COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT
PART 7
By Mya Thevendra
A blazing rush of thrust, and the cargo ferry heaved itself into the air and shimmied away into the westering sun. Ian took a moment from collecting his baggage to glance through the terminal window at the landing pads outside. The Ba-Leea stellar traffic facility was coursing with activity; bulk transports filled to capacity with civilians were abandoning the planet, while a stream of military dropships and shuttles delivered troops to the colony's garrisons. Needless to say, the past few months had seen a drastic change in fortunes for the inhabitants of the planet Oporis.
Heavily industrialised, and fiercely loyal to the Confederacy, Oporis had managed to prosper during the Guild Wars, and had become a mainstay for the production of high-grade weapons and machinery. The appearance of the Great Enemy had taken a heavy toll, however, even though Oporis lay more than eight light years from the front line. At the beginning of the War, a substantial region of space nearby had been captured by the enemy's fore runners in a matter of days. The Confederate defences were overwhelmed by the sudden attacks of this vicious new life form, and a dozen planets fell to the alien swarm.
As the Confederate military rallied, this advance force was cut off from the bulk of the enemy, and the front line was established. Those enemy forces trapped in the so-called "Dead Zone" all but disappeared from view, maintaining a shadowy presence over the captured worlds, and attacking any vessels that strayed within their reach. With Confederate forces largely occupied with holding the border, the Dead Zone had been left under the control of the Enemy. Currently they languished like caged animals, silent and invisible, and presented an unremitting threat to the garrison forces which strove to contain them.
Almost a third of Oporis's populace had already departed since the start of the War, seeking the relative safety of neighbouring star systems; in the interim, the planet's governing council had been annexed by Confederate Military Command, and a planet-wide state of emergency had been declared.
Between paying Adira Khan for information, and securing passage to Oporis, Ian's funds had been left severely depleted. At the most, he would have enough left to remain on the planet for a month, but he wouldn't be staying that long. A second dialogue with the "Torch" had revealed that Corporal Tando's unit, the "Infidels" had set out from Oporis four days previously, but the Torch had been unable to determine their destination or assignment. Ian's best hope for finding him was to somehow gain access to the database at one of the garrisons here on the planet and pull his mission files. It was a strange turn of events indeed; a task that, less than a month ago, he could have carried out with a simple requisition message, was now an undertaking fraught with peril. He was a civilian, and if he were to be caught breaking into a Confederate garrison, he would almost certainly be shot.
Ian had learned from the Torch of a small, lightly guarded outpost in Ba- Leea's municipal district, which acted as a communications centre for the forces in surrounding counties. It was a good bet that the files that he was searching for would be held there; whether or not he would be able to retrieve them, however, was a different matter.
There was little reason to delay. His timing had been lucky; as Ian walked through the packs of stellar commuters, and outside into the cold air, night had already begun to settle. A beeping, flashing throng of cars and cargo lorries jockeyed for space in the motor parks surrounding the terminals, and Ian quickly found a seat aboard a passenger bus heading towards the inner city. A thin rain fell as the bus pressed on into the city's centre, and people filtered through the streets like grey spectres. Ian stepped down onto the sidewalk beneath a sweeping drizzle, and amidst a flurry of damp litter. He was growing accustomed to casual wear, and was inconspicuous in his usual dark jacket and slacks, with the remainder of his possessions stowed in a lightweight rucksack.
There was a chill in the night air, and Ian kept a brisk pace towards the eastern side of the central district to stave it off. After a little hunting through the streets, he found his target; the garrison had been set up in an abandoned office building, and as he skulked in a darkened alley across the street, he could see two armed guards posted in front of the doorway, illuminated by a dim street light.
The actual building wasn't a separate structure, but was part of a block, and was framed on either side by derelict shop units and other offices. Fairly meagre in size, the garrison, like every other building in the block, had only three storeys and the walls were tracked with dirt and flecked with peeling paint. On the roof, the tip of a communications mast could be seen glinting against the night sky. The two guards in front stood still and stoical, dressed in dark green overalls, and looking like grim statues in the rain, while Ian looked silently on.
Setting his rucksack down on the side of the alleyway, he crept forward to the alley's opening, and peered closely at the sentries; both were undoubtedly marines, fairly heavy set, one especially so, and each was carrying a standard issue combat shotgun, a weapon easily capable of ripping a man in two with a single blast. There were lights visible through the windows on the first and second storeys; Ian guessed that the office building's computer had been reformatted to handle military signals and store service files, all he had to do was find a console and gain access. Quickly running a few ideas through his head, he settled on the direct approach; with the somewhat heightened state of paranoia amongst the populace there was little chance of him being able to fast talk his way inside, and he was loath to the idea of bribery, regardless of the fact that he hadn't enough money.
Stepping out from the walkway's cover, he started across the narrow street and was quickly noticed by the sentries. As they watched him approach, he mocked a slight swagger, feigning drunkenness, and wheeled around onto the pavement in front of them. In no mood to entertain a drunken vagrant, the guards grumbled and shook their heads; one began to speak out to him, but Ian hadn't come over to start a conversation. Hand to hand fighting; it had been a while.
Hurling himself headlong at the larger sentry, Ian thrust his forearm side-on into his chest sending him toppling backwards, and with a swift kick he sent the guard's weapon spinning along the pavement behind. The other guard had already raised his gun but Ian was on him in a second; he hammered his fist down on the shotgun's casing, and at the same time dealt a fierce kick to the guard's knee. Instinctively letting go of his gun with one hand, he cried out as he staggered back, and was unprepared as Ian delivered another vicious punch to his nose. A second, backhand strike to the man's temple sent him sprawling, and before he had hit the ground, Ian had snatched his weapon and spun around; but the larger guard had already wrestled himself to his feet and leapt forward, grasping the shotgun with both hands. For a brief second the two were locked opposite each other, the weapon gripped between them; before Ian could react, the guard brought his knee savagely up into his stomach. It was a powerful blow, and Ian fell winded to one knee but held fast to the shotgun, pulling the guard low to the ground. Summoning what strength he could, Ian stopped pulling at the shotgun, instead pushing it suddenly forward, and drove it into the guard's face. Bone splintered as the gun's frame impacted, and the guard brought his hands up in front of him, blood streaming from his forehead. Clasping the shotgun at the barrel end, Ian swung with both hands, and clouted the reeling guard across the side of his head; the second heavy blow was too much, and with a strained murmur he collapsed out cold on the sidewalk.
There was no time for Ian to hide the bodies of the unconscious guards; the chances were good that he would be discovered at any time by a foot patrol, or the occupants of the building, so he opted instead to get in and out as quickly as possible. With one hand clutching his stomach, he stepped up to the door and pushed it open, the shotgun pointed out in front, and walked quickly inside. A tight corridor led ahead into the murky darkness; weak yellow lighting cast a stuttering glow over the plastered walls and grimy floorboards. A large door halfway down on the right bore the sign "Relay Office". Ian's ears were pricked, and he made his way forward; a staircase on his left led to the second storey, and both light and sound filtered down. He could hear at least three people on the floor above, and he stepped lightly onto damp flooring to avoid the creaks and clacks that would draw their attention.
The door's round handle turned easily and silently, and Ian carefully pushed it forward an inch and squinted inside. There was little visible within beside the bluish haze of a computer screen; after a moment, with his gun raised, Ian opened the door sharply to catch anyone inside off-guard, but the small room was empty and lifeless save for the muted whining of the communications console. In the low light, Ian sat down, placing the shotgun close at hand and scanned over the interface.
If he was lucky, the mission files for the 88th "Infidels" would be available at this terminal; if they weren't, he would have to open a relay to the Oporis Confederate database to find the information, and he knew of no way of doing so without being detected by the others in the building.
Ian's own experience with Confederate operating systems, along with some hacking tips from the Torch, had given him one or two methods of bypassing the login identity tests, and within a few seconds, he had begun to search through the local database's file catalogue.
"Come on." He muttered.
Half a minute or so passed, and there was apparently no sign of any information regarding the Infidels. Searches by name, rank and unit yielded none of the results he was looking for, but one of the filenames produced caught his eye: a directory titled "FirstSight4". Opening the file, Ian could only access what appeared to be a personnel roster; fifth on the list, however, was the name of Corporal Jon Tando. It was likely that the roster was that of the 88th, but the remainder of the file was heavily encrypted, and it was far beyond Ian's skill to know how to unlock it. Luckily, he knew enough to be able to sever the entire file from its parent directory and duplicate it. Reaching into his pocket, Ian drew out a prepared data disk, and inserting it into the console's drive, he copied the encrypted file onto it.
His task complete, Ian retrieved his disk, and quickly logged out of the database, before making his wary departure. The two sentries were still lying prone on the sidewalk when he walked out of the front doorway; Ian quickly glanced across the street for any sign of activity, before turning his attention to the shotgun in his hand. The various gun oils used on the barrel and casing of the gun would almost certainly obliterate any fingerprints left behind, but to make sure Ian quickly rubbed his sleeve across the handle and the underside of the barrel, before dropping it down beside one of the guards. Another quick look around the street, and then behind and above him at the garrison's windows to make sure that no alarms had been sounded, and he crossed over the road, and disappeared back into the alleyway.
Ian's heart was pounding as he covered the distance back to the lights of the city centre; it had been almost three months since he had seen action in the field, and more than a year since he had last engaged in hand to hand. At thirty seven years of age, Ian was no spring chicken, but lessons learned while training in the Marine Corps faded slowly, if at all; at the end of the day, he was an individual who had been taught how to kill others, and what the mind may have forgotten, the body certainly remembered.
He was quite relieved, however, that it hadn't been necessary to go that far with the two guards; bruises, some light head trauma, the very worst they would suffer would be ridicule at the hands of their squad mates. In the end Ian deemed that the whole affair had gone off quite well, although his gut would most likely ache for the next day or so. What would cap it off would be if he could get at the data inside the encrypted file, but in order to do that, he would need some help.
The rain had piled on in the last half hour, and was growing heavier still. Drenched down to his skin, Ian sought shelter inside the lobby of one of Baa-Leea's classier hotels, now visibly suffering the effects of the current crisis; the spacious lobby was largely deserted, save for some staff and a few guests, some of whom were watching the news on a nearby wall screen. A sectioned line of Com booths at one end of the lobby afforded Ian the privacy he required, and setting down his rucksack, he opened a com channel, and sent a call to the Torch.
Ian was gradually becoming less apprehensive of his new partner, although he was still a long way off from trusting him; in Ian's mind, an individual who insisted on remaining unseen but who could see you all too easily, was not someone to put a lot of faith in. Regardless, his assistance to date had been near invaluable, and Ian had need of it once again.
The line opened audibly, and once again the telescreen flickered static.
"You look out of breath. How did it go?"
"Fine," replied Ian into the handset, "I think I've got it."
"What, no trouble?"
"Two guards. No trouble. The only problem is, the file's coded, I can't get into it."
"Have you got it on an E.S. disk?" asked the Torch.
"Yes."
"All right, put it into your laptop, and then open a line from the laptop to the Com booth that you're at."
Ian delved into his rucksack, brought out his laptop, and placed it on the booth in front of him; he then checked the cubicle's Com address, and opened a separate phone line from the computer. After inserting the disk into the laptop's drive, he picked the handset back up.
"It's in."
"All right, hang on a minute." Said the Torch.
The drive whirred quietly as the file was accessed via the Com booth. Ian looked into his rucksack at the laptop's screen, program windows opened and closed, and long strings of figures scrolled across the display.
"Hang on…"
An application opened on the screen, apparently some kind of decrypting program of the Torch's, and along the lower edge of the screen, subdirectory headings flashed rapidly.
"Okay. Okay, It's open. Is it on your screen?"
Ian watched as the "FirstSight4" file was brought up onto the display, and the encryption icon on the title bar had been removed. The directory opened with a simple key command, and the contents expanded onto the screen in three separate windows.
"Yes, I can see it."
The three sub-files were apparently the components of a mission briefing; one was an intelligence report of sector F-22 inside the Dead Zone, the second was a stellar map of the sector, and the last appeared to be an account of the mission's objectives, but, as was standard procedure, the whole thing had been written using a cipher.
"Can you read that last file?" asked the Torch.
"No, " said Ian, shaking his head, "it's a military code, but there are hundreds of them in use. I really haven't got a clue. What about you? Haven't you got some kind of program, or system that you can use?"
"Heh. Not really, word ciphers are pretty far removed from file encryptions. Confederate military codes have always been nearly impossible to hack, I'll work on it, but I can't promise anything. Hey, does this map make any sense to you? Cartography's not really my thing."
Ian scanned over the diagram, and traced the route designated for the 88th.
"Yes, I can read it. There's a mission schedule here as well, I should be able to find them." He said.
"That is, if you can actually get inside the Dead Zone. How are you going to get past the Garrison fleet?"
"I'm not sure. All stellar traffic in or out of the Zone's closely monitored, so my best bet would probably be to try and sneak on board a ship heading inside."
As Ian spoke, the news report on the wall screen opposite him caught his eye, and he turned to listen. It was an emergency bulletin, reporting enemy activity about half a light year behind the front line. Those few gathered in front listened intently to the newscaster as she delivered the article.
"NCN sources have reported that a substantial enemy force broke through the front line blockade at around two-thirty yesterday morning. Heavy casualties have been reported, but the Confederate Division for Public Relations have stated that such reports are largely unsubstantiated. C.D.P.R. Spokesman Lionel Gaff had this to say…"
The bulletin cut to a taped interview, and a neat looking, spectacled man in an expensive suit spoke into a batch of reporters' microphones, while around stood a gathering of the press, bystanders and security officers.
"A small complement of enemy units did manage to make it past the blockade, yes, but they were quickly tracked down and neutralised. I must stress that casualties were light, and the situation has now been put under control. We are still-"
"Mr. Gaff, what do you have to say to the reports that a Confederate training fleet in the Phyrriad system was attacked and destroyed by the enemy action?" interrupted a female voice off camera. A murmur arose from the assembled crowd.
"That's completely untrue, there-"
"Reports that say that the fleet was wiped out, that over two thousand young cadets were killed?"
"If you'll let me answer the question, Miss Casey," said the spokesperson, clearly growing riled by the reporter's line of questioning.
"There were no training fleets in the Phyrriad system at the time of the attack, and if there were, they would have been in no danger, thanks to the vigilant efforts of our brave boys and girls on the front line. We are in a sound tactical position in this war, and you can rest assured that it's only a matter of time before we drive those creatures back from our borders, and take the necessary steps to wipe them out, once and for all. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, that's all I have."
The screen cut back to the news studio, and the programme moved on to another story.
"What do you think it means?" asked the Torch, having heard the entire bulletin through the handset.
Ian shook his head, and stared grimly down at the map on his laptop's screen.
"It means we'd better get a bloody move on."