The Janus Group: Books 1-3: The Janus Group

By Piers Platt

The complete first trilogy. 3 books. 1,100 pages. Over 80,000 copies downloaded.

Rath's Deception
On the cut-throat streets of Tarkis, orphaned teens like Rath end up jailed … or dead. So when the shadowy Janus Group offers Rath a chance to earn riches beyond his wildest dreams, he seizes it. But the Janus Group is as ruthless as the elite assassins it controls. Rath will have to survive their grueling, off-world training, and fulfill all fifty kills in his contract before a single cent comes his way. And ending so many lives comes with a price Rath can't anticipate. It'll certainly cost him what's left of his innocence. It may well cost him his life.

Rath's Gambit
Rath just assassinated a senator, and completed his final mission for the Janus Group. Now every Interstellar Police officer on Alberon is searching for him. If they don't find him, one of his fellow contractors certainly will … and the most feared criminal organization in the galaxy has severe punishments for employees who break the rules. Rath's only hope is to find the rogue contractor who helped him escape a company deathtrap after his final mission. United, the two assassins might just get free from the Janus Group and get what they're owed. But first they'll need to survive.

Rath's Reckoning
Rath and Paisen completed all fifty kills in their contracts with the Janus Group. But when they uncovered the criminal organization's darkest secret, the Janus Group unleashed an army of assassins to silence the rogue pair. With help from a former Interstellar Police detective, Rath and Paisen survive - barely. Their plan to attack the Janus Group head-on may be suicide, but in the end, they'll tear the organization to the ground … or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piers Platt
• Release date: Jun 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386775300

Book preview

1

You’re still withholding information, the drone observed. Last time the pain lasted for thirty seconds. This is what two minutes feels like.

The drone watched Rath writhe in silent agony. When the shocks ended, Rath found himself on his stomach, his face in the sand.

… no more, Rath moaned.

Then answer the question. Why are you determined to be in this program, Candidate 621?

My brother, Rath admitted, sobbing. Vonn ….

What about your brother?

* * *

Rath rode a city bus home from school as usual, along with several other students. He hopped off at his stop, and walked past the front entrance to his tenement building, hooking into the side alley and making for the fire escape past the overflowing dumpsters. A short climb up a ladder brought him to the first balcony, then he took the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor, stopping to catch his breath before sidling up to his bedroom window. He pushed a lank of black hair out of his eyes, then peeked around the frame, scanning the room within. When he was satisfied that the room was empty, he pulled up the sash and tossed his school bags through, before stepping through the window himself.

Nice try, Rath.

Rath spun around: Vonn was standing with his back to the outer wall, out of view of the window.

I taught you that trick, remember?

I’m just avoiding Mom and Dad, Rath suggested. Been a long day, I just didn’t want to deal with their shit.

Vonn held up his holophone: I hacked Mom’s account to forward all school notifications to me. She might not care about you, but I do.

Rath sighed. I didn’t cheat, Vonn.

I know you didn’t. So you either got lazy, or you wanted to show off.

He practically dared me to do it. First of all, he’s been docking me points for the most trivial things on all the quizzes, because he can’t stand giving out an ‘A.’ Then he spent all semester talking about this historian, and how none of us could ever hope to live up to that level of insight into the Early Colonization Period. So I just copied that guy’s work as my essay.

Yeah, you wanted to show off, just like I thought, Vonn said, sitting on Rath’s bed. He sighed. Look, Rath – your memory, this ability to recall everything perfectly – that’s your key to getting out of here. We’ve talked about this. Good grades ….

… a scholarship, college, a job …, Rath recited, I know.

Don’t roll your eyes; this is serious, Rath. In fifteen years you could be living on the middle levels, and ten years after that, you might even be able to save up enough to bring me with you. But you’ve got to play by their rules, and sometimes that means hiding your ability, or letting an asshole teacher think he’s smarter than you.

But if I quit school and worked with you, we might be able to move up even faster, Rath protested.

Vonn shook his head. What is Nicholai going to do with a fourteen-year-old enforcer, huh, Rath? You get one thing – just one – on your record, and it’s over, the whole plan is shot. What I do is not cool, or fun. You know what I did yesterday, for Nicholai?

Rath looked at the floor.

It wasn’t a car chase, or a bank heist. It’s not like TV, Rath. I hacked my way into an old man’s apartment, and when he came home later that night, I broke his arm with a crow-bar. Because Nicholai wants everyone to know what happens when you try to cross him.

What’d he do? Rath asked.

To piss Nicholai off? Vonn shrugged. He called the cops when their street party got too noisy last Thursday. He couldn’t sleep, and now he has a broken arm. And I’ve gotta live with that on my conscience.

The brothers were silent for a minute, then Vonn sighed again.

Listen, here on Tarkis, kids like us … there’s no future. If you’re ruthless enough, you might lead a gang, like Nicholai. With all the drugs his gang pushes, he can afford the middle levels … barely. But we’re not going to get out of here by working for a guy like that. We’re going to get killed, or go to jail. We gotta be smarter than that, Rath. Vonn stood, walking over to Rath and taking his head in his hands. And you – with this million-dollar head of yours – you’re going to make us smarter than all of them.

Rath smiled up at his brother: I’m sorry.

I know, Vonn told him, touching his forehead to Rath’s. Want a snack?

Yeah.

They found their mother in the kitchen, sipping water out of a dirty coffee mug. It took her several seconds to notice them.

Hey, look who’s home. Not even a ‘hello,’ Rath? she chided, her eyes distant and glassy.

Hello, he said, Where’s Dad?

Where he always is, Vonn answered, leaning against the fridge. Sleeping it off.

Do you have any money, Rath? she asked, ignoring Vonn.

No, he doesn’t – how would he make money while he’s in school? Vonn asked her.

She changed the subject: What’s this I see about cheating on a test?

Rath found the remains of a ration pack in a cupboard and sat down at the table.

Hmm, Rath? She brushed her fingers along his face, smiling.

He shrugged her off. What do you care?

I just thought with my little ‘gift’ you wouldn’t need to cheat.

I hate it when you call it that. Vonn told her. Don’t try to take credit for it. You couldn’t get clean when you were pregnant – he’s lucky he even lived.

She stuck her tongue out at Vonn, and was about to reply, when the door abruptly splintered off its hinges. A tall man walked into the apartment, pointing a pistol at Vonn.

Hey, Vonn, he said. Doorbell was broken, sorry about that. His smile was cold.

Vonn held his hands out to his side, palms open. I’ve been meaning to get that fixed. He forced a smile. Despino, if you needed me for a job, you could have just called.

Despino sighed. Vonn … I thought you were smarter than this. You know as well as anyone what kind of temper Nicholai has. Did you think he wouldn’t figure it out?

Figure what out? Vonn asked, easing away from the kitchen table. Rath could hear the fear in his voice.

You wanna play dumb? Okay. Let me spell it out for you. You. Are. A. Fucking. Rat. Answer me this, smart boy: what good is a snitch’s ‘get out of jail free’ card if you’re not alive to use it?

Vonn shook his head, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yeah? Then what’s this? Despino held out a small data drive. A flicker of fear crossed Vonn’s face. Oh, yeah. We followed you, and took this out of the wall where you hid it. ‘Dear Mr. Policeman: on this encrypted drive, allow me to provide you with some more details of Nicholai’s operation.’

Vonn’s shoulders sagged. Okay, just … not here, alright? Not in front of my brother.

Vonn? Rath asked, standing. Vonn, what’s going to happen?

Sit down now, Rath! Vonn’s voice was suddenly commanding in the small room. Rath sat.

Despino chuckled. Don’t worry; I’m not going to do it here. Nicholai wants to be there in person for this. Kneel, hands behind your back.

Vonn complied, kneeling. He looked up at his brother. I’m sorry, Rath. You’re gonna be on your own from now on. You’re gonna be okay, though.

No, Vonn, I can’t …, Rath protested, tears welling in his eyes.

Listen: you can. You’re going to make it out of here, promise me you will.

I promise, Rath managed.

Touching, Despino grunted, as he finished binding Vonn’s wrists behind his back. Let’s go.

Despino pushed Vonn toward the door of the apartment. As he stepped over the remains of the door, Vonn looked back over his shoulder at Rath and smiled. Rath opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Then Vonn was gone.

Rath sat crying in silence for a long time. Finally, his mother spoke.

Rath, you’re home? Oh. Hi, honey. Do you have any money?

No.

Oh. Well can you see if maybe your brother has some? I need to go get some things.

Vonn’s dead. Rath told her, standing. And I’m leaving.

2

Breathing hurt, which meant that Rath had at most two more blocks that he could run at this pace. As he rounded a corner, Rath risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The two cops were still on his tail. He had lost his sense of direction after ducking down an unfamiliar alley, and his initial plan of heading for the electronics market was now out of the question.

I haven’t been back to the electronics market since that time with Vonn, Rath realized, panting. Almost three years ago. And he was gone just a few months later.

In the market, he might have been able to lose the cops in the dense press of shoppers; this area of the city was nothing but boarded-up warehouses, which offered no chance of easy escape. He picked another alley at random and tore down it, dodging past a dumpster, and ignoring the bile that rose in his throat as his body protested at the ongoing punishment. As he burst out onto the next street, something solid smashed into his shins, the world seemed to spin, and Rath suddenly found himself flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him completely. He rolled onto his side, gasping, and saw a man standing beside the alley’s exit. The man casually tossed aside a rusted length of pipe that he had used to trip Rath. The two policemen arrived seconds later, breathing hard.

They took the stolen pistol from him first, then stood Rath up, one cop immobilizing him with his arms pinned cruelly behind his back. Rath didn’t bother struggling. Instead he took a shuddering breath and braced himself, his blue-grey eyes staring defiantly up at the man towering over him. The cop drew back his fist.

No, the man who had tripped Rath said, simply. Rath noticed that he was wearing a rather expensive-looking suit.

But, sir ….

"I said, No, Corporal. Either you can let me handle this kid and get back to your patrol sector, or you can rough him up, and I can file a report with your precinct stating that you let a scrawny little teenager lift your service weapon off of you in broad daylight. And that you nearly let him get away."

We were catching up—

Not from where I was standing, Corporal. Now: either beat his ass, or get going – I don’t have all day.

The cop looked back at Rath, the frustration and anger plain on his face. But he let his fist drop, and instead poked Rath hard in the chest. I’ll see you around, you little prick.

Okay, Rath panted, grinning.

Fucking detectives, the cop grumbled, as he and his partner headed back down the alley.

Rath glanced over at the detective in the suit. If he had heard the comment, he didn’t care enough to acknowledge it. Instead he walked over to a matte-grey air car and opened the driver-side door before looking back at Rath.

You getting in?

What? Rath asked.

Christ, is everyone going fucking deaf today? Get. In.

Rath eyed him dubiously. The detective sighed.

If I wanted to book you, I’d be cuffing you. I got better things to do. I’m hungry, now let’s go.

Screw it, Rath thought, opening the door. I’m hungry, too.

Though the car’s exterior was dented and scuffed, the interior was surprisingly plush, with deep leather seats, and mottled wood panel accents. The detective keyed a button on the console.

Auto-pilot. The steakhouse on level one-twenty-five, Mercantile Ave and Amsterdam.

The car rose smoothly, swiftly angling up over the roofs of the warehouses and heading for the upper levels of the multi-tiered city. Rath had never been above the tenth level, so he stared out his window as the air car merged into the traffic flow and headed downtown. Everything was clean – the city’s top half practically sparkled to Rath’s street-weary eye.

Every police gun has a tracking chip built into it, the detective said, breaking the silence. The second someone – either a cop or anyone else – draws it from its holster, it reports that into Headquarters and activates the tracking feature. That’s how I got the jump on you, kid.

Rath held his tongue, staying silent until he could determine the man’s intent.

… so you basically stole the equivalent of a giant neon arrow, saying ‘Here I am!’ That tracking chip means you would have had a hell of a time selling it, too. Any gunrunner you took it to would probably have killed you on the spot, thinking you were working a sting operation for us. Just saying. Next time do your research, huh?

Still silent, Rath turned back to the window. Their route took them past a meticulously landscaped floating park that was shaped like a soaring bird, with wings made of rolling green lawns extending from a crystal blue lake that made up the bird’s body. Rath saw children swimming in the lake. He wondered what swimming felt like. He could not remember the last time he had seen a living plant.

Still, it was the nicest pull I’ve seen in years.

Rath turned away from the window. You saw me take it? Why were you following me?

The detective snorted. Don’t flatter yourself. I was just in the area, and happened to be watching those cops when you made your move. That was a slick idea, by the way – using the bus to split the two of them up. How did you know the bus would be there at the right time?

I knew the schedule, Rath said, simply.

The man gave him a curious look. Yeah, but you couldn’t have known when the cops would be on patrol. You expect me to believe you memorized all of the different bus schedules for that stop? There have to be several hundred scheduled stops each day.

Rath did not reply. The detective tried a different tack.

What crew are you working for?

No crew, Rath said, before he could stop himself.

No? A loner, huh? That bodes well. The detective pulled a datascroll out of his jacket. He unrolled it and locked the screen flat with a flick of his wrist, before flipping through several pages of data. Let’s see, he mused. Rath Kaldirim. One year of public high school, straight ‘A’ student except for an ‘F’ in Galactic History. What happened there?

Rath set his lips in a line and stared out the window. The man tapped the screen. Your teacher claims you plagiarized whole paragraphs of a textbook on an in-class exam, though he wasn’t able to prove how you did it. After that, no more school. Got a few petty theft bookings, but overall not much of a criminal record for a seventeen-year-old dropout … most kids in the lower levels at your age are already on parole. Parents … known drug addicts, deceased, three years ago, in an apartment fire. Who took you in when they died?

I wasn’t living with them when they died, Rath said. I moved out when I was fourteen.

Okay, so who took you in when you ran away?

No one, Rath told him, looking away suddenly.

The man eyed Rath closely. No one? Not one gang-banger looking for a new recruit, no old pervert looking for companionship, not even a single Good Samaritan feeling sorry for you?

Rath returned his gaze, defiant. The man rolled the datascroll back up and tucked it into his coat.

Well, that is … very interesting. How does a fourteen-year-old kid survive three years on his own on the lower levels?

How does a cop afford a tailored suit and a souped-up air car? Rath shot back.

The man was startled, but managed to hide his reaction quickly. We impound cars from criminals – like you – and then auction them off cheap.

That still doesn’t explain the suit, Rath pointed out.

The console pinged a proximity alert, and the air car slowed, easing into a hover over a landing pad in front of a large building with white columns flanking a set of wooden doors.

Come on, the man growled, opening his door. Before I change my mind and drop your ass off at central booking.

Inside, Rath immediately felt inadequate in his tattered utility pants and t-shirt. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened black hair, doing his best to clean himself up. A tuxedoed maître d’ whisked them to a private booth, where, Rath realized, the rest of the patrons wouldn’t be able to see him. Or his clothing. A waiter arrived soon afterwards.

Order what you want: I’m paying, the detective told him.

Rath was overwhelmed by the menu, until he remembered seeing a movie where the character ordered filet mignon in a restaurant.

The detective sighed. No – you’re not having filet mignon, that’s what women order at a steakhouse. He turned to the waiter. We’ll have two rib-eyes, medium rare, and bring out a couple different sides. I’ll have a vodka tonic with a twist of lime, and he’ll have soda.

The waiter bowed and left.

Filet mignon is expensive, but cost doesn’t always equal quality, kid. Rib-eye’s not as tender, but it’s better marbled – means it has little streaks of fat in it, which add to the taste.

You haven’t told me your name, Rath said, ignoring the lecture on cuts of meat.

Nor will I.

Then what are we doing here?

For now, enjoying a good meal. We’ll talk business later.

Food on the lower levels of Tarkis came from two sources: Rath’s normal routine was visiting vending machines that spat out processed food packets when you inserted your ration card. The food was optimized to be cheap to produce in mass quantities, have a long shelf life, and be largely tasteless, so that any potential thieves would have little luck trying to sell it or the ration cards themselves. It was subsistence only in the most basic sense – rumor had it that it was heavily-recycled organic waste from the upper levels.

Alternately, Rath occasionally scraped together enough money for a meal from one of the mobile kitchens that roamed the streets, where a chef would cook meals to order. The ingredients were never fresh, but at least the food was hot and had some taste. The kitchens rarely visited Rath’s neighborhood, though – too many had been hijacked and stripped for parts. When his steak arrived, sizzling next to a pile of steaming mashed potatoes and French-cut green beans, Rath put aside his misgivings and dug in.

Afterwards, the detective wiped his hands and mouth with a steaming towel brought by the waiter, and then motioned the man away.

Okay, on to business. What do you know about the Guild?

Rath grunted. The Guild, like, ‘Fifty for Fifty’? It’s an urban legend. Just some fairy tale they made up to make people think there’s a way out of the lower levels.

Humor me, the man said.

Rath crossed his arms. You sign a contract, and the Guild trains you to be a hitman. You get to keep fifty percent of the profits, but only if you make it to fifty kills.

Fifty for fifty, the man agreed. You gotta make it all the way to fifty without being killed or caught.

Sure. So you kill people and get rich while doing it. Rich enough to eat here every day, Rath said.

"Rich enough to own this place, the man corrected. And a hundred more like it, across the inhabited worlds. If that’s what you decided to do with all that cash. Some go into legitimate business, others stick with crime, and run high-class whorehouses out in the Pleasure Districts. Most just buy their own luxury spaceliner and cruise around deep space, stopping in at the tourist spots when they feel like touching down for a while."

Rath narrowed his blue-grey eyes. This is the part where you try to convince me it’s real?

No, the man shook his head. This is the part where I show you it’s real.

* * *

The air car descended back to the lower levels, eventually parking behind a battered mobile kitchen truck near a deserted factory. The detective exited the car, motioning for Rath to follow, and walked up to the kitchen’s entrance hatch, whose steel shutters were locked down tight. The door rose when the man approached, however, and Rath stepped in behind him.

Inside, the space was brightly lit – in place of the usual kitchen and dining area, electronic equipment lined the walls. A technician in a lab coat stood next to a padded chair in the center of the room. She nodded to the detective as they entered, and then addressed Rath.

The truck has a fully-automated security system. She pointed to a sphere hanging from center of the ceiling. It will use lethal force if your behavior warrants it. Please have a seat on the chair.

Why? Rath said.

She frowned at the detective. How much did you tell him?

The man smiled and shrugged apologetically. Some. Enough to get him interested.

Disclosure is not my responsibility. Tell him, she said, shaking her head.

The man turned to Rath. The Guild is real. This is your entrance exam.

Who says I want in? Rath asked.

You say so – you came here, I just showed you the way. You want to stay stuck in the lower levels, scraping by until your luck runs out?

No. But I don’t want to get killed, either, Rath replied.

You don’t think you can cut it? the man asked. No problem. You can walk out that door and pretend this never happened.

Don’t try to manipulate me, Rath told him. What’s in it for you, anyway? Are you in the Guild, too?

No. As a contracted talent scout, he gets the standard referral bonus, plus one percent of your future earnings, the technician stated.

The man shot her an aggravated look, but faced Rath again. Yes, I get my cut. That’s how these things work. Look, kid, you’re not deciding now. She’s going to run some tests, to see if you qualify. If you don’t, you can take your free steak dinner and go, this never happened. If you do qualify, you take a little trip, when you land they tell you more about the program, and then you decide. Tell him, he finished, addressing the technician.

You’re under no contractual obligation at this phase, she agreed. I’m merely testing your baseline health, including physical and mental abilities – coordination, reaction time, cognitive ability, and the like.

Rath suppressed a shiver, and eyed the technician for a moment. Then he shook his head, and sat down in the chair.

3

Ashish, darling … to what do I owe this honor? the Madame asked, looking up from her desk. Might I interest you in sampling some of our latest acquisitions?

Hello, Marie, the man said. I appreciate the offer, but I’m still not interested in any samples, free or otherwise.

Still repressed. Marie clucked her tongue in mock disappointment.

Still married, Ashish corrected. And my wife is mad enough as it is about my visits last year.

She doesn’t trust you? Marie asked.

I think she knows how easily men can be tempted, especially when presented with such … arresting eye-candy, Ashish gestured toward the receptionist who had shown him into the older woman’s office, a tall blonde whose blue silk skirt was cut impressively short, even by Juntland’s latest fashion standards, revealing the lace tops of her pantyhose.

The blonde girl smiled coquettishly. Why, Mr. Mehta – how forward of you! she joked, tracing a finger over her ample cleavage.

Yes, that’s exactly the kind of thing my wife was worried about, he laughed, shaking his curly black hair. He declined the receptionist’s offer of a drink, and sat down in a leather easy chair as the receptionist closed the door behind him.

Marie pushed her computer keyboard aside and steepled her fingers over her desk, arching her grey eyebrows at the young man in front of her. When paired with the high-necked wool jacket she wore, the expression made Ashish think of a stern Victorian governess.

I must say, Ashish: business has been simply booming since your article came out.

Glad to hear it, he replied.

Mmm, she said. I’m sure you already knew that, however.

I might have heard a rumor or two. He smiled.

Which leads me to believe that you must be here to call in a favor, she continued.

Has the world become such a cynical place that old friends can’t meet without there being an agenda? he asked.

Yes, it has, she replied.

Ashish smiled. Perhaps so. I need another story, he told her.

The older woman leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips.

I’ve done a couple fluff pieces since then, but nothing of any substance, the journalist continued. I need a meaty topic, something that will really sell.

You want another story about the surprising sexual appetites of supposedly conservative political leaders, she said. "But those … gentlemen … are no longer my clients, by mutual agreement."

Those gentlemen are no longer in office, Ashish grinned. But I’m guessing you don’t have any clients left whose hypocrisy you would like to see exposed.

No, I do not, she agreed.

So … I was thinking human trafficking.

My dear, I hope you’re not implying I deal in that despicable trade. My employees are here of their own volition, I assure you.

No, of course, Ashish said, holding his hands up. And I hear there’s stiff competition to get hired, no pun intended. I just thought you might have contacts who could put me in touch with that part of the black market.

I don’t, actually. I’ve made it a point to distance myself from those kinds of people. Why the continued fascination with the sex trade? she asked.

Sex sells, Ashish shrugged. I could get a million blogs to run an article about tax returns as long as it had a photo of your receptionist attached.

Sex does sell, even now that it has been legalized, Marie agreed. But it does not sell headlines as well as death.

Death? Ashish asked. Who died?

Everyone dies, that’s why we are all so obsessed with it as a topic. She drummed her fingers on her desk for a few seconds, considering. Yes, I think you might like this one. Answer me this: why is it that people who can afford cutting-edge biotechnology still die?

Old age – the natural process. Cells stop getting repaired, the hemobots can’t keep up. Scientists still haven’t figured out how to disable the mortality switch.

That is true, but I’m not talking about decrepit people dying in their sleep when they reach their hundred-thirties. I’m talking about young people, with the best cyber-medicine money can buy, and no sign of illness.

Accidents happen, Ashish said.

They do, but I’m not talking about accidental deaths, Marie said.

I don’t think I’m following you ….

Think, Mr. Mehta. Young, healthy, rich, powerful people … people whose death might greatly benefit others.

Murder? he essayed.

Aha, she said, smiling.

Sure, Ashish shrugged. Happens all the time, despite the vaunted prowess of our Interstellar Police, they can only investigate crimes, not prevent them. Lovers quarrel, friends bicker over money … shit happens, and the murderer goes to jail.

No, she said. Often they do not. I’m not talking about amateur homicides. I’m talking about the deaths that never even get investigated, because no one knows they happened. Precise, calculated, professional murder.

Ashish frowned at her for a moment. Marie, if the next words out of your mouth are ‘the Guild,’ I’m leaving.

A broad smile spread across her face.

The Guild? he sighed. Really?

She nodded.

It’s a bugaboo, he protested. A rumor run wild. It’s not real.

Marie shook her head. It is very real.

Come on, he protested. The Interstellar Police all but eliminated organized crime centuries ago. Do you seriously believe an entity like the Guild could remain viable in today’s galaxy? That’s exactly the kind of threat they were formed to combat, back in the old days.

Marie crossed her arms across her chest. Have you ever asked them?

Who, the police?

Yes, of course, she answered.

I guess I could, he admitted.

And if the Interstellar Police had repeatedly failed to dismantle a crime ring specializing in assassinations, do you think they would publicize that fact?

Well, no ….

They won’t deny it, either. The Interstellar Police are too savvy to attempt anything so foolish as a cover-up, Marie noted. They simply don’t talk about it much unless asked directly. But you can find evidence, if you look hard enough.

Ashish cocked an eyebrow questioningly. … and you’ve looked?

I have, Marie said. Look into an incident on the planet Alberon, twelve years ago. She paused while Ashish pulled out his holophone, and started up a note-taking application. A digital notepad appeared, floating in the air above the device’s screen. A number of Interstellar Police died in somewhat spectacular fashion when one of their prisoners escaped from an interrogation room.

Ashish was typing notes on his holophone. A guildsman? he asked.

They neither confirmed nor denied. But immediately before that, they shut down an entire spaceport for several hours as part of a man-hunt. I think it is a safe assumption it was to catch the man in question.

How did you learn about this incident?

I was looking for evidence of the Guild, she told him.

Why? Ashish asked.

I was curious. I wanted confirmation the Guild existed.

Confirmation, Ashish said.

Yes, Marie said. I happen to have my own evidence that the Guild exists.

Ashish settled back into the chair. I’m listening.

Marie smiled, and pressed a button on her computer. A moment later, the door opened, and the receptionist stuck her head through.

Yes, ma’am?

Alessandra, can you please check Jordi’s schedule for the day? Is he free now, by any chance?

The receptionist opened her datascroll, paging through several screens. She gave a shake of her head. He was, but I’m afraid he’s with a walk-in right now.

Ah, so be it. Send him up when he is finished, please. And I think we’ll need a lunch order for two. You can stay for lunch, Ashish? Allow me to treat.

Sure, he agreed.

How does Gregorian sound? There’s an excellent place just a few levels up.

Fine, the journalist said, nodding.

Shall we let Alessandra order for us? I like to be surprised, and she has a very refined palate.

Comes with the territory when you’ve been kicked out of sommelier school, the receptionist said, her eyes twinkling.

Ashish laughed. What were you kicked out for?

Distracting too many professors from their wine-tasting duties, no doubt, Marie said. We’ll eat out on the terrace, since it’s not too humid today." She stood, and beckoned for Ashish to follow.

Her office opened out onto a sprawling balcony, elegantly decorated with manicured shrubs, a small fountain, and a tented pavilion with a dining area and a bar. Marie fixed herself an ice water with lemon, and brought Ashish a beer.

Thanks, he said. Great view out here.

Mmm, she agreed, sipping her water. I can see most of the Financial District from here. Above the jungle canopy, the tall buildings sparkled in the midday heat.

You can see most of your clients, Ashish chuckled. He took a swig of his beer. Who’s Jordi?

One of my boys, Marie said. "We’ll get to him. I have actually had two … interactions … with the Guild. And perhaps more that I’m not aware of, God knows. But two that caught my attention. Jordi is one, the other was a girl named Furene."

Ashish sat at the table and put his beer down, pulling out his datascroll and a laser pen.

Yes, go ahead – scribble away, Marie told him, taking a seat across from him. About three years ago, Furene developed a close relationship with one of her clients. He was somewhat infatuated, as happens sometimes, but it was harmless. One day he visited without an appointment, and asked Furene to escort him out on the town for the evening. That was unheard of for him – he was married at the time, and very private.

He normally just met her here, so his wife didn’t find out, Ashish said.

Indeed, Marie agreed. And he was a very organized person, always made appointments. Regardless, Furene went with him, but in the morning, she had not returned, and several hours later I received a call from the city morgue. They had tracked me down as her employer.

Ashish winced. Not a nice call to receive.

No, Marie agreed. My profession has spent a long time laboring to provide a safe working environment for our employees, and setbacks like that pain me greatly. Not to mention she was a nice girl, and a friend. So when the police did not show up to question me about Furene’s activities that evening, I went to them to make inquiries of my own.

Naturally, Ashish said. He watched as Alessandra wheeled a cart onto the balcony, and began setting dishes on the table.

The police hadn’t bothered to question me because they had already ruled her death accidental, with relatively little trouble. Thank you, Alessandra, Marie smiled at the receptionist. Is that a fig sauce on the lamb I smell?

Alessandra tilted her head slightly. It is. She smiled.

Wonderful, Marie said.

Enjoy, Alessandra told them, before slipping back inside.

So, it was an accident? Ashish prompted, after they had both filled their plates.

Officially, yes, Marie said. And I believed them; they showed me their reconstruction of the evening, and even security footage. She left in an air taxi with the client, they checked into a boutique hotel fifteen minutes later, spent some time in their room, and then used their keycard to access the rooftop pool. The camera showed them swimming for a while, and then the client’s phone rang. He got out of the pool, wrapped himself in a towel, and walked out of the pool area to talk in private. When the police interviewed him that morning, he confessed that it was his wife calling – she wanted him to attend a fundraiser dinner with her. So he never came back to the pool, he hurried back to the room, changed, and left Furene a note of apology. He took a cab across town, and was at the fundraiser the rest of the evening. Furene swam a few laps while she was waiting for him, and in the midst of one of those laps, she had a stroke. She drowned, and a guest found her several hours later.

I take it Furene didn’t have hemobots, Ashish asked, finishing a bite of salad.

I pay my girls well, Marie said. But not that well.

Sounds like the police got it right, Ashish said.

That’s what I thought, Marie said. And then the client showed up the following week … and asked to see Furene.

Wait, what? Ashish asked.

Marie took another sip of water and pushed her plate aside. Mmm. I thought at first he was in denial. But he was most distraught when I tried to remind him that she was gone – his distress was genuine, it was the first he had learned of her death. The last time he remembered seeing her was several weeks earlier, here at our offices. He told me that that evening he had gone directly from his apartment to the fundraiser, with his wife. He left the fundraiser early, as he was feeling ill, and ended up staying home sick for most of the next day. But he swore he hadn’t seen Furene, had never heard of that hotel, and would never have taken her out in public. And what incentive did he have to lie to me, at that point?

What did you do? Ashish asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with a silk napkin.

He wanted to go back to the police, but I talked him out of that, eventually. He was only thinking about Furene at that point, and didn’t realize the full implications of what we had just discovered. I haven’t seen him since.

If you believe his version of events, what do you think really happened?

The truth? Marie sighed. You’re a journalist, you should know better than to ask for the truth. Perhaps he has multiple personality disorder.

Ashish scoffed. Or …?

… or perhaps we were all the victims of a rather elaborate plot, in which a jealous wife managed to remove her rival very neatly and without drawing any suspicion on herself or her husband.

How, though? Ashish asked.

She took her husband to the fundraiser, where they talked with and were seen by all their friends. An ironclad alibi. Then she gave him something that made him fall ill, so he went home. Meanwhile, the guildsman, in disguise as the husband, picked up Furene here and took her to the hotel. When the wife called from the fundraiser, that was their prearranged signal. The killer told Furene to stay in the pool, caused her to have a stroke – I’m not sure how – and left the hotel, going back to the fundraiser and replacing the real husband, who was already at home, sick.

Yeah, but the husband’s story doesn’t hold up, Ashish pointed out. The cops told you that they interviewed him, and he admitted to being in the pool with Furene.

They interviewed the assassin, Marie corrected. "They visited him at his office that morning. The real husband was still home sick."

You think they’re that good at disguising themselves? Ashish asked.

I have girls upstairs, Marie replied, in whom I have invested not inconsequential sums of money to get facial implants that let them change their face to mimic any number of famous celebrities. It takes some time to learn the skill, but once they do, they are some of my highest earners. Several of them are quite good at it, given enough time to prepare. Though you’d be surprised how many clients ask them to simply mimic their real life lovers – or ex-lovers – instead of celebrities.

I can imagine, Ashish said. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. "Even assuming that guildsmen have the ability to mimic someone that closely, it just boggles the mind that someone would have the discipline – the nerves – to face the police like that. One slip, and he would be done."

Now, perhaps, you get a sense for why the police are not as well-equipped as we think they are, at least not when it comes to dealing with an adversary such as the Guild. Excuse me for a few minutes; I see Alessandra is talking with a client whose behavior of late has been a bit unacceptable. I need to have a few words with him.

Be gentle, Ashish told her, as she stood up.

Marie gave him a thin smile. That’s exactly what I’m going to tell him.

* * *

Ashish, I do apologize, Marie said as she walked back out onto the terrace nearly an hour later. That took much longer than I anticipated, and then I had a call from the Health Department, who I have learned to ignore only at my peril. This is Jordi, the one I was telling you about.

A handsome man in his early twenties with long platinum blonde hair followed her in, and held out his hand to Ashish, Hi, he said. Jordi. Ashish stood up and shook his hand.

Anyway, I’m deeply sorry, Marie said.

No, I was just making some notes, Ashish said. No problem at all.

Marie sat down and indicated Jordi should follow suit.

Jordi, you shared a most interesting story with me not long ago, do you remember?

Of course, he said.

Mr. Mehta here is one of Juntland’s finest freelance journalists, who likes to poke his nose into places where it doesn’t belong. I’d like you to share that story with him, if you don’t mind.

Jordi squirmed in his seat. Well ….

I’m not going to quote you, or anything, Ashish said, seeing his discomfort.

Jordi looked at Marie, then back to Ashish. I’ll tell you, because I trust Marie. But I’d rather you not publish any version of this story, even with my name changed. I just don’t want it getting traced back to me at all. Ever.

Ashish put his phone down; the holographic notepad disappeared. Okay.

Jordi took a deep breath. Okay, so I grew up in a bunch of different foster homes. The last one I was in, just before I turned eighteen, was actually a pretty decent place. But I was kind of a little shit: I was dealing drugs at school and then entering underground poker tournaments on weekends with the drug money. I was pretty good, too. Anyway, I got busted one day at school, and when the social worker comes to get me out of jail, instead of taking me home, she takes me to a park, and asks me what I want to do with my life.

I’m sure you’d heard that question before, Ashish said.

Uh, yeah. Every time I had to talk to a social worker or guidance counselor. So I’m about to tune her out, when she asks if I want to become a millionaire. She told me she refers teens to a special program, and I might fit the profile they are looking for.

The Guild, Ashish said.

Yeah, she didn’t say it at first, but she hinted at it – I knew what she meant.

Then what? Ashish asked.

I said I was interested, so she walked me across the park to a truck that was parked on a side street. It was one of those mobile kitchens you see in the worse parts of town, you know the ones?

Food sucks …, Ashish started.

… but it’s hot and cheap, Jordi finished, smiling. Yeah, that’s what they say. Anyway, this one looks closed for business, boarded up. But the social worker knocks and the door opens, and inside it’s like a high-class med lab. Diagnostic equipment everywhere, a chair in the middle, and this doctor or nurse in a lab coat. They sit me down, poke me and prod me for a couple hours, and I take a bunch of different mental tests – some were just solving puzzles, others were memory games, and ethical dilemmas, I can’t even remember.

But you didn’t decide to become a guildsman? Ashish asked.

No, I would have – I failed one of the tests. They never said which one. They sat me down at the end and said I didn’t make it. Then they showed me a video, of a girl who had also failed her test. Jordi looked over his shoulder inadvertently.

Go on, Marie said.

This girl had told someone about the Guild and the tests, they said. And they made me watch … what they did to her, for ratting on them.

Jordi was quiet for a time.

Did she die? Ashish asked.

Jordi stared at the floor. Eventually. I dream about that girl sometimes, I don’t know why.

Thank you for sharing the story with me. It was … brave of you, Ashish said. I promise not to publish it, or even write it down. It’s safe with me.

Are you going to expose the Guild? Jordi asked.

I’m going to try, Ashish said.

Good, Jordi told him. That girl didn’t deserve to die.

They shook hands, and Marie walked with Ashish out to the lobby.

Thanks, Marie, he said, waiting for the elevator to arrive. I knew you’d have something for me. And thanks for lunch.

She nodded, and the elevator doors opened. Ashish stepped inside.

Lobby, he ordered.

Ashish, Marie said.

He held his hand up, pushing the elevator door back open. Yes?

I fear I may have dropped Pandora’s Box in your lap – please think long and hard before opening it.

How so? he asked.

Last time you just exposed the sex lives of a few unpopular politicians. They may have been powerful, but ultimately they played by a certain set of rules. That made them predictable. The Guild, if it is the organization we suspect it to be, is an entirely different animal. And animals only follow one rule. They survive … at all costs.

4

The security guards covered the dead body with a tablecloth, and then hefted it between them, one under the arms, the other holding her ankles. The corpse was cold and stiff from its stay in the walk-in freezer, but they maneuvered quickly through the kitchen, where the staff took care to keep their eyes on their stations. After a short ride up the freight elevator, the two men carried their charge through a set of heavy security doors, and into a long, wood-paneled room lined with leather couches. They placed the body on the bright green felt of a billiard table near the doors. One of her arms fell off the edge of the table and hung there, dangling above the thick silk rug. At the other end of the room, a large man wearing a vest and tie looked up from his desk.

What the fuck is that? he asked.

It’s Tyan, Mr. Kolski, one of the guards answered.

The man’s brow wrinkled. That’s Tyan? Tyan. Who was in here five minutes ago.

Yes, sir, the guard replied.

You saw her, you were in here, too, the man continued, standing up.

Yes, sir ….

She delivered this to me, Kolski went on, gesturing at a messenger bag sitting on his desk, and then went upstairs to her room.

The guard shrugged. The man named Kolski walked over to the billiard table. So how did Tyan, who is alive and well, sitting upstairs in her room, also wind up dead in a meat locker in my restaurant?

The guard sighed. I don’t know, sir. One of the chefs just found her. But this … is Tyan.

Kolski scowled at the guard for a moment, and then flipped the tablecloth back to examine the corpse. Above her shirt collar, there was a nasty purple-black welt around the woman’s neck, finger marks clearly visible. He sighed. That certainly appears to be Tyan.

Yes, sir.

Kolski pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed a brief call. When he hung up, he covered the body again and cleared his throat. "Go up to Tyan’s room, and bring … that woman … back down to me. I want to have a word with her."

Yes, sir.

The guards left, and Kolski walked back over to the desk, frowning suspiciously at the messenger bag. He reached over to open it again, and then changed his mind. Instead, he opened a desk drawer and withdrew an articulated metal glove that he slid over his right hand. Last, he walked back over to the body, leaned against the pool table, and waited.

The guards returned less than four minutes later, pushing a woman ahead of them. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back.

Boss, what’s this about? the woman protested.

Kolski gestured at one of the leather couches, and the guard closest to the woman pushed her down onto the couch.

Who sent you? Kolski asked her.

What? she asked, confused. What do you mean? No one sent me. I met with Deladrier like you asked.

Bullshit. I just called Deladrier; he says you never showed up. He still has the package.

What? The woman seemed genuinely confused. Her eyes locked on Kolski’s gauntleted hand, and went wide. I … I met with Deladrier, I swear. He gave me that bag on your desk.

Kolski sighed. As a loyal customer of the Guild myself, I must say I’m quite disappointed. First of all, that my loyalty is repaid by a contract on my own life. And second, that they would send such an amateur guildsman to make the attempt.

I don’t know what you’re talking about …, the woman said.

Kolski pushed off of the pool table and walked over to the couch, squatting across from the woman. Her eyes lingered on the corpse’s exposed arm for a second, but then he placed the glove on her knee, and she flinched.

No, please, she pleaded. I don’t know anything about the Guild, I just met with Deladrier like you asked, and brought you the bag, that’s it.

No, Kolski shook his head. He flexed his gloved fingers, taking a firm grip on her kneecap. You’re a guildsman, sent here to kill me, and I want to know who sent you, and why. The micro-hydraulics in the glove gave a faint electronic whine as he began to squeeze.

The woman sobbed. I’m not a guildsman, I swear it – it’s me, Tyan, I’ve been your runner for five years, I … you caught me trying to pick-pocket someone outside the restaurant back in the day, and then … ahh! She screamed in pain.

Kolski stopped squeezing for a second, and looked her in the eyes. Tyan is dead – she must have told you that story before you killed her. She’s lying on the table behind me. Now you’re going to tell me who sent you, and why.

Tyan glanced over Kolski’s shoulder, and gasped. The corpse was sitting up – a doppelganger raised from the dead. As the tablecloth slid away, the woman vaulted off the pool table, landing softly on the deep carpet behind Kolski’s two security guards. In a single swift motion, she drew a thin wire from the collar of her shirt and flicked it expertly around the neck of the guard farthest from her. It coiled and locked into place, and a small, wheeled device spun quickly, cinching the wire tight before the man could make a sound. As the second guard turned to confront her, the woman caught his arm, locked the joints with a brutal twist and doubled him over at the waist, and then used his forward momentum to slam him face-first into the pool table. He collapsed with a moan, blood streaming down his face. The first guard was scrabbling at his neck, trying to get the choke-wire off, but it had gouged too deeply into his flesh. He toppled to the floor a moment later.

With a yell, Kolski rushed at the woman, reaching for her throat with the gauntlet. She spun to one side, landed an elbow in his gut, and then neatly dropped him to the floor with a hip-throw. Kneeling over the strangled guard, she dug through his suit jacket for a second, drawing his pistol from a shoulder holster hidden within. The woman took aim at a security camera in the far corner of the room, fired a single round, then turned and destroyed the room’s second camera with another well-aimed shot. Then she stood and faced Kolski. He pushed himself off the floor and onto one knee.

Wait, he said, gasping for breath. He held up a hand, but the woman simply shot him twice in the head, and then fired two more rounds into his torso. She turned and headed for the desk, firing a single shot into each of the guards as she passed them. At the desk, she opened up the messenger bag. Nanomachines whirred to life and began building several items in the tray of the device. The woman turned to the computer at the desk next, and opened up the security software, scrolling through camera feeds until she found what looked to be an arms room. Seven security guards were hastily donning armor and loading assault weapons. She drummed her fingers on the desk and sighed with impatience.

Over on the couch, Tyan cleared her throat. The woman looked up from the desk, one eyebrow cocked.

Are you going to kill me? Tyan asked.

The woman shook her head. No.

Tyan’s shoulders slumped in relief. I just thought … you know, you might have to kill me because you chose to mimic me.

Would you like me to kill you? the woman asked.

No! Tyan said. No. Sorry, it’s just strange – you look so much like me … you even sound like me.

The woman didn’t answer, but turned back to the monitor, where the guard force had finished arming themselves. Their commander was urging them out into the hallway.

There are more guards in the building, Tyan said.

Is that so? the woman asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

You should go before they get here, Tyan suggested.

The messenger bag on the desk completed its assembly routine and shut down, and the woman picked up a set of grenades, closed the tray, and slung the bag over her shoulder. She flipped through screens on the monitor until it showed the entrance to the room, with its heavy security doors, and then twisted the monitor until it faced the doors.

You should get behind that couch, she told Tyan, as she strode back across the room, stopping briefly to reload her pistol with a magazine from one of the dead guards.

Tyan obediently scrambled off the couch, nursing her injured knee. The woman attached a grenade to one of the doors, and then flattened herself against the wall. She focused on the monitor on the desk across the room, watching as the security force stacked themselves outside the doors, preparing to breach and assault the room.

Mr. Kolski? she heard the commander yell, through the doors. Are you okay, sir?

Cover your ears, the woman told Tyan, and then detonated the grenade. There was a deafening crash as both doors were torn from their hinges, hurtling out into the crowded hallway. The woman stepped through the wreckage of the door frame a second later, scanned the shattered remnants of the security team, and then stepped carefully over several bodies as she made her way back to the elevator. She casually dropped the pistol on the last guard she passed, who groaned. Using a small tool, she prised open the elevator doors, took a solid grip on the cables, and lowered herself into the shaft, letting the doors snap closed behind her. As she slid down the cable, her face transformed, the ugly welt around her neck fading into an evenly tanned complexion, her hair curling up into a tight bob and turning blonde. When she was close to the ground floor, she dropped lightly onto the cement, shrugged out of the jacket she was wearing, and set off an electro-magnetic pulse grenade. The grenade emitted a silent, invisible blast of EMP waves, which immediately shorted out all surveillance cameras in the vicinity. Finally, she took another grenade out of her bag, wedged open the elevator doors, and rolled it through.

The multi-purpose grenade rolled under one of the kitchen’s ovens and with a loud POP, began spewing acrid smoke into the kitchen. The fire alarms triggered immediately, water spraying from nozzles on the ceiling. The woman waited another few seconds, then slid the elevator doors open again and hauled herself up into the smoke-filled kitchen. She pushed her way through several line cooks who were shouting and trying to douse the smoking oven with fire extinguishers, and followed a busboy out into the main dining area, which was in the process of being evacuated by the maître d’ and several of the wait staff. She milled around outside the building with the crowd of grumbling patrons for several minutes, and then walked down the street to the nearest subway entrance.

Down in the station, she ducked into the women’s bathroom, where a quick glance told her the room was empty. She shook her head and her hair straightened and shifted from blonde to brunette, lengthening past her shoulders to hang loosely down her back. Her face changed, too: she appeared to age by several years and her skin lightened by several shades. She pulled a grey wool suit out of the bag’s cargo pocket and slipped it on, replacing her wet clothes. She reversed the bag’s cloth case, adjusting the over-the-shoulder strap into a set of handles on an oversized purse. Next she checked her heads-up display for the nearest train’s arrival time, noting it was a mere thirty seconds from entering the station. Before emerging from the bathroom, she triggered a final electro-magnetic pulse grenade and tossed it into the trash can. She boarded the train just as the doors were closing and checked her timer – the EMP grenade was still active. She changed trains twice more, and then headed for the spaceport.

* * *

Ready? the control room tech asked, smiling.

I’m ready, the supervisor said, finger resting on his watch’s timer button. Play it back … now.

The tech started the recording, and they watched the assassin’s visual feed as her eyes opened, and the white tablecloth slid off her face.

That’s one … and two guards down, the tech commented breathlessly.

Four seconds, the supervisor said, grinning and shaking his head.

Target incapacitated, cameras taken out … and target’s dead, the tech reported.

The supervisor pursed his lips. Just a hair over ten seconds.

God, I admire her, the tech admitted.

The supervisor gave her a funny look. Don’t get attached.

No, I know, the tech said, blushing. She lowered her voice to a whisper. It’s just … don’t you ever feel sorry for them?

The supervisor stood up. No. They chose this life.

Of course, the tech said, quietly. She cleared her throat. I’ll advise Finance to invoice the client once the hospital posts Kolski’s death certificate.

Sounds good, the supervisor said, patting the tech on the shoulder. And issue Contractor 339 with another credit.

5

Rath’s first real orbital launch was even more exciting than the simulated versions he had enjoyed back in the VRcade, but he made an effort to look as bored as his fellow passengers, who all seemed to be residents of the upper levels headed out of the system on vacation or on business trips. Back in school, Rath remembered taking a field trip to a farming community outside the city, but he had never been off of his home planet of Tarkis. When he reached the transfer station in high orbit, the datascroll the technician gave him lit up, vibrating insistently. It showed him the path to a deep space vessel docked in the cargo yards, which he followed, amazed at how clean the station was, and the obvious wealth of the people traveling through it.

His path took him to a deserted loading bay, but the boarding hatch opened when Rath placed his hand on the scanner. He followed the pulsing arrows down into the ship. Rath saw no crewmembers or other