Rogue(4)

I don’t want to remember any of it, but I don’t have a choice. Even if I didn’t have a near eidetic memory, it was the kind of thing one never forgets.

The reason I was alive? My daughter. An accident borne and born of a huge error on my part. I was still alive because she was innocent and needed the best protection possible. As she got older, the old self-hatred got to me more and more.

That’s why I’d changed my name, I realized. Ken Chinran never came back from Earth. He died with the rest.

Now he had to be reborn.

Perhaps he could end with an honorable death.





CHAPTER 2





The next morning, I forced myself awake. I’d slept a tortured sleep, with undefined bad dreams and twitches at every sound. Some things mark you for life. I’m marked enough by Earth that I have to have city noise to be comfortable, and my hindbrain panics when it stops. Of course, some noises sound like threats.

I ate a couple bites of cheese, didn’t bother showering as I was going to be getting filthy in dust. Hard work with the machines makes me feel good, and I had enough contracts.

Andre always wondered about my low profile. I lived simply, owned the building through a combination of scavenged military funds left from Earth, savings and lots of long days. I didn’t need a lot of income, and didn’t need to expand. That kept me out of sight and safe. I lived upstairs, worked downstairs, and kept everything Spartan and simple.

I walked quietly downstairs, though Chel had long since left for school. It was habit. I’m only noisy when I decide to be, and was very soft footed even before training.

Naumann’s card was still on the desk. It read “Alan David” with no last name, and had a contact code. I sent him a brief note with a fake name and appointment time for thirty segs. I wanted him to have to rush.

Out in the shop, I powered up a pantographic coordinate mill and gave it a pattern to work from. I watched it cut and twist and shave, following whatever pattern its AI found to cover the entire surface of the model as efficiently as possible.

While I meditated to crumbling chips and peeling shreds, a woman walked in. Decent looking in the angular style, dressed in business casual—white tights and sleeveless turquoise tunic with a coat draped. She had dark collar-length hair with a chestnut tinge restrained with a band, sharp shoulders and oval hips. She was lighter-skinned than typical, faintly olive rather than tanned or dark. Pert. Cute. Small. She might mass sixty-five kilos and wasn’t over one hundred sixty-five centimeters. She had a bearing that told me at once who she was. That and a doccase.

“I’m Dan Lockhart. Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Cynthia Charles. I’m looking for a Kenneth Puvalis,” she said, giving the name I’d provided. Yes, she was my assistant. I should have been happy. I wasn’t. Naumann had set me up with a woman who was no doubt competent, would blend in most places, and was very pretty. It was that last part that made me suspicious. Why pretty? Luck of the draw, or did he have plans to hold her over me? And even after all these years, I wasn’t keen on attractive woman as assistants. Call it a psychological issue.

Actually, that’s exactly what it was. She had poise, exuded confidence and competence, and that was why she was here. My own nerves were the problem, not anything or anyone else. Still, I coded the door for “OPERATING” and turned back to her.

“That’s me,” I admitted. “And you are?”

“Sergeant Instructor Silver McLaren. I suppose I’m reporting for duty.” She handed over the case. I didn’t waste time checking it. It would have the cash I asked for.

“Good,” I said. “I never want to hear that name or rank again. Did our employer brief you?”

“Painfully,” she admitted. “It doesn’t sound like a fun gig.” She looked me over. I could tell she wasn’t very enthusiastic, and my terseness wasn’t helping her. That wasn’t my problem right now.

“It never is,” I said. “Did you volunteer? Or were you persuaded?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I did volunteer, but I suppose he was persuasive. Good for career, interesting experience, all that.”

“So decide right now if you’re a real volunteer. There’s no turning back.” Oh, shit, I hated this. It was dèjá vu of forming Team Seven. Come with me, kid, it’ll be a hoot! Trust me. Big rewards if you survive.

“Oh, I’ll do it,” she said. “That’s why I enl . . . signed up. This is just different from what I expected.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Get used to strange things quickly. Did he tell you I’m not real keen on the mission?”