When Michael's inbox sounded the 'Priority' ping, he knew right away what the message was going to contain. It had been almost three months since Erin's death, and his superiors had decided it was time he was assigned another operative. He wasn't so sure, himself. Losing an operative was always hard?all the case officers he'd spoken to had said the same thing?but it was even worse when the lost operative was your first.
He didn't really have a choice, though. These were Orders, not Suggestions. He sighed and reached over to key the message. Yup, he'd guessed right. An operative who'd come to the attention of Sub Rosa had been assigned to him. He leaned forward as he read further. The operative had just been involuntary recruited from the Committee. That wasn't so unusual?it was how they got most of their operatives, in fact. No, what was unusual was that the name of the operative was familiar. Rebekah Savage. Where had he heard that name before?
He stared off into space for a moment, trying to remember. Suddenly, it hit him. The gorgeous courier he'd met on Garsem-3. His last mission as an operative. He smiled, remembering having dinner with her in his safe house. She'd been so interested in hearing about his life as an operative. Smart, too. He'd had a feeling she was going to do well, and it looked like he'd been right, if Sub Rosa was bringing her in. They were very picky about their recruits.
Why the hell were they sending him to Mars to meet her? Mars was practically deserted. The only people living there were a bunch of scientists working on better ways to terraform inhospitable worlds, and a very minor Fleet presence to protect them. In short, there was nothing of interest that he could see. He couldn't imagine why it had been chosen for their first meeting. Well, second, technically. He supposed it would all become clearer later, when he received more orders. He closed the message and stood, going to the small closet in his quarters. He always kept a case packed and ready to go. Good operatives learned to be prepared. He wanted to be on Mars before Rebekah arrived. The first meeting between an operative and his or her case officer was a delicate thing, and he didn't know what her mood was going to be. She would probably be confused, curious, and maybe kind of worried. Being sent to Mars sounded like a punishment to most people.
Rebekah had just arrived back at her apartment in Novus Angelus after a six-month tour aboard the Miles, one of Fleet's most advanced warships. She'd used her cover as a Fleet Lieutenant to turn an asset and had just delivered him to the Committee's HQ. When she went to collect her mail from the building's mail room, she noticed a plain white envelope with just her name and rank on its face. No post mark, no return address, nothing. It was strange enough to be receiving actual paper mail, let alone something as anonymous as this. It intrigued her as well as worried her. The last time she remembered getting paper mail was when the letter arrived from Fleet to inform her mother that her father?s ship had been blown up and that he was feared dead.
Taking the small bundle with her up to her fiftieth-floor apartment, she threw the rest in the incinerator and sat down on a sofa that faced the huge floor to ceiling windows that gave her an amazing view of the sprawling metroplex of the Capitol City of the Human Empire. It was a staggeringly beautiful view, one that she so rarely got to enjoy.
Normally after returning from a tour in space, she spent at least an hour just staring out at the buildings and streets and parks. Today, though, she was more than a little distracted by the envelope. She tore into it and two things tumbled out; one was a piece of paper with shuttle information and the other was a business card with nothing but a twelve digit number on it. It could be a comm number, she supposed. It could also be an intelligence clearance number. She'd start with that and if nothing came from that, then she'd try reaching someone on the comm with it.
Using the tablet on the coffee table in front of her, she connected to the Committee's mainframe and ran the code through its clearance engine. It came up as Omega Level 5. "Holy sh-t," she whispered and disconnected immediately. Seconds later, as she expected once she'd seen the top level clearance information pop up, her personal comm rang. She answered it and a robotic voice relayed which spaceport and what time she'd need to arrive in order to catch her shuttle. The message was repeated twice and then her comm went dead. She'd have to be at the Angelus Terminus tomorrow morning at 0830 to catch a shuttle to the Mars Scientific Commune. Oh, joy. An 18-hour shuttle ride. Just what she wanted after spending six months in space.
Two and a half days later, she was checking into her hotel room on Mars, which was located smack dab in the middle of the touristy part of the Cerberus region of the planet. When she looked out the window, she could see green grass and trees, blue sky and clouds. But beyond that was the film of the bubble that kept precious oxygen contained and screened the land from the harsh sun and killer dust storms that ravaged the planet outside the bubble.
There had been a message waiting for her when she'd checked in. Again, it was just a twelve digit number that proved to be another Omega level 5-encoded message. This time, though, the robotic voice left a hotel room number and then hung up. No meeting time, not even any information about which hotel. She hoped it was this one and that she could go any time she wanted. She really needed a shower, a nap, and some food that hadn't come out of a small bag.
Soon after, rested, cleaned, and fed, she arrived at the door of room number 4631 and knocked. As she waited, she reviewed what she knew of unarmed combat?don't stand directly in front of the door, instead stand to the right of it since most shooters are right handed and will naturally cover their left side. Her hand was in her pocket, wrapped around the handle of a lead-weighted sap, her favorite concealed weapon since she'd discovered it a year and a half ago on a trip to Centauri Prime.
For a moment, there was no apparent response. Then a click sounded from within the door, like the sound of a lock disengaging. It did not open, however. She instantly went on alert, her ears straining to hear any further noises from inside the room. If it came down to a waiting game, she could virtually guarantee she would not lose. She'd once waited for 48 hours inside a cargo container just for a single one-minute meeting with a potential asset. She'd successfully turned that asset, too.
Several minutes passed without another sound from the door or from the room itself. Then a light blinked on above the door, and a voice?distorted and scratchy from the cheap speaker under the light?spoke. "Come in, Lieutenant."
She withdrew the sap and held it down against her leg, hiding it from casual view. She took a step forward and shoved the door open a couple inches, still listening intently. Before moving inside, she checked the floor at ankle-level for trip wires, scanned the door frame for sensors and the floor itself for pressure plates.
Light spilled out of the room when she opened the door. No traps were visible, even under careful scrutiny. When she didn't move inside after several seconds had passed, the voice came again, this time warm and human-sounding. "It's not a trap. Promise."
Excuse her if she didn't quite believe him...whoever 'him' was. She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside, glancing around. The room looked like a carbon copy of her own...with the exception of the man in it. "Oh, wow," she said. "No way."
He didn't really have a choice, though. These were Orders, not Suggestions. He sighed and reached over to key the message. Yup, he'd guessed right. An operative who'd come to the attention of Sub Rosa had been assigned to him. He leaned forward as he read further. The operative had just been involuntary recruited from the Committee. That wasn't so unusual?it was how they got most of their operatives, in fact. No, what was unusual was that the name of the operative was familiar. Rebekah Savage. Where had he heard that name before?
He stared off into space for a moment, trying to remember. Suddenly, it hit him. The gorgeous courier he'd met on Garsem-3. His last mission as an operative. He smiled, remembering having dinner with her in his safe house. She'd been so interested in hearing about his life as an operative. Smart, too. He'd had a feeling she was going to do well, and it looked like he'd been right, if Sub Rosa was bringing her in. They were very picky about their recruits.
Why the hell were they sending him to Mars to meet her? Mars was practically deserted. The only people living there were a bunch of scientists working on better ways to terraform inhospitable worlds, and a very minor Fleet presence to protect them. In short, there was nothing of interest that he could see. He couldn't imagine why it had been chosen for their first meeting. Well, second, technically. He supposed it would all become clearer later, when he received more orders. He closed the message and stood, going to the small closet in his quarters. He always kept a case packed and ready to go. Good operatives learned to be prepared. He wanted to be on Mars before Rebekah arrived. The first meeting between an operative and his or her case officer was a delicate thing, and he didn't know what her mood was going to be. She would probably be confused, curious, and maybe kind of worried. Being sent to Mars sounded like a punishment to most people.
Rebekah had just arrived back at her apartment in Novus Angelus after a six-month tour aboard the Miles, one of Fleet's most advanced warships. She'd used her cover as a Fleet Lieutenant to turn an asset and had just delivered him to the Committee's HQ. When she went to collect her mail from the building's mail room, she noticed a plain white envelope with just her name and rank on its face. No post mark, no return address, nothing. It was strange enough to be receiving actual paper mail, let alone something as anonymous as this. It intrigued her as well as worried her. The last time she remembered getting paper mail was when the letter arrived from Fleet to inform her mother that her father?s ship had been blown up and that he was feared dead.
Taking the small bundle with her up to her fiftieth-floor apartment, she threw the rest in the incinerator and sat down on a sofa that faced the huge floor to ceiling windows that gave her an amazing view of the sprawling metroplex of the Capitol City of the Human Empire. It was a staggeringly beautiful view, one that she so rarely got to enjoy.
Normally after returning from a tour in space, she spent at least an hour just staring out at the buildings and streets and parks. Today, though, she was more than a little distracted by the envelope. She tore into it and two things tumbled out; one was a piece of paper with shuttle information and the other was a business card with nothing but a twelve digit number on it. It could be a comm number, she supposed. It could also be an intelligence clearance number. She'd start with that and if nothing came from that, then she'd try reaching someone on the comm with it.
Using the tablet on the coffee table in front of her, she connected to the Committee's mainframe and ran the code through its clearance engine. It came up as Omega Level 5. "Holy sh-t," she whispered and disconnected immediately. Seconds later, as she expected once she'd seen the top level clearance information pop up, her personal comm rang. She answered it and a robotic voice relayed which spaceport and what time she'd need to arrive in order to catch her shuttle. The message was repeated twice and then her comm went dead. She'd have to be at the Angelus Terminus tomorrow morning at 0830 to catch a shuttle to the Mars Scientific Commune. Oh, joy. An 18-hour shuttle ride. Just what she wanted after spending six months in space.
Two and a half days later, she was checking into her hotel room on Mars, which was located smack dab in the middle of the touristy part of the Cerberus region of the planet. When she looked out the window, she could see green grass and trees, blue sky and clouds. But beyond that was the film of the bubble that kept precious oxygen contained and screened the land from the harsh sun and killer dust storms that ravaged the planet outside the bubble.
There had been a message waiting for her when she'd checked in. Again, it was just a twelve digit number that proved to be another Omega level 5-encoded message. This time, though, the robotic voice left a hotel room number and then hung up. No meeting time, not even any information about which hotel. She hoped it was this one and that she could go any time she wanted. She really needed a shower, a nap, and some food that hadn't come out of a small bag.
Soon after, rested, cleaned, and fed, she arrived at the door of room number 4631 and knocked. As she waited, she reviewed what she knew of unarmed combat?don't stand directly in front of the door, instead stand to the right of it since most shooters are right handed and will naturally cover their left side. Her hand was in her pocket, wrapped around the handle of a lead-weighted sap, her favorite concealed weapon since she'd discovered it a year and a half ago on a trip to Centauri Prime.
For a moment, there was no apparent response. Then a click sounded from within the door, like the sound of a lock disengaging. It did not open, however. She instantly went on alert, her ears straining to hear any further noises from inside the room. If it came down to a waiting game, she could virtually guarantee she would not lose. She'd once waited for 48 hours inside a cargo container just for a single one-minute meeting with a potential asset. She'd successfully turned that asset, too.
Several minutes passed without another sound from the door or from the room itself. Then a light blinked on above the door, and a voice?distorted and scratchy from the cheap speaker under the light?spoke. "Come in, Lieutenant."
She withdrew the sap and held it down against her leg, hiding it from casual view. She took a step forward and shoved the door open a couple inches, still listening intently. Before moving inside, she checked the floor at ankle-level for trip wires, scanned the door frame for sensors and the floor itself for pressure plates.
Light spilled out of the room when she opened the door. No traps were visible, even under careful scrutiny. When she didn't move inside after several seconds had passed, the voice came again, this time warm and human-sounding. "It's not a trap. Promise."
Excuse her if she didn't quite believe him...whoever 'him' was. She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside, glancing around. The room looked like a carbon copy of her own...with the exception of the man in it. "Oh, wow," she said. "No way."