Cellular cohesion, bonding, reaching out. A billion cells touched; a billion cells re-organising. Reorganising, changing, re-purposing…reaching out… calculating, calculated questions. Answers, bonding, changing re-purposing.
A bare room, in the centre, a metallic capsule, spewing wires and feeds to a humming box the size of a suitcase.
Jared’s wrists ached, no, wait, it wasn’t his wrists, it was his arm, wait again. No, it was his whole self. The bonds are tight, the lid of the container cold against the tip of his nose. Cushioning resisting his movement, a tiny LED blinked somewhere down his body that he couldn’t see in the coffin like box. He tugged and wriggled in the confined space, tugging, something tugging at his wrists, pain, a cannula? Something, something in there. A thump. The container moved, his inner ear told him that he was lying flat, was he?
A rush of air, hissing, light, ouch that’s bright, eyes hurting, vision cloudy. Noise, voices.
A smiling figure leaned over him. It’s form coming into focus, close cropped hair and oriental features, maybe mid 40s. “Rest easy mister Lazlo, welcome to IO,” The figure stood up and swiped something away on his hand terminal as he spoke, “I am doctor Lal and I will be looking after you.”
Earth – North American Free Trade Zone – Hubris Ranch
Seven days of sunshine bathed the ranch in sweltering heat.
Living on a ranch for a week for some under any normal set of circumstances may be construed as a holiday, others would find the lack of tech and services concerning. For you, at least some of you it provided a chance to gaze at length at the big skies and endless horizons, to see, touch and feed animals that you had only seen on feeds. After a few days, the UN marines guarding the perimeter fell into the scenery and only interrupted your experiences on occasion. You didn't speak to them, they didn't speak to you. The ranch remained well provisioned and the nights were spent resting, wrestling with the news feeds and listening to old Earther western music, much to the chagrin of some. For a while you forgot you were under the strangest house arrest and lost yourself in relaxation and long nights around the fire drinking surprisingly good Earther liquor, recounting your exploits. After 7 nights, that all changed.
Cotyar scanned the personnel records on his tablet, enlarging the text to account for the bumping thermals that caused the VTOL to lurch and rise with sickening regularity. “We’re coming up on the ranch in 5 sir.” came a metallic voice from the speaker. Cotyar sighed, put away the tablet and prepped for dust-off. It didn't make it any more comfortable to him knowing that the craft was piloted by a collection of neural AI fibre optics and a processor almost as powerful as the human brain. “30 seconds.” Avasalara wanted eyes limited on this operation with as little human input as possible, using the ranch was her idea, Cotyar agreed with the instruction and in the last few seconds before the pads touched down contemplated his next job, and why the f##k would she go and see Mao herself, it made him uncomfortable, but he’d been uncomfortable most of his working life, he was paid to be so, and ensure she wasn’t. The old girl was a tough task master, and a real ball-breaker at times, but he loved her morality.
The glasses on the sideboard rattled as a low thrum vibrated the windows of the ranch. The vibrations increased as you all stood as one and paced to the windows as it was pelted with tiny stones and dust thrown up by the wash of the VTOL that touched down in the yard. A plate fell off the wall and smashed into a hundred or so pieces. The grey hulk rested on it’s 4 retractable legs and settled into a squat pose, as if ready to pounce once more into the sky. Unmarked yet clearly a UN design, the whine of the engines slowed as the thrusters realigned themselves and the ramp beneath the ‘cockpit’ lowered, lights illuminating the edges of the ramp in the half light.
A fire-team of 4 marines approached the ramp as a rough looking man in a leather jacket, jeans and combat boots reached the bottom of the ramp, a rucksack slung over one shoulder he exchanged a few words and received a salute before turning and heading off to their perimeter pits. Cotyar was in his late 30s, tall and muscular with a face beyond his age, stubble and short cropped hair gave the impression of someone on basic, but the eyes gave away the sharpness within, his unassuming looks and mischievous grin had caught many off guard over the years, and more than a handful wouldn’t get a second chance to regret it.
The briefing took about 6 hours, with breaks for good food and drink. The exchange led with apologies for your harsh treatment, abound with sarcasm enough to fill a cheap stand up routine. Next came a debrief where Cotyar sat and listened intently to your story, or the story you wished to tell, he was a good listener, and often came back to something spoken hours before to confirm and re-check the details. Then he got on to the meat.
Star Helix had been aware of the money laundering front by Zushan for Winterbourne Geological for quite some time. Mellanie Storm, a ‘data analyst’ passed this information on to Cotyar who in turn tossed it into the grinder. Avasalaras rightfully placed obsession with Jules Mao’s empire and Mao Kwitkowski was processing leads, counter-leads and connections day and night, tracing the mega corporations money streams. Winterborne flagged and further delving uncovered some interesting connections. Winterbourne picked up a spent claim on a mine on IO several years ago and started sending industrial equipment there, building equipment. A front company with no record of actual business it was discovered that the money stream was coming from Protogen.
When Avasalara heard about this she had a carefully measured fit. She ordered Zushan to be brought in, but some small time gang had other ideas, hence the almost unfortunate incident on Wild Horse Island. Cotyar watched the feed of the assault and, luckily for you, you were picked out by Mellanie Storm. He then sits back in a chair and reads off your personnel files, listing some of your travels, your parentage and a whole host of information you are more than a little uncomfortable in hearing. He ends with a smile.
Times are tense at the moment, the Ganymede incident is going through a healing process but the refugee and work on Ganymede to alleviate the suffering of the colonists has only just begun. Any link to Protogen and the Martian high command is the elephant in the corner, so whatever action is taken will be taken on the black. That is where you come in. Cotyar flings a vid feed of the Prometheus to the screen above the fireplace. You breathe a collective sigh as you note that it is still at the Bush Shipyards. “Your ship is safe gentlemen, and you will note the Winterbourne livery, a rather nice fetching shade of green don’t you think?” He grins and takes another finger of liquor. “I've done a hundred of these briefings and I can honestly say that someone likes you, either that or the old girl has got her knickers in a twist so much she’ll try anything. Me? Well you look able, and you can handle yourself, so I’m a yes man”. With the help of our friend Zushan who has his d@#k nicely back in the Seki’s harem of streetwalkers, you are engineers my friends, well, those of you who know how to hold a wrench, you are escorting the freighter “King William” to IO carrying industrial air purifiers. Her captain is Melissa Sax, she’s a good egg, operative, and your point of contact if the proverbial should strike the extractor.” He goes through the plan verbally, watching your reactions as he covers each point. “You are to infiltrate, should be easy enough, an escort can expect a day or so’s rest before the flip trip, find out what’s going on and if it stinks, end it, no questions asked, she isn't pulling any punches where Protogen is concerned. Get out and rep to Sax, she is your exit plan if it goes tits up.”
You spend the next hour or so going through transit plans, protocols and other concerns before Cotyar rises to leave. He heads to the door and turns, as the whine of the VTOL turbines starts to spin up. “Guys, this is a tough job, you won’t get medals or any of that crap, but you will have the appreciation of the most tough-assed politician on earth, and a whole lot more.”
Cotyar, bag over his shoulder takes a few steps through the dust being whipped up by the VTOL’s engines and turns, waggling his finger with a grin on his face. “Oh yes, one more thing. Your friend, Mister Ruben. We picked him up a few days ago, he’s at the Martian Consulate in New York, I think they were quite eager to have a word, I’m sure they're done with him by now.” The last few words spoken into the rush of sound as he turns and heads to the ramp.
Closing the door to keep out the dust you watch the craft rise and burn into the dark sky, until at once, it is just another speck among millions.
The moment is broken by the chirping of your hand terminals at once. 10am pick up tomorrow. Then Angelus’s terminal chirps, looking down at it, he sees the sender’s name. Ruben.
