FanFiction.Net - unleash your imagination
tikitikirevenge
Author of 30 Stories |
ULTIMATE WEAPON
OF THE CHOZO
By tikitikirevenge
“Miss Al’vonel. Krutha. I’ve just heard about your excellent catch. We intend to get it on air in time for the midday show.” The Veritahawk’s surround speakers rendered the Director’s voice ever-so-slightly tinny – they would have to be changed, Krutha noted.
Without apology, Lira leaned in front of Krutha to reach the microphone. “Director? Could I speak with you once I dock?” she said.
“Why, of course,” came the reply, with a hint of mild surprise.
Ignoring the human woman’s obstruction, Krutha’s four hands gracefully played with the ship’s controls, directing the Veritahawk into the docking station.
Straightening up, Lira glanced at Krutha and said, “We’re sticking around here for a while – in case you wanted to know.”
She grabbed the discs containing all fifteen video feeds they’d used for the interview, and left the ship without another word.
“May I have the feeds?” asked the Director, her eyes not leaving the screen.
Lira walked to her superior’s desk and put all three of the discs down. “You don’t have anything to say?” she said, falling back into a chair.
“Not particularly,” said the Director. “Would you like me to congratulate you or something like that, Ms Al’vonel?”
“I suppose not,” said Lira, trying to sound more humbled than annoyed.
“It was you who wanted a face-to-face, after all,” said the Director. She swivelled in the chair to face directly at Lira. “What is it?”
The Director looked at least fifty – too old to be dancing in front of a camera. She’d never enquired, but Lira was fairly certain that maybe twenty or thirty years ago, the Director had had a job much like her own. The woman clearly had the strength of voice, and she was definitely attractive, even at that age – Lira of all people was aware of that.
“Well?”
Lira blinked. “To be blunt, Madame Director, this channel desperately needs new reporters.”
“What you mean,” sighed the Director, vaguely annoyed, “is that you’re tired of reporting, but as you haven’t just phoned it in, you evidently want to stay here.”
“Well… yes,” said Lira, glad that her boss was on the same wavelength.
“You’re not the first. Give me one good reason why.”
“I’m thirty-two,” said Lira.
“I see,” said the Director. “Do you have a particular position in mind?”
“Well, I want to work post-production; I majored in-”
“I’m very sure you did.” The Director stared closely at Lira for a few seconds more, then rotated back to face the video screen. “I’m always busy, Ms Al’vonel, but I shall make a point to have you transferred by the end of the month.”
“Thank you,” said Lira. She nodded at the screen, which continued to slide through various dragon photos. “Are you going for a menacing look or an evil one?” she said, rising from the chair.
“We were actually considering a more ‘cunning’ image of Ridley, if you know what I mean. It would splice well with the interview,” said the Director, stroking her chin.
“Very… bold,” said Lira, “that would be fairly pro-pirate compared to anything we’ve shown before.” She turned and walked to the door.
“My young friend,” said the Director without looking at her departing figure, “this channel has a short but strong history of support from the public. One half-second flash across the screen isn’t going to ruin us. This isn’t life and death.”
The Director glanced at the door. Lira had already left the room.
The ‘Freelancer’ (FL) units of the Galactic Federation military were, relatively speaking, a new addition, only formed about twenty years ago. In that short time, the seven (formerly eight) units had found their place in the command structure and day-to-day business of the government.
The original purpose of the FL initiative was to separate the ‘elite’ from the ‘cannon fodder’. Freelancer units were supposed to be the most effective squadrons in the whole of the galaxy, and effective they indeed were. All the remaining FL units worked well, with elite individual members who had learnt to tread the fine line between taking initiative and taking orders. Their training was thorough, although these days, it mostly consisted of lessons copied verbatim from the legendary tactician himself, Adam Malkovich (may he rest in peace).
Call-sign ‘Morte’, the leader of FL-5, had led this particular unit for a long time, almost fifteen years now. He realised that he was nearing the age of forty and was starting to slide from his physical prime, but he felt that he had a few years left in him before he quit.
Morte awoke to a dull buzzing alarm tone, which he recognised as coming from the secure phone line. He reached for the speakerphone button as he had done so many times before, and waited.
“This is Hound,” said the voice on the other end. The commanding officer of the entire military sounded calmer than he usually did when giving direct orders.
“Sir,” acknowledged Morte, sitting up in his unfurnished bed.
“There’s an urgent matter I need you to address right now. It is of the highest importance.”
Morte waited.
Hound spoke: “The President and his advisors have found some disturbing news about yesterday’s incident on Septer. You are aware of that, of course?”
“Of course,” said Morte.
“Well,” continued Hound, “it seems that two of the survivors struck a bargain with the Space Pirates in exchange for their lives, involving the sabotage of the Galactic Federation. One of them, in turn, went to a commercial network based on planet Rhiall, and gave an interview in which he openly described how best to exploit government security arrangements.” He spoke faster than he normally did when giving his orders. “You understand?”
“That’s very serious,” said Morte.
“Of course it is,” said Hound impatiently. “I needed you to see the severity of the situation. Any copies of the interview must be destroyed. Anybody who may have been exposed to the interview must be killed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“While I won’t directly interfere with your initiative as unit commander, I suggest you make it look like a Space Pirate attack, for the obvious reasons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” said Hound. “Any details you need are being sent to your ship’s computer. There are two particular reporters who you should pay special attention to. And Morte – these people are motivated by nothing but greed and hatred for the rest of society; it’s imperative that you don’t spare them or listen to their excuses.”
“Never have,” said Morte sincerely.
Hound ended the call.
Morte sat in his bed for a couple of minutes, trying to remember the first human traitor he’d been ordered to kill. It was a long time ago, and all the faces tended to blur together into a single ugly, hateable image of people who cared nothing for those outside of their tight circle of friends. The Galactic Federation was all about the greater good, and by damn, Morte was proud to be working to keep it safe. Perhaps the Freelancers would always be distrusted and misunderstood for doing their duty to their Federation, but the deep feeling of satisfaction that comes from being part of a bigger picture kept him going every day.
He got dressed, strode briskly to the command deck of his ship, and instructed the computer to wake the rest of his team.
“I’ll be glad when we finally wipe out the bugs,” he said aloud, thinking about how much more demanding things had become after the Space Pirates had risen to prominence…
“Hello, my name is Arthur Radley,” said Scythe. It was a lie. “I represent one of the world’s largest stockbrokers’ syndicates. Your boss will want to see me.”
The peroxide-blonde receptionist sighed sympathetically. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mister Radley. You’re going to need to make an appointment. Busy times, you know? You could speak to one of his executive…”
“I’m not on his schedule?” said Scythe, sounding worried. With the help of the Zebesian Sh’toutin, he’d downloaded Wilcox’s schedule the day before. “But my syndicate made an arrangement with him last week…”
The receptionist’s facial expression morphed into suspicion. “Are you certain? This hasn’t happened before.”
“I’m very sure,” Scythe insisted. “Please, could you tell him I’m here?”
“Sure,” said the receptionist, still looking uncertain. “But I’m warning you, if you’re lying, I’ll have you thrown out for wasting his time…”
“Mr Radley from MONASTIC,” said Scythe.
“I’ll speak to his private secretary.” She picked up the phone and entered a five-digit extension. “Hello? Yes, Anita from reception. I have a Mr Radley from MONASTIC down here, something to do with shares, he’s sure he has an appointment with Mr Wilcox. Pardon? Of course, of course, but he’s quite insistent… if it isn’t too much trouble?”
The receptionist put the phone down and smiled at him apologetically.
“No trouble, I hope,” said Scythe pleasantly.
“No, no,” said the receptionist, avoiding his gaze timidly. “The boss just does prefer to know in advance when somebody is coming, sir.”
“Naturally,” said Scythe. “And please… call me Arthur.”
“Arthur…” The woman paused, clearly uncertain what to say. “What business exactly does your firm have with Mr Wilcox?”
“We’re trying to bulk-buy shares in high-dividend companies which we feel have the potential to boom, well, even higher than their former rates.” I should have anticipated that question beforehand, he chided himself. Fortunately, the receptionist didn’t seem to have registered that he had no idea what he was saying.
“That’s intriguing,” she smiled. “I confess I don’t really follow the stock market, but you make it sound like very exciting work.”
“Sometimes,” said Scythe, falling back into a familiar rhythm. “But every other day it’s just dreary paperwork and the like. I imagine it’s much the same for you, Mrs…?”
“Miss Anita Umbré,” said Anita. The phone beside her rang again. “Oops, that should be it… hello? Yes, yes… oh, is that right? Okay, I’ll tell him that… yes, he’ll be pleased to know… thank you, good day.”
“So it’s okay?” said Scythe.
“Yes,” said Anita, “he said he must have forgotten to book you in. Well, Mr… Arthur, sorry for the wait…”
“Oh, it was all the better for it,” said Scythe politely, taking a slight step back as if to go.
“Well, security should have been notified, so take that little elevator there in the corner up to floor two-nine-nine, and the staircase up from there.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Scythe said, turning to the elevator.
“Wait!” The woman was looking at him strangely, and her voice lowered. “Sir… if I wanted to learn more about your business, or invest or what have you… I don’t suppose you have a business card?”
“Well, they don’t let us give out main office numbers – only two lines, you see,” said Scythe, reaching into the pocket of his jacket whilst matching her tone of voice, “but this here has my private number on it. I should be able to… hook you up with something.”
Anita nodded and took the card. Scythe smiled and walked to the elevator. What a fortunate coincidence he’d run into the receptionist – now he had something to do tonight before he caught the shuttle the next day.
When Sh’toutin had explained her project to him, Scythe had been very impressed by the audacity of it. He had known that, while operating as surrogate commander, she’d expanded the Space Pirates’ sphere of influence, but having Wilcox, the king of the hyperfuel commodity, so willingly join them as an ally? No wonder she was one of Ridley’s favourites, as he was.
He now walked casually to the private elevator that had been pointed out to him, glancing around the room at various well-disguised security measures. A large x-ray plate in front of the elevator had been covered with plastic, not stone, making it a slightly different colour to the rest of the floor. The bright ceiling lights almost certainly hid a few cameras. The grille on an air vent right above the elevator revealed it to be a model of pathogen detector starting to gain popularity in security companies.
More prominently, two large, muscular-looking men stood on either side of the elevator, staring suspiciously at him. Although he would have been able to kill them both with ease, Scythe was grateful that Wilcox had so quickly recognised the codeword agreed to months before. He didn’t want to tear down the building to get to Wilcox’s office, not at this stage of the proceedings.
“Arthur Radley?” said one of them as he drew close.
“Yes,” he said.
The man pushed a button on the wall.
Social etiquette dictated that Scythe stand a certain distance from the elevator while waiting for it, forcing him to stand on the concealed x-ray plate. Scythe stared impatiently at the elevator doors for what must have been half a minute, until they opened at last. With a dismissive glance at the guards, he stepped inside the lift.
:
:
:
:
