COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT
PART 4
By Mya Thevendra
A week had passed since the enquiry, and Ian had not been idle. The planet of Sidaris, and the scene of his dishonourable discharge had been left far behind, replaced instead by the sprawling urban slums of Nylus Dow.
Ian had managed to recover some money from an old savings account, placed there from before his initiation into the Marine Corps; the earned interest had added enough for him to afford passage to the Nylus system, and there was enough left over to keep him in modest lodgings for at least a few months.
One of the more heavily populated fringe worlds, Nylus Dow was a stop-off point for many of the freighters, and stellar fleets on route to and from that particular region of the front line. Ships passing through rarely broke the planet's atmosphere, however, as the vast Baw Nyla orbital facility was capable of accommodating dozens of vessels, as well as their crews. The planet below thrived upon the trade to and from other systems, as well as various mining projects, and had been greatly urbanised in the decades before the colonial wars. The various cities of Nylus Dow, now acted as havens for weary travellers, and outcasts. Out here, near the fringes of Confederate space, crime was rampant, and far-reaching cartels competed for wealth and power, while those under their fists struggled to eke out a living.
On a world such as this, information was an alternate currency, and there were few affairs of the border which passed unnoticed. As far as Ian's investigation was concerned, it was a good place to start.
It was late summer in the city of Nir Visa, and on a hot, humid night such as this, the denizens of the central slums sifted through the neon lit streets, looking for kicks. "Modest" accommodation in Nir Visa, in Ian's case, was a cheap hotel room, with grime and damp streaked across the walls, and a mattress tough enough to break a hip on. Outside and below, the nightly games were in full flow; it was at the bottom end of what humanity had to offer: drugs, prostitution, gambling, and the police were either underpaid and afraid, or in the syndicates' pocket.
Ian sat on the end of his bed, staring at the laptop computer on the desk in front. He had gone through some considerable trouble to get his hands on it, and now, it sat inert as he watched, silently waiting. The sounds of the urban nightlife drew his attention, and he got up and walked to the window. He wore only trousers and a vest, yet still the heat was stifling. The streets were a showcase of fluorescent lights set against the dark veil of night; people travelled below, by themselves and in droves, money was spent and stolen, cars slowed as pretty girls stood on street corners licking their lips, and somebody, somewhere, was probably being killed.
The starless sky was tinted blue by the luminous displays beneath, and a cityscape of broken roofs and distant skyscrapers stretched away into the gloom. A sharp beeping from behind interrupted Ian's musing, and he walked back and flicked the computer's screen on; an incoming audio call message flashed across it: no location, and no name were listed. Ian opened the line, and then perched back on the end of his mattress.
"Mr. Spencer?" Said a female voice.
"Yes." replied Ian, fixing his eyes on the stained carpeted floor of his room. He had decided to operate under a pseudonym for the time being; although the chances of it were slim, while dealing with those who knew of the Confederacy he might very well come across someone to whom the name of Ian Patrick Latimer was known.
There was a short pause.
"Are you alone?" asked the voice.
"Yes."
"Then we should meet. Now. I'll be waiting at the place where we met last night; make damn sure no one follows you." Said the voice with a hint of urgency.
"Understood." answered Ian, and shut the line.
Within a few minutes, Ian had dressed into a shirt and dark jacket, descended the crumbling staircase outside of his room, and had passed into the streets below.
It had been two days, and two nights since he had arrived in the city. The sleek, mock efficiency of the central district quickly dissipated as he had ventured outwards in search of accommodation. His first night had been spent settling in, and cautiously touring the neighbourhood surrounding his lodgings; the following day, Ian had gone about acquiring such articles as were necessary: food, some clothing, and eventually a rather old laptop computer. It was during that night that he met Adira Khan.
Ian had put together a rough hypothesis on the enemy's activities on Widow XII, and somebody out there had to be on the same trail; it was just a matter of finding them. That night, a discreet enquiry of the more reputable establishments on the city's north side had yielded few results, and so Ian had redirected his search to the south end. The various clubs and seamy bars in this part of the city were gathering places for street gangs and thugs, as well as assorted drug pushers and pimps looking for potential customers. Information, however, was readily available to those willing to pay the right price, and after some rooting around, Ian had managed to locate an individual who was able, and willing to help him: for a price, of course.
A shadowed walkway beneath one of the city's ring roads had been the scene of their first meeting, and now so it was for their second. Adira Khan stood waiting in the middle, almost unseen in a black overcoat; her long dark hair framing a dark face, young, but weighted with experience. As Ian approached, she looked up.
"Mr. Spencer. You were careful coming here, I hope."
Ian nodded.
"Don't worry, I wasn't followed." he said, "May we talk?"
"I didn't bring you here to show you my beer can collection, Mr. Spencer. By all means yes, let's talk." Said Khan, stepping forward.
"You have some information for me?" Asked Ian.
"The money first, Mr. Spencer. I hope you won't think me too mercenary, but business has been a little slow of late. I'm sure you understand."
"Of course."
"I trust you weren't foolish enough to bring cash?" Asked Khan.
Ian held out a thin strip of yellow paper; much safer than cash, it was a secured credit slip, which ensured a swift and untraceable payment of exactly one thousand Confederate dollars.
Khan reached out with a leather-gloved hand, and after examining the slip, quickly pocketed it.
"Excellent" She said, "I must admit, I wasn't too sure about dealing with you at first. When I heard that someone was asking around about recent goings on along the border, I figured you might be one of those colonial militiamen."
"What makes you think I'm not?" said Ian.
Teeth gleamed in the lamplight as Adira Khan grinned.
"In my business, you get to know people; you're no colonial." she said, looking Ian in the eyes, "I know that much, and you're not a cop." Khan chuckled softly to herself, "What you are, is money in my pocket…and that's good enough for me."
"Very well, then." replied Ian, "My information?"
"As you wish. It's like I told you last night; what your thousand dollars has bought you is access to one of my contacts. He has more information than most about what happens on the front line."
"Is he military?" asked Ian.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not, I don't know to be honest; but if anyone can help you, he can This is how you can get touch with him."
Khan retrieved a small sheet of printed-paper from an inside pocket, and handed it to Ian. On it were a series of four telecommunication codes, and Ian noticed that the first one was an inter-system number.
"Where is he?" He asked.
"No idea." answered Khan, "In another star system for certain, but I don't know which one, I've never cared to look…and if you value his services, I suggest you don't either. In any case, I'm certain the signal travels through a cipher network. I doubt you could find him, even if you wanted to." Khan looked inquisitively at Ian.
"I don't." he said, looking up.
"Good. You should be warned; if you are unreasonable with him, then it would be a simple matter for him to block your signal, or alter his com address, and those numbers will be rendered useless."
"I understand."
Khan nodded slowly, and took a step back.
"Well, I hope he can give you what you're looking for. Oh yes, by the way…his name is Torch."
Ian looked back up to see Adira Khan disappear into the shadows at the far end of the walkway, and fitting the paper into his jacket pocket, he turned around and headed up to the street level.
Amid the bustle of the central district, a row of telecom booths provided as secure a place as any to get in touch with Khan's associate. It was entirely possible that this "Torch" character might be a Confederate plant, working to draw out conspirators and colonial activists by posing as a neutral contact. If things turned to trouble, Ian could make a quick exit with, hopefully, little chance of being traced.
Paying for the call with a credit card, and referring to the printed strip of paper, Ian entered the code sequences one by one. A short wait followed while the signal was relayed through the planet's communication satellites, and then out of the system through the civilian relay network. Ian picked up the handset and held it to his ear, while the booth's com screen flickered. After a few seconds, there came a beeping tone through the receiver as the line opened up on the other end. A man's voice answered.
"Yeah, what is it?"
The com screen in front remained a glimmering mix of blank screen and static.
"Am I speaking to Torch?" Asked Ian after a short pause. A few seconds lag passed while the com signal traversed the relay system.
"Yeah, who's this?"
"My name is Spencer. Adira Khan gave me your number." Said Ian.
"Okay, what do you want?"
"I'd like to ask you some questions, about the Confederacy."
There was a rough scratching from the other end, the sound of a quiet chuckle.
"My time's valuable, mister. You want to ask your questions, then you give me something in return."
"I can't afford to pay you, but I have information."
Another pause of com lag.
"Talk."
Ian stopped for a moment. He didn't want to risk giving too much, in case it was indeed a trap. On the other hand, if this individual was on the level, then he was Ian's only chance of finding some answers, and Ian couldn't risk losing his interest.
"Well?" asked the voice, "What have you got for me?"
Ian thought for another moment.
"A conspiracy." he said.
Another rough scratch of mirth.
"God, give me a break. Look, nice talking to you pal…."
Ian could tell he was about to hang up, and spoke quickly to beat the signal lag.
"Wait, I'm serious. I have information..."
"Pal, I really don't have the time to listen to another crackpot Confederate conspiracy theory."
"It's no theory," said Ian, not entirely sure he was telling the truth, "and it's not the Confederacy. It's the enemy."
"An enemy conspiracy. Right."
It was obvious that the "Torch" was unimpressed; Ian searched for some way to convince him.
"Look" he said, "I'm right about this, I know I am. There's something going on, something big; they're not just acting mindlessly like the Confederate press would have you believe."
"Fella, this is bullshit, and I don't want to know. The enemy, those things…you're telling me that there's some planning to what their doing? They're terrifying, I'll give you that, but there's no way they think like that. They're just animals."
"No, they're not." Said Ian with a touch of force in his voice, "They're not just animals, and something's happening, I know it. I'd bet my life on it."
"I'll tell you what. Instead of betting your life, you've just bet the rest of this conversation on it. You tell me something I want to hear, and you get my attention for another five minutes. Otherwise I'm outta here. So…let's hear it."
Ian was out of time, and out of options. It was time for another risk.
"Widow XII." He said.
There was a silence; at first it was just signal lag, and then it became clear that Ian had caught the "Torch" somewhat off guard.
"What do you know about Widow XII?" Asked the Torch.
"More than you, I'm willing to bet." Replied Ian.
"Well then tell me, and we'll see."
"I know names. Harold Bellamy."
"I know that name, and so could anyone else who watches the news. Try again."
"I know that almost an entire brigade of marines was killed by hostiles, when intelligence reports showed that there weren't any."
"Okay, you could have gotten that from Confederate data files on a base somewhere. Heh, it's impressive, pal, but it's not enough. Give me something else."
"I know," Began Ian, "that the enemy had been waiting on Widow XII since before the war had begun."
It was Ian's last trick, and he hoped it was enough. Another pause.
"Waiting since before the war had begun." said Torch slowly, "Yeah, that's what I figured too."
"What?"
"I said, that's what I figured too."
For one terrible moment, Ian thought that he had been set up, and reflexively looked through the nighttime crowds around him.
"You still there?" came Torch's voice
"You knew, I mean, you know?" said Ian.
"Yeah, I know. And I had to make sure you did too, and weren't just some wacko. But you can relax, I'm on your side."
"Who are you?" asked Ian, "You're not just some information trader, are you?"
"Well, for the purposes of people like Adira Khan, then yes, that's exactly what I am. But let's just say I'm a concerned Confederate citizen, like yourself, I imagine."
"How did you find out?" asked Ian, growing more and more intrigued.
"Like I said, I do have access to a great deal of information, plus the fact that I was looking for it. What's your excuse?"
"It's a long story, best left untold, I think."
"Pal, are you sure you want to be in on this? Believe me, you'd probably be better off forgetting about all of this, just going home to your family and…"
"No." said Ian, "I'm in."
"Okay, look Spencer, or whatever your name is. You're onto something, but I'm not sure you realise exactly how big a deal this is."
"What do you mean?"
"This didn't just happen at Widow XII. There are at least half a dozen places all along the border, where detailed intelligence reports have overlooked large numbers of the enemy, and people have died because of it."
"How could they be overlooked?" Asked Ian, having asked himself the same question dozens of times.
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out. Believe it or not, you're not the only one out there who's in on this."
"I was kind of counting on that," said Ian.
"There's another guy I've been in touch with, who's on the same track. He said he was onto something, but I lost contact with him two days ago."
"Who is he?"
"He's a Confederate marine. His name's Tando, Corporal Jon Tando. He's part of the 88th 'Infidels', it's a reconnaissance unit. He's got some tech background, some xenobiology and biochemistry knowledge. He said he was close to getting some answers just before I lost touch with him. I managed to hack the Confederate personnel records for about four minutes last night, but it was enough to see that he hadn't been declared KIA, so there's a chance he's still alive."
"Where was he when you lost contact?" asked Ian.
"Sector F-22. It's in the Dead Zone between Oporis on our side of the border, and Trianune on the other. Our best bet's to try and monitor the sensor reports and communications in that area, try and-"
"I'll find him."
"What?" said Torch.
"I have a feeling that by the time we hear something of him, it'll be his obituary. I know where F-22 is, I can find him. It'll use up the last of my resources, but it's the only lead we have, yes?"
"Yeah, but remember, it's the Dead Zone we talking about. It's no picnic out there."
"Don't worry," said Ian, "I can handle myself."
"Okay, well I can't tell you any more about him than I already have, but I managed to lift his marine registry photo from the personnel files. This is him."
A photographic image blinked onto the com screen; the picture was slightly faded, and showed a Caucasian man in his early thirties, with slightly shaggy light brown hair, and a fair face.
"All right, I've got it," said Ian, committing the man's face to memory, "I'll try and get away sometime tomorrow."
"Good, I'll keep working at this end. Look, stay in touch, and watch yourself."
Ian nodded, and shut the line. The night's activities around him were reaching their peak, as he headed back to his lodgings to prepare for the journey ahead.