New Dublin, Scobie’s World
The cargobot rolled to a stop just short of the tousled-haired man. “Hi, guys,” he said as Michael and Shinoda stepped out. “I’m Marco Chang.”
You don’t look like a crazy to me, Michael thought, looking at the man. If anything, he looked very ordinary. “Alan Fels,” he said to Chang. Thanks to the vocalization reprogramming in his neuronics, his voice was thick with the crushed vowels of a native-born Hammer. “This is Suzie.”
“Hi, Marco,” Shinoda said.
“So,” Chang said, “you said you wanted some drop shells?”
“Yeah, we do,” Michael replied. “Ours are back on Commitment, and since we’re stuck here until the shipping lines reopen-and Kraa knows how long it’ll be before that happens-we thought we’d do some drops. Not much else we fancy doing.”
“First time I’ve heard a Hammer say that about this place,” Chang said. They set off toward a large shed. A sign over its door declared it to be the headquarters of the New Dublin Drop Club. “Scobie’s only claim to fame is that we have everything anyone could ever want … for a price.”
You’re not kidding, Michael thought.
Chang pushed his hand into a reader to open the door. Michael and Shinoda followed him inside. The room looked like a million other club rooms across humanspace: a small bar, a collection of old chairs and tables, and wall-mounted holovids paging through pix of members doing what members did. Michael frowned when he spotted an old-fashioned wooden board sporting a list of names and dates in gold paint with the words “In Memoriam” across the top. It was a depressingly long list that did nothing to improve Michael’s spirits.
If the ghosts of dead members bothered Chang, he did not let it show. “Here we are,” the man said. He opened a door off to one side to reveal floor-to-ceiling racks packed with large plasfiber boxes. “You want drop shells, we’ve got drop shells.”
“Aha!” Michael said with forced enthusiasm, peering at the nearest box. “You didn’t say you were using G-Series systems … very nice,” he added. He wondered how much more bullshit he’d have to come up with, even as he whispered a quiet prayer of thanks for the net’s ability to turn people like him into instant experts.
“Oh, yes,” Chang said, “we have been for a while now. The F-Series was okay, but nothing beats the G.”
Oh really, Michael thought. Try telling that to the poor bastards on your killed-in-action board. “No argument there,” he said. “Wish we could get them back home. We’ve been using Kravax-5531 pods. Our military won’t let us use the good stuff.”
Chang shook his head. “You guys are nuts,” he said. “The 5531 is a killer. You know Boris Chernokov?”
Who the hell was Boris Chernokov? Michael flicked an anxious glance at Shinoda. Despite all the research they had done, there were yawning gaps in their cover story. It would not take much probing by Chang for that to become obvious. “Poor old Boris,” he asked.
Chang looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Poor old Boris? Why? Has something happened to him?” he said.
Shit, shit, shit, thought Michael. He had assumed the man had been killed. “Oh, nothing too serious … we hope. Small disagreement with our friends in DocSec.” Michael made a show of looking worried. “But we won’t talk about it if that’s okay.”
Chang blinked; living on Scobie’s, he’d know all about DocSec. “Sure,” he said. “Now, you’ve got three drops planned, I think you said.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. These are ten grand each. You do know that?”
“Yeah, yeah; no problem.”
“I wish I had half your luck,” Chang muttered. “I’m lucky if I can afford to do two drops a year. Anyway, let’s get them loaded.”
• • •
“Not sure that man was convinced we were kosher,” Michael said to Shinoda as the cargobot pulled away from a thoughtful-looking Chang.
“I was thinking the same thing. I don’t suppose that club of his sees too many bored, cashed-up Hammers.”
“I’m damn sure they don’t see any. Still, this is Scobie’s World, and on Scobie’s World cash is king, so I guess he was happy.”
“He didn’t look too happy as we left.”
“You trying to tell me something, Sergeant Shinoda?”
“Hmmm.” Shinoda nodded. “Yes … Right about now, I think he’s trying to decide whether he should tell the wrong people about us. State Security might think they run this place, but we both know as well as Chang does that DocSec calls the shots.”
“And DocSec likes to shoot people who keep things to themselves. He’s covering his ass.”
Shinoda thought about that for a moment. “He smelled a rat; that’s for sure. He’ll tell State Security. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Damn,” Michael said. “We’re way too obvious in this damn cargobot. Chang will have its ID. We need to dump it and fast.”
“There!” Shinoda said. She pointed to a narrow lane overhung by thickly canopied trees. “Down there. We’ll off-load the boxes and send the cargobot on a wander around town. By the time they pick it up, we’ll be long gone.”
Michael told the bot to turn down the lane. A kilometer in, they stopped in front of an old building, its security fence long past its use-by date. “This is good enough. If we’re fast, nobody will question why we stopped.”
“I’ll have a look,” Shinoda said, getting out. She was back quickly. “I think it’s safe to leave the gear here for the time being. Nobody’s been near the place in months.”
“Let’s do it.”
Working feverishly, they manhandled the boxes off the cargobot and into the dilapidated building and tucked them away out of sight. It took only minutes, and Michael was more than a bit relieved when the vehicle finally hummed off down the lane.
“I’ll get a couple of the guys back with holocams to keep an eye on things,” Shinoda said.as they set off.
Shinoda dropped into a chair. “You’ve got a comm from Spassky, sir,” she said.
“Thanks.” Michael patched his neuronics into the data feed. He gestured to Shinoda to stay connected. “Go ahead,” he said when the man’s image appeared.
“We’re in position, sir, and the holocams are online.”
“Roger that. Any sign of life?”
“None. Quiet as the proverbial.”
“Okay. Hang in there. We’ll see you in thirty-six hours, and don’t lose sight of those damn pods. They cost me a fortune.”
Spassky’s face cracked into a grin. “Don’t worry, sir. They’ll still be here.”
“I hope so.”
Michael cut the link. “Almost there,” he said to Shinoda.
“I hope so,” Shinoda replied. “I’ve had enough of Scobie’s.”
Michael was shocked to see how tired the marine looked. “You and me both,” he said. “I think I’ll go check the dead-letter box. Hopefully there’ll be something from Moussawi.”
“I’ll come with you, sir,” Shinoda said, starting to get to her feet.
“No. You stay put. I’ll take Akuna.”
Shinoda didn’t argue with him.
Akuna walked past where Michael sat waiting on the park bench. “Lovely evening for a walk,” she said.
Michael’s pulse quickened. Akuna had spotted the telltale; the dead-letter box had something for him. A response from Moussawi? “Yes, it is,” he said to Akuna’s back.
He waited five minutes, then walked the 300 meters to the box, a cleft in an old tree passed by a meandering path well screened by thick clumps of flowering shrubs. It was the work of only seconds for Michael to reach in and feel around inside. “Yes,” he said under his breath as his fingers closed around a datastick. He always wondered how the information in the stick had gotten from wherever Moussawi was holed up waiting for Juggernaut to kick off.
He uploaded the contents. Admiral Moussawi’s face appeared; he looked old and tired. What he had to say was short and to the point: J-Day had been put back a week to give Michael and his team more time to make it down to Commitment.
It did not take Michael long to work out the real meaning of the message. Michael had to succeed. Juggernaut depended on it. Shit, he thought as he set off to meet up with Akuna. Talk about pressure of expectations.