Naleen's Shadow, Chapter 3: Uneasy Alliances
Fri, 1 Nov 2024
Continued from Chapter 2: The Reckoning of Hinsman.
If you're just starting you probably want Chapter 1: Naleen's Bite.
A Shadow's Proposition
The stale, recycled air in Hinsman's quarters could not ease the tightness in his chest. He had deactivated the room's meager entertainment system at the start. The saccharine drone of authorized newsfeeds and recycled sitcoms only amplified his isolation.
He sat on the edge of his cot, Petrovski's data file in his hand. The man's history, his crimes, his psychological profile were all there. Actually there were several psych profiles. The psych docs couldn't agree. There was a grainy, out of focus image of Mihrab. But those unsettling blue eyes were sharp and clear and still they seemed to stare into Hinsman's soul.
He'd read the file a dozen times. Each pass through the data reinforced what he already knew. This wasn't a rescue mission. It was a recovery mission. Someone was ressurecting a ghost from the past, from Hinsman's past. A ghost that could spell doom for the galaxy and for him.
But why?
A soft chime, barely audible above the life support systems, drew his attention. It wasn't a PTSC comm alert. This was different. He glanced at his personal datapad, which he kept meticulously scrubbed. No one knew about this piece of electronic equipment. No one.
A single line of text was displayed in the screen.
The Serpent invites you to play.
A chill crawled down his spine. He had heard rumors of a shadow organization: dissidents, crackers, ghosts in the system. They called themselves the Children of Tor. They were saboteurs, guerilla fighters who struck and then disappeared. Every government, every corporation, every organization that tried to impose order on the chaos of the galaxy knew them.
The PTSC called them terrorists. Hinsman wasn't so sure. He'd seen firsthand how quickly order could morph into oppression, how easily the lines between justice and control could blur.
The screen flickered and the cryptic message was replaced by a set of coordinates and a time. The Serpent wanted a meeting.
There was a hysterical voice at the base of his brain screaming at him to wipe the screen, pretend he'd never seen that message. But he felt freer than he had in years. He felt excited, almost thrilled. He felt alive. His path was already dangerous to the point of being suicidal. Why not take a few more steps down a dark path to the side?
The Digital Handshake
The day after the meeting. The Transit Hub on Level 27 was barely controlled chaos. Crowds, faces and speech from all over the system, surged through the cavernous space. The noise levels were painful. The PA system competed with the roar of the crowd, the hawking of vendors, and the cacophonous blare of music from multiple speakers.
Hinsman navigated through the mass of humanity with ease. He had learned to become invisible, especially in crowds. Wearing a civilian-grade thermal cloak, he was truly invisible to the thermal scanners that dotted the ceiling.
The data kiosk was tucked away in a dimly lit corner, sandwiched between a holoadvert and a vendor hawking noodles. It was a relic of the past, maybe pre-war, its screen cracked, its interface sluggish. The perfect place for a clandestine exchange.
He glanced at the clock. 17:47. Three minutes to spare. He leaned against a nearby pillar, pretending to scroll through the newsfeeds on his datapad. His attention, however, was on the crowd, searching for any signs of surveillance, for the glint of a camera lens.
No one seemed out of place. No one was casting furtive glances in his direction. Or even leaning against a pillar, reading newsfeeds.
Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He gave it twenty minutes before he approached the kiosk. He wasn't worried about being late. They knew he was there.
Removing a data chip from his pocket, he slipped it into the kiosk's data port. The chip contained only one file, a log of personnel transfers within one of PTSC's less savory customers. It wasn't much, but it should pique their interest.
Initiating the transfer, he waited, listening to the whirrs and chirps until two words appeared on the cracked screen. Package delivered.
He didn't wait any further. Melting back into the crowd, his footsteps were quickly lost in the noise of the Transit Hub.
On the other side of the Transit Hub, a man listened to the footsteps receding while his fingers were flying over the keypad in front of him. He had infiltrated the kiosk's system an hour ago. Now he wanted to see his prize.
The file filled the screen and the man smiled. Oh, yeah. Hinsman was the real deal.
The Price of Truth
Back in his quarters, Hinsman scrubbed the data chip, purged the logs, and erased every trace of his encounter in the Transit Hub. He felt he'd just stepped onto a detonator and he was powerless to stop the explosion.
The datapad chimed.
Hinsman froze, his heart hammering. The channel was different. This channel was heavily encrypted, and routed through multiple servers. He recognized the signature. It could only be one person.
You have my attention. W
That single letter was enough to send a chill through Hinsman. Westfield.
Hinsman considered wiping the datapad and walking away. Last chance. They probably wouldn't let him. The Children of Tor didn't give up easily. And there was something about the sheer audacity of this plot that appealed to him. To a part of him that had been dormant for a long, long time.
He typed a single sentence, his finger hesitating over send.
I know what you're planning.
A pause, then the reply. Do you?
Hinsman typed. Mihrab Vanco Petrovski. You want him free.
Free? What a quaint notion. Let's say we find his skill set... necessary. W
And what about the PTSC? Do you think they'll just let him walk?
The Serpent devours those who mistake order for control. We'll burn their precious system to the ground. W
Hinsman leaned back, considering his next move. He didn't trust Westfield. Not for a second. But their objectives were aligned... at least for now.
He typed. I can help you. I can get you what you need.
Oh? And what is the price of your... assistance? W
Taking a deep breath, Hinsman made his decision. He didn't understand much of what was happening, but he felt he could survive long enough to overturn the board.
The truth. I want to expose them for what they've done. For what they're planning to do.
Lines in the Sand
Hinsman waited, his eyes on the datapad. His stomach churned. He had just placed himself in the crosshairs of two dangerous organizations: the PTSC and the Children of Tor. Now it probably was a suicide mission.
You're an idealist! I didn't think there were any left. The truth, Hinsman? Truth is a fickle mistress. What one believes to be true can be reworked, morphed into something unrecognizable. W
Hinsman's grip on the datapad tightened. He recognized a veiled threat when he saw one.
He typed, I don't play games. You want Mihrab Vanco Petrovski? I can get him for you. But the PTSC... their crimes... those have to be exposed. That's the deal.
You are assertive. I admire that in a pawn. Understand this, Hinsman. You are a tool. A means to my ends. Your desire for truth is irrelevant. W
Then walk away. Find someone else with the 'necessary skill set'.
Silence. The air felt thick.
Finally, the datapad chimed again. Very well, Hinsman. You have a deal. The Serpent honors his agreements. I'll be in touch. And Hinsman, do try to make it interesting. W
The datapad went dark, the screen flickering back to its default display. Hinsman stared at the wall. He wasn't sure if he's made the best decision of his life or signed his own death warrant. Probably both.
He had a plan. Dangerous, even desperate, but a plan nonetheless. As he opened his datapad to the file on Petrovski, the ghost of a smile touched his lips.
He was about to unleash chaos and he wasn't sure if he minded one bit.