“Headquarters staff will be standing by to support you in whatever way we can,” the supervisor replied.
“That’s reassuring,” Desh told him, and hung up.
Desh felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck—the force of gravity was becoming more noticeable. He opened the cabin door and saw that the planet’s canyon now filled the forward viewport. Desh walked forward and took the seat next to the pilot.
He pulled up a picture of the target on his datascroll and held it out for the pilot to see. “I need to know if this man is alive.”
The pilot frowned, but glanced at the photo. “Lloyds? Yeah, he’s alive.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. If a guy like Lloyds got taken down, the whole planet would know about it.”
Desh grimaced. Wonderful.
“I think he’s opening a new titanium refinery on the South Rim this evening,” the pilot continued. “I saw something about it in the news last night.”
“Take me there.”
The pilot began to ask Desh a question, but caught sight of Desh’s expression, and thought better of it. Instead, he concentrated on guiding the shuttle onto its new course.
Desh set his backpack on his lap, opening the main compartment to unfold a large, clamshell-shaped device, his Forge. Hello, old friend. He ran his open palm lightly over the smooth metal, smiling faintly. I hope they let me keep you when this is all over. Just for old time’s sake. Accessing his internal computer, he sent the device a series of commands, and watched as nanomachines in the backpack’s open tray whirred to life. The butt of an auto-pistol soon began to emerge. The pilot glanced over briefly, then carefully kept his eyes fixed out the front viewport. While Desh waited, he slaved his internal communications device to the shuttle’s radio.
“Radio check.”
The pilot touched his earpiece and nodded. “I got you. We’re coming over the South Rim.”
Desh craned his neck to look out the polarized window next to him, noting a jagged edge of cliff close below them. Beyond the cliff’s edge and far below it, a sprawling industrial park belched flame and fumes into the red sky. The pilot made a steep bank, bringing the craft down and sharply to the left, cruising just above the factories.
“What now?”
Desh thought for a second. “Give me a pass over the new plant.”
Desh picked up the completed auto-pistol, loaded it with practiced ease, double-checked that its digital point-of-aim reticule appeared on the heads-up display of his optical implants, and then placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. In his Forge, the nanomachines were already at work on a grenade.
“Coming up on the plant,” the pilot reported.
“Slow down.”
The pilot took the shuttle through a wide, slow turn, allowing Desh an excellent view of the plant out his window. None of the machinery seemed to be operating, but he identified the glass-domed main entrance by the large, lighted tunnel leading to it.
“See if you can find us somewhere inconspicuous to set down.”
The pilot hesitated. “If you want to get in there, we’re going to have to land in a bay with atmospheric seals... I don’t have survival gear onboard.”
Desh had forgotten the planet’s air was not breathable. Focus! he told himself. If we land in a bay, the shuttle’s going to get recorded on security cameras. But I don’t have a choice at this point.
“Then set down in a bay. Close to the plant.”
The bay the pilot chose was mercifully empty—he landed with a slight jolt, and the bay doors sealed behind them. As the bay repressurized, Desh slipped into a large trenchcoat, pocketed the grenade from his backpack, and then closed the device, slipping it on. He took a minute to detail his plans with the pilot, and then exited the shuttle quickly, heading for the nearest air-sealed pedestrian tunnel. He pulled his coat close around his jumpsuit, hugging the thin material to him for protection.
There were no guards at the entrance to the new plant, and Desh allowed himself a silent sigh of relief. He stepped out of the entrance tunnel into a large, domed arboretum, ringed with shops and food stalls. The factory could be seen through enormous reinforced glass windows on the far side of the trees, the heavy pipes and valves looking strangely incongruous behind the imported trees.
Those trees must have cost a fortune.
His initial walk-through of the area yielded nothing: Lloyds was likely inside the plant itself, but the inner entrance to the plant was blocked by a security gate. He did notice several workers installing a podium on a small stage under the trees, however. An official opening ceremony out here, maybe? Desh remembered a mission, long ago, the target a recently-elected politician. He had set up his position on a rooftop across the city square with a long-range dart gun. Back then, he had been excited to be a guildsman, electrified at the prospect of so much wealth and the challenge of missions.
And how quickly that luster faded.
A flurry of movement in his peripheral vision caught Desh’s eye, and he turned, looking back at the same entrance through which he had entered the arboretum. A man was walking out of the tunnel’s arch, flanked by an aide and several alert-looking men whose demeanor immediately earned them the label ‘bodyguard’ in Desh’s mind. Desh dialed up his optical implants, zooming in on the man’s face, switching to infrared.
After a second, a notification popped up: <Heat signature identified: target confirmed.>
“I’ve got him,” Desh said.
“Okay,” the pilot replied over the radio. Desh could hear the whine of the shuttle’s engines kicking on in the background.
He switched back to normal vision to count the security personnel. Four. Wait—could be five, he chided himself. Don’t get sloppy now and automatically dismiss that aide as a non-hostile.
Lloyds and his entourage were headed in his general direction, so Desh pretended to study the menu options at the nearest food stall and let them approach, relaxing and breathing evenly. Then he saw two men across from him leave a store, heading straight for the target, eyes focused on the man. Desh swore under his breath.
And here come the local crew. And they’re telegraphing their intentions like kids near a candy bowl.
Time slowed, as it always seemed to do in the seconds before an engagement. The bodyguards had seen the threat, and by unspoken agreement, they tightened their formation around the target, protecting him with their bodies, while one of them stepped forward to confront the approaching men. The two local hitmen traded a worried look, and then yanked cut-off heavy rifles out of the boxes they were carrying, opening fire with an incoherent yell. Their fire was wild and undisciplined, but their first salvo killed the lead bodyguard and the aide.
Desh drew his pistol, dropping to his right knee in one fluid motion. The white crosshairs appeared on his heads-up display as he brought the weapon up, and he squeezed the trigger smoothly as the crosshair bracketed his first target. He fired two rounds, shifted aim, and fired two more, dropping the local hitmen in the span of three seconds. The surviving bodyguards, in the midst of returning fire, now turned to face Desh, surprised by the intercession of a third party. They aimed their pistols at Desh, keeping Lloyds kneeling in the center of their tight circle.
Desh stood up, pistol pointed at the ceiling, and yelled, “Interstellar Police, don’t fire!”
Killing an Interstellar officer carried a death sentence on many planets, but Desh knew he had only bought himself a second or two of confusion. He braced himself for the final push, and took a deep breath of air.