CAREER CHOICE
1561 4D
Director Mentrius Adrili, of ArCorp, entered the Naga Zone Command Office of the City Militia, wondering what the City militia had for him. His female aide Craessa walked beside him, leafing a datasheet, trying to find Arlen‘s note that had triggered this meeting. Arlen was always so cryptic, indirect; it paid off to spend some time deciphering the man’s orders. Preparation was never wasted.
Mentrius, annoyed, felt entitled to some warning. Why couldn’t Arlen, just once, be frank and helpful to his staff?
Mentrius had done well, for all his ten years of ArCorp service. His wife and grown children thrived; his tours of duty usually took him southeast, where the low plains and marshes were thinly-populated and quiet. Not like the mines or the western plains, back when he’d served the City, before ArCorp.
The western plains and the Great South Fall: he’d been glad to finish his fourth tour, training recruits back in 1547. He’d been a noncom, and for the second time the rebels at the Purusil station had tried to kill him.
The first time, the scythewire had missed him. The second time, it hadn’t; he’d been brought back to the City floating in a tank, his pieces slowly knitting back together. That had been, in the City way to say it, “Less fun.”
But it had gotten him the transfer to ArCorp, and the commission, and a big increase in pay. Life under Arlen‘s command wasn’t great fun, but the focus and competence Mentrius displayed had taken him quickly to top rank. Now, his once-thin body filled out better, his rashness tempered by years of service, he enjoyed his work.
And he’d finally put the coll intrigues behind him. His family had been displeased, but he was determined; ever since he’d settled things with Andrew Luce, he’d completely lost the stomach for petty confrontations.
Sometimes he remembered the visit he’d made to the wounded Andrew, in the City hospital; it had been the right thing, and he’d felt redeemed. Luce had been a real man about all of it. Mentrius wondered how Andrew was doing; they hadn’t seen each other in years.
He and Craessa arrived at the militia office; he plugged his comm into the recognition port. The black steel door opened.
“Director Adrili?” A woman in militia blue sat at a planar desk made of transparent plast.
“Yes.”
She gestured over her shoulder, down a long corridor. “Sir, Frame Officer Prinze’s office, back there.”
Craessa pointed at his side, where the fabric had not fully latched, and whispered, “Tighten your seam.”
He fumbled the seam together, wondering. Frame officer Gorind Prinze was the City-side head of militia-corporate liaison, an intelligence-coordination unit. The frame officer was usually a Head Signer or a Director, just as in the Regionals; Prinze was a Director, the higher of the two ranks.
At the doorway to the Frame Officer’s large cubby, Mentrius stopped. Two men in militia blue, one of them almost his size, the other compact and wiry, stood with their backs to the entrance, studying a holographic topo display of the City‘s lower zones. The display hung in the air, highlighted against the black wall behind it. At either side of the room, large racks of bins stood; on the black wall facing the door, four giant datapanels ran with muted graphics and numerical displays.
The taller man in blue, gaunt and hollow-eyed, was Gorind Prinze. He turned. “Han, Mentrius. Please come in. This is Head Officer Artir Surendar, of my unit.”
Mentrius stepped inside. “Han, Gorind. Han, Surendar.”
The other man turned. Small and intense, his skin dark umber, he had a seamed face, long hair triple-knotted in Incarnastar style at the back of his neck, and a steady gaze that took Mentrius in from head to foot. The weathering in his skin told Mentrius the man was from the countryside, probably south of the City. His voice was musical. “Hanneh, sir. An honor.”
“Not at all. Gorind, what’s this about?”
“We’re assembling a joint mission between the City militia and ArCorp. Rebel contingents are in the City.”
“In the City?” Mentrius hadn’t known this. The insurgents he knew about were all in the farther reaches of the region. He’d heard no rumors of anything here.
“That’s right. We were surprised, too, but we’ve uncovered some evidence that the rebel coll contingents are on the move, right here in Gran Dar.” Director Prinze reached down into a bin and pulled out an odd, snouted metal object that resembled a missile. “This is a nerve bomb. They were outlawed long ago, but we found a small cache of them in Blinker Zone, Level 723, in a deserted area.”
A nerve bomb! Properly set, this thing could clear a half-kilometer corridor of all human life. Mentrius stared at the thing the Head Signer cradled in his hands. “This is bad news.”
Prinze went on. “We’ve needed someone to infiltrate them. The problem is that they are very careful about the people they trust. We’ve lost over a dozen people trying to get inside.
“When I say ‘lost’, I don’t just mean dead. Some of these killings have been gruesome, staged like warnings.” Prinze flicked fingers in the air, and the leftmost datapanel filled with the dim image of a body curled on a shadowed floor.
“This was an officer who thought he’d made it to the inner circle of insurgency commanders. Notice the missing hands. We couldn’t show his face; it wasn’t a face any more. The body was identified through geneprint.”
Long-ago images surged up in Mentrius‘s mind.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Just memories, not good ones.”
Prinze said, “We’ve all got them. You were at Abridor with the City, weren’t you, back in 1544?”
“Yes.” Prinze had a memory like the Archives themselves.
“I came in with the reinforcements. They should never have sent your people there, not without better training.”
“No one knew what we were walking into,” Mentrius said quietly.
“That’s right,” Prinze answered, nodding slightly. “What we’re trying to do now is make up for that by improving our intelligence apparatus. ArCorp has a good system, which is why I asked you over.
“Here is what we’re doing. There’s a smuggling route, maybe more than one, that’s bringing arms and supplies into the City for the rebels. We know that at least two colls are involved: Arcus and Gellin Sintherou. A faction of Astran Terxil people have been seen with the rebels.
“We’ve made contact with the Astrans involved, joined in with them, and infiltrated the supply activities. We’re going slowly, because it was our haste that got our earlier people killed.” Prinze paused, looked away for a moment, and then went on. “Surendar here will be your liaison with my office. No one else is to know of the connection or the information that is passed. I’m transferring him to ArCorp. I suggest you give him a cover assignment.”
“You volunteered for this, Surendar?”
“Yes, sir.” The man seemed as tense as a coiled spring.
“You’re Incarnastar, aren’t you? What’s your interest in this?”
“Yes, sir. I want the fighting to stop, or at least slow down, that’s all.”
It sounded heartfelt.
“What’s your background?”
Prinze broke in, offering a datasheet. “It’s all here-“
“No, I want him to tell me in his own words.”
“I’ve been with the City militia seven years. Served at Transellas during the Signo riots, got commissioned out of that, went to Purusil in ‘58 to help quiet things down out there.”
Mentrius liked this man; soldiers who left things better than they found them always impressed him. “Fine. Surendar, I will be your sole contact at ArCorp on this matter. I’ll give you a standard corporate police assignment as cover. Do you have any questions so far?”
“The assignment seems generally clear, sir.”
Prinze said, “We expect this will run for two years, with short breaks for family visits once or twice a year.”
“Do you need any time to think about this?” Mentrius asked Surendar.
“No, sir. I’m all set.”
“Good. Report to the ArCorp office at the crossing just up the street. There’ll be someone to give you the cover assignment. You and I will get better acquainted as we go.”
