The Last Hercules Page 4

  “Operative, there are a large number of tribal vehicles entering your vicinity.” Moro is crisp about it.

  My grin fades, and I turn to look back at the low sliding cloud of dirt. I dial in my optics. I pick out headlights and push bars here and there plowing out of the dust.

  “Alpha-Wolf Actual is inbound to your position. His orders are for you to avoid engaging with the tribals. Confirm.”

  “Confirming, the boss is coming out and he doesn’t want me to mess up his negotiations with these dust eaters by killing most of them before he arrives. Got it. I hope whatever he’s coming out in has a fucking huge company logo on it.” I break into a jog. The dust widens across the southeastern horizon. “They’re gonna want to know what happened here. They won’t take my word on what I think happened. Tell Alpha Wolf that faster is better.”

  “I am requesting dispatch for additional traffic.” Moro will be watching a sat feed. He must have decided there are enough tribals en route to warrant a couple of other assault craft in the zone, just in case. I might still get a fight.

  I can see the first bikes racing in front of armed ATVs, cars, buggies, and motor homes. The whole fucking tribe is coming.

  “Hey Moro, maybe stamp that dispatch request as urgent. These folks are coming out armed and in force.”

  “Understood.” The line goes dead.

  3.03

  Alpha-Wolf Actual

  “Do I have anything other than suits on board?” I yank off my silk tie and pull open the heavy bag at my feet. The cam above the door tracks me to my seat, I’m recognized, and the seat adjusts. Armrests, temperature, seat height and angle all shift to my presets.

  “Yes, sir.” Jen comes in over my internal com-link. “I made sure that you have a selection of clothing that will project the appropriate image.”

  “Good.” I dig through the bag. “Showing up like this will have them spitting on me.” I lay out a selection of items that I can work with and narrow it down from there. Jeans and a battle vest would have the tribe thinking that I think they’re stupid. There’s a strong chance they won’t know who I am, and even if they do, I have to be seen to be making concessions. The situation required it.

  I pick out fatigues and change clothes.

  “ETA two minutes,” Angel says without looking back.

  Jen speaks in my head. “Picasso’s been directed to avoid armed engagement for as long as possible. We have minimal pushback from him. He’s requested that we hurry if we expect him to honor that parameter.”

  My sarcasm comes out. “Great. Please patch me through to Control.”

  I feel the soft chime almost as much as hear it.

  “Control.” Alexander replies.

  “Status.” I do up the web belt and look into the bag again.

  “Orbital confirmed a large group inbound to Picasso’s position. The first elements of that group are arriving now.”

  “How large a group?” I push aside the bag’s contents and not finding what I need, I go through all the contents a second time to be sure.

  “An estimated sixty vehicles,” Alex says. “Possibly as many as eighty including smaller ATVs and bikes.”

  “Fantastic.” I hated taking time like this out of my morning. If it weren’t so unusual an event, I wouldn’t be here. “Jen, are you monitoring this link?” I say it out loud. I know Alex is going to be frustrated by my interruption of his report. It was the way things went some days. But right now, my schedule changes were going to be his and Angel’s business.

  Jen takes the cue and switches onto the main channel. “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there any room on the council’s schedule to rebook this morning’s speech to a later time slot?”

  “I’ve already put in a formal request to reschedule your speech for tomorrow afternoon,” she replies. “The request appears to be moving through regular channels at its typical speed.”

  “By that you mean slowly.” I disliked the new council chairman. I’m guaranteed resistance to any of my requests.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Expedite it.” I frown and look around on the floor for a second bag. “Tell them I’m personally heading out to this crash site. Most of them won’t even know it’s happened yet. Give them minimal information. Just enough to make my delay in chambers something tangible.”

  “Done,” she replies.

  “Thank you.” I sigh, there is no second bag, no weapons. “Control, have Picasso pull back to the rear of the field truck. It’s on our approach.” If it gets ugly, at least we’ll be arriving with a clean line of sight to offer supporting fire. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but tribals are difficult to negotiate with at the best of times, let alone when one of their own is in trouble.

  “Angel, give me your pistol please.” I make sure that Jen hears my request.

  “Sorry, sir.” Jen sounds distraught from the oversight. “I’ll update mission protocols to include a selection of your preferred firearms in your kit.”

  “Thank you,” I say to both of them at the same time.

  Angel doesn’t look away from the controls. I get the sidelong flash of a smile as she unclips her sidearm and hands it over.

  The weight of the holstered piece is more than I expect. “You upgrade? This isn’t the same pistol you’ve been using.”

  “I did.” Her smile is wide. “The limb upgrade I requested came through last month. It lets me handle a lot more firepower than before. Lower maintenance too.”

  I pull the weapon out and give it a once over. Semi-auto, nine shot, .475. “This is very nice. How’s the recoil?”

  “Better than you’d think.” Her simple answer tells me she’s very happy with it. “Two tungsten carbide cams ride down the outside of the clip. The recoil drops through the grip and into Noene chocks.”

  A subtle buzzing sensation vibrates my palm. My optics blink a target visualizer over my view. I turn the weapon in my hand. “They even fit a link in here?”

  “You know me. I like my control.”

  “I may have to get one of these to try out on the range.”

  Slapping the self-adhering holster onto the web belt, I check out the line of her arm: tanned and smooth from bare shoulder to woven paracord bracelets. “The upgrade looks like it’s a good fit.”

  “Yeah. That new technician of yours managed to pack a bit more into the space than I’d have thought.” She pans her eyes across the control panels. “I didn’t have to change bicep diameters or anything.”

  “Maybe he needs a raise?” I ask to see what her opinion is of our new techie.

  “Maybe.” She turns and grins at me. “And he’s always got the best popcorn…”

  She’s been my go to pilot since late in South Am, and I haven’t looked back. Angel’s saved my life more than a few times with her level head, expertise, and attitude. I paid her well for all three.

  “There they are.” She nods.

  I lean in and look out the front canopy. Whatever the hell is going on has pulled in an entire tribe. Their outrider vehicles are rolled up around Picasso’s position, and from our altitude I spot scouts that have swung wide around to flank the entire area.

  Angel’s worked with Picasso a long time. She can see the situation and knows that if we don’t hurry, he’ll decide a bloodbath is a better solution than talking. The AV angles nose down, and our speed ramps up quickly.

  “Control, this is Alpha-Wolf Actual.” I need an update. “What have you got?”

  “As suspected, a low Earth orbital cargo craft departed from Manila in the Philippines.” I know Alexander’s flipping screens as he speaks. He can be counted on to do a thorough job every time. He verifies the data with a visual of the originals whenever he can. “The pilot reported that some cargo became unsecured during final approach to the lift window.” He pauses. “They requested a second window for their lift to orbit and then nothing. No distress call, nothing. The craft began to descend and break up. We are attempting to retrace everything happenin
g regionally just prior to the crash.”

  Angel has us dropping in an overly dramatic flat spin. I know she has the gun turrets panning around too, looking for targets. A wide dust cloud blown out from our ducted fans drifts across the windows. I leave her to it. My mind is on the next few hours.

  “Anything else?” I stand, bracing with a free hand on the overhead bar as the AV settles in.

  “Technical Forensics is examining the data that Picasso forwarded. Preliminary report indicates the craft was sabotaged in such a way that the pilot would have known about the device.”

  “A self-destruct?” Some corporations made it a requirement when certain kinds of missions were compromised, but this isn’t the early days of the interregnum, most corporations don’t push each other hard enough that it comes to this…. This isn’t subtle. It’s a smoking hole in the ground where everyone can see.

  “Not confirmed at this time,” Alex says. “I will forward Greysen’s second report as soon as it is available. One last item….”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Picasso forwarded images of three dead men he found on the site. Facial recognition reports a match. A certain mercenary company from South Africa….”

  “Thank you.” PharmaComp’s go-boys are dispersed and hiding out here. They’re still causing us trouble. Depending on how this shakes out, it’d be more evidence to leverage the council into action.

  Angel and I exchange a look. She nods and signs an ‘all clear’ and toggles the door open.

  The heat rolls over me as I step out. I mull over what I’ve got. A sabotaged orbital craft. A suicide payload. A PharmaComp merc. What’s that leave me? An uptick in a lukewarm conflict between corporations? An act of terrorism from some unknown rebel group? Am I jumping at nothing? Or does this all link back to what’s happening in the city. I keep coming back to PharmaComp.

  “God damn it,” I mutter as Picasso walks toward me.

  A single tribal warrior waits by the truck. The tribal has hair that’s as white as the ‘parlay’ armband tied to his upper arm. The long ribbon of fabric flutters in the settling air.

  He may be older than me, but he’s big. Just from the way he moves, stops, and stands, I peg him as ex-military. He’s unarmed by the look of him, but armed or not, he could make trouble. That means this conversation could go either way for us.

  “B,” Picasso says as we clasp wrists. “Aw look, you even changed. Your CitOne corporate monkey suit not working for you?”

  “Not this time.” I ignore his verbal jab. “Too bad I can’t wear this to a council meeting.” I like how comfortable and familiar the modified battle dress feels.

  “I can see the headlines now.” He chuckles dryly. “Basillio goes to war….”

  I snort and look around. I can pick out the two bodies in combat gear in the scrub near the truck. “What do we have?”

  “This tribe is claiming the crash site. They came up from the coast pretty fucking quick if you ask me, so their claim to it is probably accurate. They say their man got to the site first. This is their guy’s truck. There was a kid with him. Girl, five or six, blonde hair, short for her age. The guy took down one of the VTOLs while it was in the air. For some reason, the mercs decided they wanted to entice him to come along. Looks like they took the kid. So either they want to use a can opener to get him out of his aug-suit so they can keep it for themselves, or something else is going on here. You get to figure out what this shit means.”

  I look over at the steady stream of vehicles filling in the space around us. “Do they know what happened to their man on the ground?”

  Picasso shakes his head. “The tribe just know he’s not here. They think we may have had something to do with that. Like we’d want to claim this mess or hide the guy’s body….” He looks over at the gouged earthen hole. “I say if they want to claim a hole filled with toxic crap, let’em keep it.”

  I glance toward the tear in the earth. It’s not even smoking anymore. Nothing is visible from here. Picasso’s initial cam view showed the top of an airframe. The nanite swarm is still active.

  Picasso nods. “There’s nothing in there now, Boss. Unless you want to recycle the nanite swarm into some kind of weaponized aerosol.”

  I flick my gaze up at him. Sometimes Picasso’s mind goes to dark places. Other times he’s broodingly practical. I’m not going to tell him we have this stuff in the arsenal already.

  He shrugs. “It could happen. It’s what I’d do, if I had the know-how.”

  I nod.

  Now that the council knows I’m here in a business capacity, if I claim the site I’ll be on the hook to clean it up. I’m certain that the council chairman will insist on it. I’d rather eat the bill on a clean-up than have the alternative Picasso mentioned exist.

  “Let’s get this started.” I gesture, and he walks with me over to the old soldier. We eye one another as I approach. My suspicions about him are confirmed. His body has been honed by a daily routine that has stretched decades. Something my own flesh was just starting to let go of. I quell a pang of jealousy; I know I just have to make the time….

  Picasso clears his throat. “This is Colonel Basillio Ferdinand, owner and fearless leader of AlphaTek Global Security. He’s the one who organized a little adventure called the South Am Evacuation. Maybe you heard of him.”

  I shake my head slightly. Picasso shuts up with a grin.

  The guy’s expression doesn’t change. “Master Sergeant, Martinez, Salvador. I’ve heard of you.”

  I’m not going to ask if what he’s heard is good or bad, the press surrounding me is always mixed: selfless hero or aggrandized warlord….

  “I did what I thought I needed to do to get as many troops home as I could.” I keep my expression blank. “May I ask what branch you served in, Master Sergeant?”

  “Space Corp, Engineering Group.”

  I nod. Alex had been Spetsnaz in the repurposed VKS. Spacers were a different breed, clipped and precise in thought and action. If anything, this one looks a little laid back. “You’re a long way from home.”

  Salvador grunts. It’s the sound of extreme non-commitment.

  “We have access to his military record up to the collapse. Control has received a copy.” Jen passes me the intel via com-link. “Full body analysis indicates respect for you. Contextual and cultural sub-analysis suggests his position requires him to display an appropriate level of aggressive posturing to gain and maintain an honorable face in front of his people.”

  “The craft that came down was sabotaged mid-lift,” I say. “Nanites have chewed everything in that hole to toxic crap. You can have your people look it over. I don’t recommend getting too close.”

  He sighs, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “Have you been watching long?”

  “We have orbital observation systems in place. We tracked the LEO from the moment it radioed a problem with unsecured cargo. For some reason, either the pilot or the navigation computer picked here to come down. Under its original trajectory, it was supposed to end up in the drink, just off shore in the Atlantic. When it changed course, it became a bigger problem. We happened to have a man in the area.” I watch an elderly woman with a proud face and a taut frame make her way carefully over the terrain toward us.

  “So, if you were watching, you know where Slider is?” Salvador asks.

  “Slider? You mean your guy on the ground?” It probably isn’t his real name. “Look, if I had more information, it would be helpful. Even just his real name.”

  “How? How would it help? You don’t need it.” The woman glares at me as she closes the last few yards.

  “Jen,” I pip. “Anything?”

  “This is Eldest Tessa. According to our local operatives, she has been in charge of this tribe for the last nineteen years. We have had no opportunity to collect DNA to run a cross-check on our files to match a recorded name or background pre-collapse. I’m running a new facial recognition, but files from the time of the overthrow still contai
n gaps.”

  “Eldest.” I incline my head. “May Providence protect you.”

  She draws up short. I know hitting her with a traditional tribal greeting has her wondering exactly who I am. “Before I complete that reply to you, you darned well had better answer my question. Why do you need Slider’s real name?”

  “Because, shortly after the impact….” I gesture to the hole. “Two covert military vehicles flew in here and took both Slider and the girl with him.”

  “Took them?” The eldest’s eyes narrow sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I motion for Picasso.

  He sounds bored as he recites, “Two VTOL strike craft arrived within minutes of the impact. When this ‘Slider’ activated his beacon, they latched onto him. He killed a bunch of their guys, even took down one of their VTOL. Once they grabbed the girl, it was all over. Either they want revenge or maybe they just want some of his secret sauce.”

  “That’s why I want a name, Eldest.” I push a little. “I’m in a position to help find him and the girl.”

  “Why? Why now? People get kidnapped all the time, exploited, slaved off, raped, traded as food.” She shakes her head. “If you can help but won’t just because of a name, then you’re a soulless corporate scum with no morals and a cruel heart.”

  “I’m asking because I want to know why any corporation would go to the extra effort of kidnapping a tribal. I know Slider has power armor or an aug-suit.” I watch Salvador’s reaction to my comment. “They could’ve killed them both as witnesses to whatever they were doing here and done it from the air. Why take the girl? Why risk engaging with someone in an augmentation suit. They wanted his suit? That doesn’t wash. Any decent sized corporation could buy those by the crate-load if they wanted.”

  “Baylen Lee,” Salvador says quietly. “That’s his name.”

  “Fool.” The eldest turns on him. “You don’t know what kind of trouble you just brought on us by telling them.”

  Salvador ignores Eldest Tessa’s anger.

  “Baylen Lee.” I repeat it back.