compound while Jameson followed with Cox.

Jameson’s radio crackled. “Sir, we’ve detained the Code bairn,” reported Crim. “He’s unarmed - dropped his drainin’ blaster and surrendered as soon as he saw us, sir.”

“Good work, Sergeant. Meet us back at the Rover. We need to get Cox back to the ship, fast!”

“Aye, sir. Leaving the offices noo,” replied Crim.

The Code was a young man of about 18 or 19 years old. He was tall, thin, with long, blonde hair, plaited - like most Codes - and there was blood on his hands and down his arms. His eyes were a beautiful violet colour - unusual eye pigmentation being a hereditary feature of the Codes, bright colours: yellow, orange, green. Dull shades, like humans had, were not to be found in their genetic make-up. Yet strapped into the back of the Argon the youth's violaceous gaze was fixed on the secure container holding the muidog, and his eyes were not bright. Not at all. In fact, he looked like he was going to cry.

The rocky surface once again prevented Hellius from picking up the speed he so desired. Nevertheless, he kept the pedal to the metal and ignored the consequences. And, as it was getting dark, he needed the Rover’s external lights on, so his outside view was somewhat marred by the glare.
But this was of no consequence to Hellius. He was the kind of soldier who maintained an overriding sense of loyalty to his fellow GI and he needed to save one of them right now. He knew it was his job to make that happen, come what may.

Hellius noticed that the Rover’s suspension was holding up perfectly, despite his attempts to completely
ruin the repair job of his crewmates.
Good going, Lead-Out
.
Good going, Gadget, old buddy.

In the back of the Rover, Cox was still conscious, though he was fading fast, and the jarring 1km return journey to the Argon seemed to be taking forever.

Cox was a popular member of the crew - quiet, yet loud in his actions - and the entire team had that familiar worried look that meant ‘this one might not make it back alive’.

Hellius got on the radio to the starship.

He thought he heard Lead-Out pick it up, but the line was all static and the reception intermittent. “Lead-Out!” he shouted. “We’re coming in! Cox has been injured! We’ll need medical back-up! Urrrrrrnggggh!”

The whole left side of the Rover plunged over at almost 45 degrees. The vehicle had gone over a massive crater .

“Drain this dust ball of a moon!” bellowed Hellius, as he swung the wheel hard round to the right, bringing the Rover out of the crater and back onto level ground. He thought about the crew in the back and knew they would be cursing him.
It’s Cox’s life or a few bruised bones, take your pick!
he thought, with a grin.

He tried Lead-Out again.

The radio spat and fluttered, and then, went dead.

He
llius threw the handset at the dashboard. “Firing piece of TAPCON shizz!” he hollered. Then again, “Useless bunch of draining android-builders!” That was better.
Let it all out, Hellius!

In the back, Cox lost consciousness.

“Sir! It’s Cox!” shouted McGilvary to Jameson. “He’s out cold! He’s lost too much blood! What’ll we do?”

“Pray,” said Jameson, though he was genuinely worried inside. This expedition had been his idea
, and now he was about to have one of his men die on his watch - on an unapproved mission to boot.

Up front in the cockpit Hellius pushed on. He was driving like a man possessed. “Come hell or high water!” he proclaimed. “Hang in there, Cox, you son-of-a-fujiwug!”

Then he saw the small, external strobe lights radiating from the starship. And, as he drew nearer, he saw that the Loading Bay doors were open and he could make out Lead-Out and New-Boy waiting inside with Dr. Gössner and Ng.

The radio suddenly sprung to life
, as Lead-Out informed Hellius that they were ready with medical equipment and a stretcher for Cox.

Thank shizzing Herra!
he thought to himself.

He
llius drove the Rover up the Loading Bay ramp and slammed on the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt right beside the medical team.

The back doors of the Rover flew open. Crim and Jameson jumped out, then quickly brought Cox down onto the platform. Gössner and Ng secured him to the stretcher and were soon inside the decompression chamber headed for Medical. McGilvary followed carrying the muidog crate, while Hellius escorted the captured Code into a holding area then up to the Stateroom for questioning.

It transpired that the boy’s name was Zanthu X, youngest son of Qaanhu X, the leader of the Codes.

He'd been working as a border guard, for the summer months, before he was due to start his ‘Reckoning’ in the autumn - the initiation rite taken by all young Codes upon entering into the top school on Baal-500: the Acoustika Institute.

Zanthu had a high forehead, fine porcelain features and his skin possessed a translucent quality that seemed to glow in the light. You could almost see into his body to the veins and the skeleton beneath. He was astonishing to look at.

Underneath the dirt and grime, it was clear that Zanthu was dressed in the traditional Code costume of dark, leathery garments (kilt and jerkin) all embroidered with an unusual pattern called a Scyfer that was like an Earth-based Celtic knot, albeit more complex. These patterns were unique to each Code and were used for identity purposes. The exact same pattern was permanently imprinted on their upper chest, when they became 13 years old, as part of their adolescence ritual. Every Code had to have one - girls and boys - and each one wore their Scyfer with pride. He also had on a large earring depicting a dragonfly, the Codes iconic symbol of peace.

“So, Zanthu, tell us, what is
happening with your people and the animals?” asked Jameson.

Zanthu replied, choosing his words carefully. “Something has befallen every species here on Baal-500. They have turned on us, attacked us and we do not know why. We cannot defend ourselves against our animals
, as we are not allowed to harm them in any way. We are Codes, it is against our principles to hurt any animal life form. Therefore, we have forsaken our Linked ones in order to prevent committing deeds that we cannot, will not, justify.” Zanthu looked down at his feet. “I could never leave Spoolu. She was my first Linking. I love Spoolu.” Zanthu looked up at Tina. “And you can save her, yes?” he asked.

“We will see,” interjected Jameson. “Dr. Gössner and Ng will do their best, my boy.”

Zanthu’s face flushed. “I am not a boy! I am a man!” he affirmed, raising his chin in defiance.

“Yes, well, boy or man, you managed to severely injure one of my men out there,” retorted Jameson. “You do realise that this is an offence in the eyes of TAPCON, don’t you?”

Zanthu shook his head. “We Codes do not live by the laws of TAPCON. We are a peaceful, ancient people. We took our place in this galaxy long, long before any TAPCON. We have our own ways of - ”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” interrupted the Captain.

“No! No, you do not!” exclaimed Zanthu. “You most certainly do not understand!”

“Zanthu!” McGilvary scolded. “You will not speak to Captain Jameson in this way! You will talk to the Captain in a manner befitting his position.”

“No, McGilvary,” said Jameson, calmly. “It’s fine. I’m sure these last few days have been hard for Zanthu. In fact, let’s get him cleaned up, then take him down to the canteen. I’m sure he could use something to eat.”

Zanthu gave a slight, almost apologetic, smile to Jameson.

The Captain nodded in acceptance. “Zanthu, you are welcome onboard my ship,” he said. “Please, treat it like your own.”

The Code made a shallow bow and left with McGilvary.

Jameson radioed down to the Med Lab.

“Medical. Gössner.”

“Tina, it’s Phil. Any news on Cox?”

“Well, we’ve sedated him, Phil, he’s sleeping now. There is evidence of oxygen depravation, though nothing too serious. He just needs rest and he’ll be OK. Two to three weeks and he’ll never know it happened. I’d say this, though, he was very lucky that Hellius made it back so quickly.”

“And the rabid cur?”

“Ng has it on the table now. We’re just about ready to do a preliminary check. Unfortunately, we can’t do full tests
until we’re back at the base. This new equipment is playing up. TAPCON haven’t installed the scanners properly - amongst other things.”

“Thanks Tina. Just do your best. That’s always good enough for me.”

“What a charmer,” said Tina.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Jameson, with some sarcasm. “I guess
I’ll need what little of that I have left when I inform TAPCON,” he grimaced. “Sempre is not going to like this.”

“I’d say that was a correct assessment of the situation, Captain,” Gössner cajoled.

“Hmmm. So, what do you think? Six months detention, with no pay?”

“Oh, at least,” she teased.

“Looks like this retirement business is going to come sooner than I thought.”

Tina smiled to herself.
That wouldn’t be so bad
.

17:06 - Saturday, July 28, 2187 (TAPCON Towers, Muhaze, Tapi-36)

David Sempre used his cash for two things - the military, and the creation of Muhaze in his glorious self-image: grand, modern, with superlative flair and genius. He was seriously deluded, of course.

             
Nevertheless, Muhaze was evolving into a breathtaking city. It was still only a New Frontier development, but Muhaze was already awe-inspiring in its sheer scale of ambition. Despite being modelled on a simplistic, Earth-based grid plan and then separated into sixty symmetrical Arrondissement, its architecture was astounding. Huge, hi-tech constructions thrusting assuredly upwards into the clouds, while, everywhere, sleek connecting walkways and transport lines (made powerful with curved forms of glass and stone) criss-crossed over the teeming streets below. Spiralling towers and metallic, paraboloidal structures shone in the light like part of some enormous, alien treasure chest.

It was stunning.

It was visionary.

Just like me,
thought Sempre.

TAPCON Towers had been built on a specially chosen site
, enabling it to survey the city from the best vantage point available and, more importantly, to make sure that the people of Muhaze saw the TAPCON building at all times. Sempre wanted them to know TAPCON was there, watching them, observing them, and to never forget who was in charge around here.

Sempre ran his conglomerate like an iron fist in a velvet glove. All amiability and pleasantries on the surface, whil
st underneath lurked a vicious, murdering tyrant capable of the utmost depravity; able and willing to go to any lengths in order to succeed in his obscene objectives.

For example, when somebody joined TAPCON, they needed to submit to a lengthy commissioning procedure: a 6hr ‘interview’ during which they were connected to li
e detectors and brain scanners, then asked questions about their innermost secrets. Everything about their past was revealed to Sempre and filed away in triplicate at various strongholds on the TAPCON premises.

Only Sempre himself was allowed access to this information. So, in effect, he enjoyed complete control over his employees, and they knew it. If anyone stepped out of line
, Sempre only had to remind them of the agreement they’d made at the beginning of their employ.

It worked like a charm.

But he also operated a further, more sinister, system of control.

Sempre wanted the best scientists, the best engineers, the best architects, the best doctors, lawyers, teachers et al that lived on Tapi-36 (or elsewhere in the Michael 6 Quadrant) to work for him. Though not all of these talented individuals wanted to punch-the-clock for a man like Sempre. They saw through the lies and deceit, unlike the general public, who
were hoodwinked on a daily basis. So, as a result, he had to develop a technique, a method to make sure he got his man, woman - or alien.

Once Sempre had headhunted a worker he would first offer them a position at TAPCON. If they refused, he would then try some gentle persuasion from the Specialists (i.e.
electro-shock torture). This usually did the trick. And if it didn’t, then their children, their wives, husbands, fathers and mothers, whatever living relations they had, would all be kidnapped and held prisoner in mutant-guarded camps on Reis-91.

There was no atmosphere suitable for humans on
the first moon, and it was perfectly feasible that your family members could find themselves on the outside of the prison’s oxygenated environment, should you not kow-tow to Sempre’s wishes. This method was full proof; 100% effective. It was a well-known fact that, eventually, Sempre got his way.

Always.

But, in truth, there was one moment in his execrable life when this had not happened. But it had occurred before he was even born; when he’d no say in the matter, so it was hardly his fault that he was born on the 2
nd
percentile for height.

This unfortunate incident was important to understanding David Sempre and his many ‘personal issues’. At only 4’
9”, Sempre was in the possession of a disorder that was commonly known on Earth as a ‘Napoleon complex’. It made him dislike and feel inferior to (in an extremely aggressive way) everybody taller than him - and that was quite a lot of people.

The radiant city shone softly in the haze of the early evening light - but TAPCON’s kingpin wasn’t in the mood for sublime views or for enjoying his architectural achievements. He’d just received word from the airbase that Jameson had captured a young Code male on Baal-500 - and a sick muidog. Both were now onboard the Argon. He was not pleased, and now his fists were clenched up tight like two tiny, pink seashells.

“Flugg?” spluttered Sempre, down the inter-vox. “Get me a link to the Argon, I want to talk to Jameson… Immediately!”

“Yes, Mr. Sempre. Right away, sir,” smarmed Ulysses Flugg, Sempre’s rodent-faced secretary. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Sempre, sir?”

“No, Flugg. No. Just do it. Now!”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” he replied, in a flurry of squirrel-like panic.

In his office, Sempre began to talk out loud to himself: “He was explicitly told not to go down to the planet surface. Not under any circumstances! This was to be a neutral mission!”

This talking to himself business was not unusual. He talked to himself quite a lot. He’d always done it. Ever since he was a child living away from home in Nufanot. He liked to pace up and down, as well - that and continually rock backwards and forwards.

Sempre got up out of his chair and began to strut back and forth across the white pile rug of his office. “Damn that Jameson!” he blustered. “Why did I let him back into the programme?” It was unlike Sempre to chastise himself. However, this was fast becoming an exceptional case.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Flugg. He opened the door and poked his snout around the side. He was even shorter than Sempre. “Mr. Sempre, sir?” said Flugg, in his squeaky voice. “We have the link ready for you now, if you please, sir?” He should have used the inter-vox, but he liked to be as nosey as possible.

“Thank you, Flugg, send it through to my screen,” said Sempre, calming himself.

“Yes, sir,” said Flugg, closing t
he door, silently.

Sempre pressed the button on his armchair.

The doors slid open again and the plasma screen came out. Sempre waited for it to turn on, drumming his fingers on his desk, looking up at the clock, repeatedly pressing the click mechanism of his favourite pen – in, out, in, out.
That Flugg, so slow. And why didn’t he use the inter-vox? Good thing for him that he’s shorter than me,
thought Sempre. Presently, the screen faded up with the image of Jameson on the bridge of the Argon.

“Ah, Captain Jameson,” he began, lengthening to his full sitting-down height. “Wonderful to see you again. How are you this evening, O Captain, my Captain?”
he schmoozed.

“I’ve been better,” muttered Jameson. “What do you want, Sempre?” he said, knowing full well what
the TAPCON boss was going to say.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be so impatient, Jameson. I’m sure you know why I’ve requested this communication. But very well, as you wish… I’ve heard from the airbase that you have detained a Code and his ‘pet’ onboard your…
sorry,
my
ship? Is this true?”

“It might be,” replied Jameson, flatly.

“And, if you recall, I ordered this to be a neutral mission, am I correct?”

“Cut to the chase.
What’s your point, Sempre?”

“Jameson, my dear fellow, come, come. You know, as well as I do, that what we have before us is a serious situation. You and your crew could be held in detention over an issue such as this. Imprisoned. Court-martialed, even. And that Code youth
, he shot Lieutenant Cox, did he not? Badly injuring him, I gather. Attempted murder is a very grave interplanetary crime.”

Jameson w
ent silent. Sempre had him cornered.

“I want the Code brought to Tapi-36, he’ll need to stand trial for his sins,” demanded the CEO.

“But, Mr. Sempre, Cox is responding very well to his treatment and Dr. Gössner informs me he’ll be back to work in a matter of weeks. There should be no need for the Code -”

“Ah, the lovely Dr. Gössner,” interrupted Sempre. “She is a terrific woman, isn’t she? Beautiful, intelligent, not too tall. And, I hear she’s a favourite of yours as well, Jameson?”

Jameson pretended not to understand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about -”

“Ha, ha, ha,” tittered Sempre. “I’m sure you do, Captain. But that is by the by. No, the Code youth
will
be brought to Muhaze for his day in court.”

“But surely, given the circumstances, he can’t be tried for attempted -”

“Oh, he can, Jameson. And he will!”

“No! I must protest!”

“You will do nothing of the sort! There will be no more protesting around here!” blazed Sempre.

Jameson’s face was impassive.

“You seem to have forgotten your place in all of this, Captain. It is
I
who will tell
you
what to do.”

Jameson held his tongue, still fronting it out, yet inside he was fizzing.

“Well, Captain, if you are not going to cooperate, I will have to command you to bring the Argon back to Muhaze. Therefore, I am cancelling your mission, with immediate effect. I expect you and your crew back in Muhaze by 12:00 hrs tomorrow - with the Code and his mongrel. A small fleet of V-wings will meet you at the perimeter to escort you back to the airbase.”

“There’s no need, I am sure we can manage to -”

“There is every need, Jameson! Every need! And you will tell that dreadful Zip reporter, when you get here, that the Codes’ abuse of animal life is indeed fact - that you were sickened by what you saw on Baal-500. That is an order, Captain Jameson!”

Sempre flicked off his screen.

A few months of detention would soon sort Jameson out. He always came back for more, tail between his legs, desperate to fly starships again. The Code youth, however, that was a different story. Sempre needed to be careful. Things could get very difficult once The Zip got hold of this. They were a necessary evil if he was going to succeed with his plans, but he needed to keep those he trusted at his side, and those he didn't, in full view. He was confident he would be able to turn the situation to his advantage. He’d always been able to do that in the past…

Sempre pressed his inter-vox.

“Flugg, send a message to Jon-7. Give him the current details concerning the Argon. Tell him it’s business as usual on The Zip tonight.” Then he sat down at his desk and looked satisfied with himself.

Reaching down, he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a file.

He opened it and removed a letter marked
To David: On the unfortunate event of my ‘death’.
It was the one he liked to look at, every now and again, when things got a tad troublesome. It read:

My dear David,

If you have opened this letter then I am now ‘dead’. Ah, well. It comes to everyone, in time. Well… almost everyone.

But
now, to business… This letter is to inform all staff and employees of TAPCON that I have received conformation from the Interplanetary Federation of Systems, that you, David Sempre, are hereby named CEO from this moment forward.

Until my return, I am,

Air Marshal Christian Sashan FMSQ, TSAW, LMON.

Sempre put the letter back into the file and returned everything to the bottom drawer, locking it.

He smiled wickedly to himself.

It might be time to wake up the dead,
he thought.