CHAPTER
FOUR
The shuttle port was crowded at midnight, and there were long lines at the ticket counters. Security was conspicuous. Soldiers strolled the area with rifles slung, occasionally stopping someone, politely asking to scan identification cards and tickets. Many of those who stood in the lines were also soldiers. Their uniforms were crisp, boots polished to a gleam, men returning to their families and an uncertain future after serving their planet.
Three soldiers sat in chairs against a wall opposite the ticket counters, smoking cigars and watching the people pass by. Each had two bags at his feet: military duffle in blue, black carry-on for the necessities of a two-week flight. Two of the soldiers were in their twenties, the single, silver pips on their collars indicating the rank of lieutenant. The third was perhaps forty, and a colonel, three rows of ribbons decorating his chest. His chiseled face was severe. Dark eyes glared from beneath the bill of his cap. The three did not speak to each other, only smoked contentedly, and watched for nearly an hour until a man came up behind a first class check-in counter, and beckoned to them.
They carried their bags to the counter, deposited duffels on the weighing scale there, presented their identification and plastic scan-cards. The reservations were for a military shuttle flight leaving from Gate Sixteen in forty-five minutes. The man behind the counter said nothing, but studied their cards carefully and made a short entry at his terminal. A printer hummed as he handed back their scan-cards. He retrieved a new set of cards from the printer, handed them over. The new cards, for a corporate shuttle leaving from Gate Twenty in fifty-five minutes, were stored in the carry-on luggage.
“Have a nice flight, gentlemen,” said the man behind the counter. He placed a 'closed' sign on the counter, thumped their destination and flight-labeled duffels on a conveyer belt, and went away.
The colonel and his orderlies hurried to the security area. Their bags and bodies were screened with soft x-rays and isotope sniffers in the presence of armed soldiers. They boarded a train which rushed them at high speed over the ten kilometer distance to the gate area When the doors slid open, two armed soldiers were waiting there, coming to a brace and saluting when they saw the colonel.
“Know your gate, sir?” asked one of them, a man barely in his twenties.
“Sixteen,” growled the colonel. “Military transport.”
The young man's eyes darted between the colonel and his aids. “Transport cards, please, and identification,” he said.
He checked both with a hand-scanner, for each of them, and smiled. “Thank you, sir. Go to the end of the concourse, then left.”
The colonel nodded, looked him up and down, as if inspecting him. “Doing your job, mister,” he said.
“Sir,” said the young man, with some relief.
The three walked down the concourse until they saw a restroom, and the colonel led them inside. A few minutes later they emerged wearing gray business suits, leaving behind them in the restroom the faint odor of plastic burned to slag and flushed down toilets.
Further down the concourse they made a right turn and went to Gate Twenty. First class boarding had already begun; they went through the boarding conduit even as it moved to the airlock of their assigned compartment. An attendant there closed the lock behind them, and suddenly they were alone, away from scrutiny.
The compartment was expansive for the SR-27 craft, but still close quarters for three people. Four recliner chairs dominated the space, each with foldout table and food service module. One door led to a central hallway and the observation bubble aft, the other to a small bathroom with body scrubber, pressurized, zero-gee sink and toilet. Below a video monitor on the wall was a fine collection of film disks to wile away the long hours ahead. Food dispensers offered a selection of two beers, several wines, and a fine selection of alcohol cocktails mixed with choice fruit juices.
The colonel tossed his bag carelessly in a corner, and flopped into a chair, immediately keying in instructions for a drink, for the machine would shut down during liftoff. “This is more like it,” he said.
His orderlies settled into the chairs on either side of him. One pulled an electronic reading module from his bag, booted it up, and began to read. The other lay back, and closed his eyes.
The colonel's drink, orange liquid in a squeeze tube, came out of the dispenser and dropped into a little hopper. The man uncapped it, guzzled down the contents, and licked his lips. “Sure would taste better with a cigar. Two weeks is a long time without one.”
His orderlies said nothing.
“You guys don't talk much, do you?”
“Only when necessary, sir,” said the young man who was reading. “There will be plenty of cigars at the safe-house, and anything else you want.”
“Is that where I meet my benefactor?” asked the colonel.
“He'll contact you there. Relax, Senor Guzman, and have another drink. That machine will shut down in a few minutes.”
Cesar Guzman had his second drink dispensed and consumed before he felt the first bump of liftoff.
Only when the nurse had left the room did the two men allow tears to come to their eyes. Marcos was flat on his back, Eduardo hunched forward in the wheelchair at his bedside. They held hands, squeezing hard.
“They told me you were down the hallway, but I'm still surprised to see you,” said Marcos. “How many bullets did they take out of you?”
“Three, I'm told. How's the knee doing?”
“Okay, for teflon and heavy carbon, but I won't have the flexibility I had. They're mustering me out, Eduardo. I'm not a soldier anymore.” Marcos' voice quavered when he said it.
“I don't know what they'll do with me, yet,” said Eduardo. “If I'm out, I'm out. You going back to Nova Brazilia?”
“Where else?” said Marcos. “Planet of birth, the only place I can get a work card, and the lousiest place for jobs, except in the tower. No college, Eduardo. All I'm fit for is menial labor, and the Colombans have all the jobs in reconstruction. They're the bastards who started all this.”
“I'll talk to my father, Marcos. He can find a job for you. What do you want to do?”
Marcos chuckled. “Well, let's see. I'm skilled at jumping out of aircraft, and killing people. Your old man have any need for that kind of person?”
“You're also a leader, and organizer. I can testify to that. Let me talk to him, Marcos.”
“Sure, whatever,” said Marcos, patting Eduardo's hand. He paused, and asked, “You have any military visitors lately?”
“Yes. You?”
“A captain from the Intelligence Office.”
“Ortez?”
“That's the one. Told him everything I could remember: Perez — Guzman — everything. He's been back twice, and keeps asking the same questions.”
“Me too. I'm not sure he believes what I said about Perez.”
“Well he's heard it from both of us, and I was still awake when you passed out.”
“That was you breathing in my face,” said Eduardo.
“Yeah, well, your breath didn't smell so hot either. You watch, I bet they'll try to cover this up. Perez will quietly disappear, and so will Guzman. No headlines, no embarrassment, and nobody will ever know what really happened to Zed Force.”
“We know,” said Eduardo.
“That makes us a problem.” Marcos' eyes narrowed. “Of course, we only talk to Ortez, right?”
“Right,” said Eduardo.
“Armed guards, visitors screened, no reporters, even though what happened to us was news. I keep waiting for someone to put something special in my IV bag when I'm asleep.”
“If Perez is at large, and knows we're alive, those guards could be protecting us, Marcos.”
“That bastard. I want him dead. I want Guzman dead. All those kids — they were barely out of unit training.”
“Yimez is alive,” said Eduardo.
“He's right next door, Eduardo, and I've heard the nurses talking. If he ever wakes up, he'll be a vegetable. No problem. We're the problem. God, I feel so helpless.”
“We are for now,” said Eduardo. “Ortez seems sincere, and for now I'm going to trust him. I don't think the Intelligence Office will let Perez and Guzman go free, but what they do might be done quietly, and with extreme prejudice. It wouldn't be a first for those people.”
“If they're looking for volunteers, here I am,” said Marcos.
“Me too,” said Eduardo.
Cezar Guzman watched the approach to Nova Brasilia on the video monitor in his compartment while the two men with him still slept.
The planet was covered with clouds to the north, coppery land masses peeking between breaks in swirling white, but the equator was clear, an expanse of yellow with splotches of green, and rising from it was a structure like a straightened necklace of beads, metallic, gleaming in sunlight. The string connecting the beads faded to a thread near the surface of the planet. Belarous Tower was one of four such structures rising from the equator of Nova Brazilia, each one towering a hundred kilometers above the surface and growing higher each decade.
Both technology and educated suburbia had gone vertical on Nova Brasilia, away from the scrutiny of The Church, each bead on the tower string a self-contained community, the string itself housing the great shaft for commuter trains connecting them to each other and to the ground. Four towers, but it was Belarous they approached, the tower rising from the capital city of Paolos, quaint home of Governor Cesario Monsarez: archaic architecture, cathedral spires, the slow-paced, leisurely life of the wealthy minority.
I'm coming into the backyard of the man who ordered my death, thought Guzman. But there's someone else who wants me very much alive. And now I'm here.
The shuttle came in high, and the top of the tower looked like a flower opening to sunlight, A ragged, unfinished structure swarmed with space-suited figures and tiny flyers ferrying materials, tractors pulling beams and slabs of heavy carbon. The shuttle circled the tower twice, dropping one level each time. It homed in on the third great community swelling below the top of the tower: a partially deflated ball, with rows of brightly lit windows, bristling with solar arrays, heat radiating vanes, and antenna complexes of countless shapes and sizes. As they drew near, a great maw opened to receive them. Two rows of lights converged inside to blackness, and the shuttle slowed, turning slightly at final approach, then hovering a moment before moving forward again.
Guzman's companions, their names still unknown to him, sullenly awoke. “Finally,” said one of them. “I'm sick of this compartment.”
For long minutes there were only the converging lines of lights moving beneath them, darkness all around. Guzman felt a thump as the shuttle touched down, bounced once, rolled a little, and came to a stop. A dull rumble followed, then a loud clang, and a rushing sound like wind in a cave.
Sudden lights were blinding after the darkness. He was looking at a wall with four tiers of windows. Crowds of people walked or stood by the windows to look down at the shuttle. “Are we being met?” asked Guzman.
“No,” said one of the men with him. “We're taking you directly to your apartment. You'll be contacted there.”
“Welcome to Belarous Ninety-Seven,” said a female voice from the video monitor. “For those of you traveling on to Level Fifty-Six, we will be departing in twenty minutes. Please remain in your compartments.”
The airlock door of their compartment slid open, and there was a rush of moist, warm air smelling like heated plastic. The great worm of the boarding conduit snaked off to their right, level at first, then ascending at a steep angle. After two, weightless weeks of lounging in the compartment, Guzman's legs hurt and he was puffing hard before they reached the end of it. His own breath smelled foul to him.
They came out into a crowded lounge, a line of people waiting to board, others hurrying left and right along a long, curving concourse. A moving walkway was a welcome sight, and Guzman took it. His two, young companions chose to make a brisk walk parallel to his course. The concourse was a giant tube, stark, undecorated walls in white, ceiling panels giving off soft, green light.
Baggage claim was a long wall with three levels of closed doors, one receptacle for each compartment. Their flight was announced on a screen overhead. They went to the proper receptacle, inserted scan-card in a slot. A conveyor belt whirring to life as the door was opened, and their luggage spewed forth.
One of his companions carried Guzman's heavy bag, but the walk was not far. Just as Guzman saw the security area ahead, they turned left into an alcove next to a self-service bar. An elevator door was there, unmarked. The man carrying Guzman's luggage put down the luggage, inserted a rectangular key into a slot by the door. Humming beyond the door, and they waited.
The door opened, and they stepped inside, door closing immediately behind them. No controls, or floor markers, walls of shining copper and a mirrored ceiling, an overhead camera turning slowly to scan the occupants before the elevator began to rise. They accelerated rapidly, moving upwards for only seconds before easing gently to a stop. The door opened to a silent hallway covered with plush, red carpeting. A faint smell of cigar smoke renewed Guzman's cravings in an instant. Gilded ceiling, mirrors spaced between closed doors on both sides of the hall, the walls were papered in a design of entwined roses. Soft music came from behind one of the doors they passed.
They went to the end of the hall to a set of double doors. “This is for you,” said one companion, and unlocked the door.
Guzman was astonished, and pleased. The apartment was exceptional: a suite, actually, lavishly furnished for both business and pleasure, while anticipating his private, personal needs. There was a white-carpeted living room with electric fireplace, plush chairs and sofa, a glass table on which he found a large box filled with his favorite cigars. The bedroom was small, the bed generous, and a walk-in closet was filled with suits, shoes, sporting attire, all new, all in his size. The jet-massage tub in the bathroom was large enough for six people, and there was a fine assortment of fragrances for the water.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” he said, coming to the kitchen. “I can cook here. Cooking is a hobby of mine.”
“Yes, Senor Guzman. You'll find everything you need here, including fresh produce,” said his escort, the other man unpacking Guzman's belongings in the bedroom. “Our employer has spared no expense, since you'll have to be confined here for several weeks.”
“I understand,” said Guzman.
Finally there was a combination office and sporting room with terminal, videophone and motorized exercise equipment integrated with VR. One wall was dominated by a well stocked bar and still another box of his favorite cigars.
“I must thank my benefactor for his generosity. Will he be coming here?”
“No, sir. Contact is by telephone or computer. You'll not meet him directly. It should be only a few minutes now. He knows you're here.”
And it was only minutes later when the call came.
The men who'd accompanied him were ready to leave, but awaited the call. The videophone beeped, and one of them went to answer it, talked for a while, then returned to the living room and beckoned to Guzman.
“The call is for you. We'll leave you alone, now.”
The men left the suite as Guzman reached the videophone and saw a dark screen there.
“Hello? This is Cesar Guzman. Are you there?” He sat down before the videophone.
“Ah, Senor Guzman, how good it is to see you alive and well. I hope you find your apartment comfortable. Is there anything more I can get for you now?” The voice was deep, and garbled, yet understandable.
“No, no, everything is wonderful. You're very generous, Senor . . . ah . . .”
A long pause, then, “Call me Miguel, if you like. Names are not so important. It's what a man does that makes his place in society, don't you think?”
“Of course. I learned that when I was a little boy,” said Guzman.
“And you applied it well,” said Miguel. “Of all the cartels, yours has been the most efficient and cost-effective. You are both a good manager and businessman, Senor Guzman, and now all the other cartels, your competition, are gone. That is why you're here.”
“Yes, I was told this was about business. But all my people are either dead, or arrested.”
“On Colomba, yes, but your off-world network is untouched. Your distribution system has only been damaged locally; I can restore that within months, and have your products rolling again if production continues.”
“Production will continue when the growers see the buyers have not disappeared. Their farms are scattered so deep in the jungles, even the war did not come close to exposing them. But all my marketers are dead, arrested, or underground.”
“I can provide such people for you,” said Miguel.
“I cannot pay for this service, you understand. All of my funds were frozen at the start of the war, and have now been confiscated by the government as reparation.”
“So we begin again, Senor Guzman. Consider me as a venture capitalist who wants to invest in a promising business. I provide you with money and people, you provide the network and the names of key personnel you need who are imprisoned. I use my own networks to set them free. Your people train mine, establish a new relationship with the growers. Product flows, money is made, and I receive a substantial return on my investment.”
“How much is substantial?” asked Guzman.
“Fifty percent, Senor Guzman. We are equal partners in this, both in investment and risk. We build on what you've already accomplished. The market is well established. With all the veterans returning from war, it is poised for rapid growth. There are sorrows to be soothed, nightmares to be forgotten.” The garbled voice rose in pitch, excited.
“It will take time to establish new relations with the growers,” said Guzman. “They will look for familiar faces.”
“And they will find them,” said the man called Miguel. “When I call you again, two days from now, at this time, I will want the names of those you wish released from prison, and also what their functions will be in the organization.”
“How do we meet? With my people, I mean.”
“All in good time. Your present quarters are temporary, Senor Guzman. A compound is being prepared for you on the surface of another world. I think you'll feel quite at home there.”
“Again I must thank you,” said Guzman. “It's unfortunate you must hide your identity. Can you see me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Miguel. “Perhaps someday, Senor Guzman. For now, it's best you not know me, and for your own safety. You might try to contact me, and that would be very bad for you. There are so many people who want you dead, including our Governor. We must be cautious.”
“I understand,” said Guzman, feeling a sudden chill, “and I'll have those names ready for you when you call again.”
“Excellent. I see you're enjoying a cigar. It is a passion I share with you.”
“The only thing better is a fine woman,” said Guzman, relaxing a little.
A pause, then, “I can provide you with a woman if you wish, as long as you understand she will live only minutes after leaving your apartment.”
Again, Guzman felt a chill. “That won't be necessary. I'm quite comfortable.”
“Well, then, until we talk again. Welcome to Nova Brazilia, and all its opportunities. I think we're going to do very well together.”
The video screen flashed blue, telling him his caller had disconnected. Guzman punched the machine off, and reflected for a moment.
This man had saved his life for profit. He was rich, and influential beyond corporate levels if he could influence prison releases. That remained to be proven, of course. He was not a greedy man; a fifty percent share was not unreasonable, considering the investment to be made. Most likely a businessman, with major connections to the government, perhaps even with Governor Monsarez.
The voice he'd heard had been electronically distorted for security, but certain semantic overtones had not escaped him. This man named Miguel was intelligent, thorough and cautious. He was used to getting what he wanted. And he was quite capable of killing anyone who stood in his way.
Guzman immediately began preparing a list of names for him.
It was ten in the evening when Eduardo Cabral made his sixth round of the day, shuffling along the hallway and pulling the stand with hanging IV bag to keep up with him, Most of the patients were asleep, including Marcos, who'd made the eight o'clock round with him, hobbling along on a new knee that was making an irritating click if he thrust his leg out too far in taking a step. As the time of his hospital release approached, Marcos was becoming increasingly depressed. His mustering out papers had arrived, been signed and filed, and a final check for six months service waited cashing. No family, no job, only a free passage back to Nova Brazilia. Eduardo had wired first to his father, then to his brothers, asking for a job for Marcos, but there had been no answer.
Father had not come to visit him, and there had been four more terminal screens of excuses and apologies for it from his mother.
Suddenly, he didn't care anymore.
He peeked in Marcos' room, but the man was still asleep. Three doors down the light was dim in Yimez's room, so he knocked softly on the door jam there and went inside. Yimez had come out of his coma after a nineteen-day sleep, and was two months away from his twentieth birthday. A handsome kid: well muscled, high cheekbones and coal-black eyes, the kind of face that made hearts flutter, he lay flat on his back, and smiled when Eduardo entered the room.
Yimez raised his left hand instinctively, and Eduardo took it in his, squeezed gently and held it. “How you doing, soldier?” he asked softly.
The black eyes twinkled, the smile broadened, but there was no answer. Behind the eyes, inside the head, a part of Benito Yimez had gone away forever. There was recognition, and feelings, nanobots at work, and motor functions were returning. They would likely be normal, someday. But for the rest of his days, Yimez would remain deep within himself, oblivious to the external world, and even his own needs to eat, drink and defecate.
There were special homes for such people.
Eduardo held Yimez's hand, told him about his day, and promised to soon deliver that sketch he'd made of him so he could send it to his mother. He turned to leave, but Benito wouldn't let go of his hand, squeezing hard.
“I know. I get lonely, too. But it's late, and we need to sleep to get better, buddy. I'll be back with that sketch in the morning. You take care of yourself. That's an order, private.”
Tears rolled down Benito's cheeks. He made a pathetic sound that was perhaps an unformed word, or just a cry. Eduardo squeezed his hand, and left the room, swallowing hard to hold back his own tears. He walked his last twenty meters of the day, and noticed that the light in his room had been turned off, the only illumination coming from the little lamp above his bed. He went inside, and reached for the light switch.
“Leave it, lieutenant, and close the door. I want this to be private.”
Captain Ernesto Ortez sat in a corner chair in gloom outside the little circle of yellow made by the bed-light.
“Pretty late for a visit, captain,” said Eduardo, closing the door. “I thought you were finished with me.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. That depends on you,” said Ortez. “Get yourself in bed, and I'll tell you where we are with this.”
Eduardo got into bed, positioned stand and IV bag, put his sketchpad and box of colored pencils to one side, and fluffed up the pillows behind his back. “Okay, what is it?”
Ortez paused, and said, “We have enough now to believe what you said about Perez. It took a lot of doing.”
“Good!” said Eduardo. “Have you arrested him?”
“No, but we know where he is. A week after the attack on your unit, Perez bailed out, disappeared. Somehow he knew he'd been fingered. There were a lot of questions being asked about the disposition of his forces, and a reported two-hour absence from his command post that he denied. But I don't think that's what spooked him.”
“He must have known some of us survived. Isn't that why you had guards here? He knew we were on to him,” said Eduardo, but Ortez just shook his head.
“I think he was paid to make a commitment, and then hung out to dry. I think the person who paid him then told us where he is. We received an anonymous call. Perez is heading up a band of cartel mercenaries. They're based in the jungle, right here on Colomba. We've already checked it out.”
“Guzman?”
“Could be. We don't have a line on him yet. Could be he's cleaning house, getting rid of anyone who knows where he's gone. And we're going to oblige him.”
“Questioning Perez could tell you where Guzman is,” said Eduardo.
“He won't know anything. Guzman was taken from him shortly after the attack.”
“Your anonymous caller again?” Eduardo smiled, the scenario becoming clear to him. “So on the word of an anonymous person, you're going to kill Perez. No arrest, no questioning, no trial the media can cover, and no embarrassment to the Corps. Is that it?”
“That's it, lieutenant,” said Ortez. “It's not a military decision. The orders have come from the top. And when we find Guzman, he is also a dead man. Loose ends, lieutenant, the completion of a mission, and the end of the cartels. Not a cover-up, if that's what you're thinking. Perez is just a new complication.”
Eduardo thought of Marcos and Yimez, and the scream of one of his men that horrible night. “How soon?” he asked.
“We're in no hurry. Perez will be watched; he might yet lead us to Guzman. All our resources are now focused on that. When he's found, we'll send in a team to take out both of them.”
Ortez was looking intently at him, now, reflected lamplight flickering in his eyes. “The operation will be dangerous, and top secret. The team will not be in uniform, and will be on its own. We're picking our best rangers for the job, and that means Zed Force.”
“Most of them are pretty young,” said Eduardo, “only a handful of veterans left.”
“That's all we need,” said Ortez, “and one officer to lead them. Right now his doctors tell me he needs another few weeks before he begins training to complete the operation that put him in the hospital in the first place.”
Eduardo's stomach muscles suddenly constricted, and he opened his mouth to breathe. “I'm not an assassin,” he said.
“You are a lieutenant in Zed Force, about to be promoted to the rank of captain,” said Ortez, “and you will lead the operation.”