Gabriel's Redemption (4 page)

“What’s in this for me?” he asked, leaning back in the chair. “I’m assuming you don’t think I’m just an animal lover.”

“Once the operation is completed, full reinstatement in the North American Federation Navy, salary commensurate with your previous rank, Commander,” Gesselli said. “You will also be absolved of all responsibility with the Eden massacre, your dishonorable discharge will be vacated, and the civil judgements against you from the families of your lost team members will be settled out of court by the Navy. And perhaps you’ll sleep a little better, eh Commander?”
 

Eden again, it all goes back to Eden
, Gabriel thought wearily. It’s been three years and two memory-removal surgeries since then, but still pieces of that mission kept creeping back into his consciousness. Nothing will take that away completely.
Hell
, he thought.
Eden makes me what I am today. Which I guess is absolutely nothing.

“You’ll also have the satisfaction of helping out your fellow soldiers by getting rid of this dew operation,” MacFarland added.
 

Gabriel stared back at his former commanding officer, the one who had run him out of the Navy, and the one that was now trying to bring him back. The cause, the end result…seemed worthy. But there was just something out of sorts, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something he’d keep a watchful eye out for. But for now…

“I guess you’ve got me. I’m in. What’s the next step?”

MacFarland smiled, leaning back in his chair, and put a foot up on the table. “I knew I could count on you, son. We’ve got a team assembling at Las Cruces. Hugh and Javier are waiting for you in the Raven outside. Gesselli will accompany you on the flight to New Mexico and will give you full details on the team, mission, and equipment. I’m assuming you don’t need to stop home to pick up any personal items?”

Bastard
, Gabriel thought. Always was, always will be. “No. I’ll buy new and bill you.” He rose from his chair and picked up the flexscreen tube. “Yours?” he said to Gesselli.

“Yes, Commander,” she said with that odd smirk, taking the unneeded flexscreen from him. “I’ll meet you outside in five.”

Gabriel made his way out, but paused briefly to glance at the portrait closest to the door. President Charline Gradillas, served 2156 to 2161. Presided over the Dark Days, the worst disaster in human history. Killed by an assassin’s bullet just two months into her second term. Not everyone’s happy during good times, Gabriel thought. And not everyone’s unhappy during bad ones. Hopefully this time, someone else is on the schedule for a bad time.

The door silently slid shut behind Gabriel, and Gesselli turned back to MacFarland. “Well?” she asked, laying her flexscreen back on the table. The holoimage in the center sank back into the surface.

MacFarland pulled his foot off the table and stood up, unbuttoning his collar. “He’s good, no doubt about that. And he’ll be discrete. But as for his loyalties, I’m concerned he’s too much of a straight arrow for what we need. Not that that outweighs the positives.”

“Do you think he bought it?” she asked. “He’s sharp, but a bit unstable still about his past. And for Christ’s sake, sir, you pulled him out of a slum in Jamaica. Is he just looking for a way out?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he’ll do the mission, and he’ll do it well.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, withdrawing a cigar. “I know him well enough to be sure about that part.”

“I know you two have a history,” she said. “But I don’t know what it is. Obviously it’s a strained relationship.”

MacFarland barked a laugh. “Strained doesn’t begin to describe it. I was captain of the
Damocles
during the Eden uprising. I’m the one who sent him groundside to root out the terrorists. He holds me personally responsible for his getting his entire team killed due to ‘command errors.’”

“He was found negligent, it was his fault they failed, his fault eleven soldiers died.”

He shrugged his shoulders and pulled a lighter from another pocket. “Yes and no. I don’t know if the full story will ever come out, but Gabriel wouldn’t have willingly put his team in such a situation as they ended up in. And he blames me.” He frowned. “Doesn’t matter though. He’s the right man for this job, and there’s a nice carrot waiting at the end for him. He’ll perform.”

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said rubbing his chin aimlessly. “But I’ve got a backup plan, in any case. Before you go, get me Santander’s contact information.”

Gesselli stiffened. “Why him of all people?”
 

MacFarland lit the cigar. “Just do it.”

Chapter 3

Quentin Santander sat at the hotel lobby bar, his hand on a lowball glass of an amber liquid with a solitary cube of ice floating in it. He swirled the liquid and the cube bumped slowly against the glass edges in the low Mars gravity. The bar was beginning to fill up, miners and office workers getting off shift throughout the dome, looking to spend what little Marscrip they had. Of the many bars in seedy New Cairo, the Bremen Hotel offered the most amount of alcohol for the least amount of money, and the patrons reflected that. Not for the first time, he wondered why he took this assignment on the ass end of humanity. Oh yeah, he remembered. The money.

“Another tequila, Q?” came a sultry voice from beside him.

Oh yeah. The women too. He looked to his left, and there was Zeila, as always. She must have just come down from the suite, he thought. He looked into her eyes. No sign of a dew hangover, that’s a relief. She’s a complete mess after one of those trips.

“Not now,” he replied, looking back at his glass. “I’ve gotta get to work.” He picked the glass up and downed the remaining tequila in one gulp, spitting the ice cube back into the glass and setting it down forcefully on the natural stone bar. Hard enough to break normal glass, he thought. Another reason he hated Mars. Nothing locally produced was breakable. And he needed to break things from time to time. Hell, even his shrink said so.

“But Q, I just got here,” Zeila said with a pout.

“Here,” Santander said, throwing a wad of faded red Marscrip notes on the bar. “Enjoy.” He rose from the bar and made his way through the Friday night crowd out of the hotel, leaving Zeila to her evening.

Outside, he hailed his driver with a quick neuretics ping. He looked up at the dome overhead. Stars were visible to one side, a dust storm blocked the view to the other. Phobos was just rising in the western sky, the glint of the mining station’s solar panels just barely visible. This would be a perfect night in New York, except here there’s no rain, the temperature is the same every day of the year, and it’s too friggin’ sterile.
Damn I hate this place
, he thought again.

His Ford Terra limousine pulled up silently, and the rear door opened automatically. He climbed inside, acknowledging his driver with a flick of his hand. “Back to the plant, Colins, where else,” he said. The door closed, shutting out the street noise, and the electric stretch pulled away.

Just a few minutes down the street, the dome ended and Santander’s car was ushered into the eastbound tube. Very few vehicles out tonight, he noticed. Curfews are working well, he mused as he poured himself another tequila, this time on the company bill.

The tube’s magnetic field lifted the car a few inches from the roadway and quickly accelerated it up to standard tube speed, 160 miles per hour. Santander only noticed a slight pressure in his chest as the car’s velocity increased. Unfazed, he watched out the window through the car’s glass and tube’s plasteel sections at the darkening plain outside, reflecting sourly on another day in paradise.

Mars was originally colonized in 2056, ancient history in terms of planetary settlement. After the Luna Project, it was the next step off Mother Earth for humans. It was an exciting time for colonization, and the governments of Earth’s largest countries and multinational corporations poured billions into developing the infrastructure, housing, mining operations, scientific outposts, and so much more. It was always a struggle considering the atmosphere and temperature weren’t conducive to human living,
but it was Mars!
everyone said. The ultimate goal of space exploration.
 

So the construction continued, the development chugged along, the domes went up, the mines were dug, attempts were made at atmosphere reprocessing, algae was planted to try to warm the climate, and an entire government and economy were created from scratch. The perfect utopia, some called it. Until the discovery of wormholes thirty some-odd years later. From that day forward, Mars became a backwater, a forgotten outpost, a failed experiment.

The Mars government wavered, asking for help from Earth, but Earth was preoccupied with settling new worlds across the galaxy. Worlds with oceans, land masses, trees, warm nitrogen/oxygen atmospheres. Worlds with futures. And so the Mars society began its slow collapse into chaos. Organized crime ran rampant, but Earth turned away, preferring to let Mars govern itself, as it always wanted to do.
 

Which is where Santander came in.

The car exited the tube at Pavonis Station in Mars’s third largest domed city, Bradbury. The station pushed the car out of the tube back down onto its wheels, then a rotating platform deposited it onto the main ramp down into the city streets. Colins guided the car towards the entryway for Basalt Boulevard, and the car accelerated into the light traffic flow.

After just a few minutes, the car reached the far side of the dome structure, and pulled up to the front of a chemical plant. Stacks pierced the dome’s barrier, releasing clouds of steam and byproducts into the Mars atmosphere. The plant wasn’t large by Mars’s standards; it covered just under two acres, and was a typical plasteel and ceramacrete construction.
 

Santander stepped from the car, not bothering to say anything to Colins, and slammed the door behind him, striding up to the plant entrance. The guard outside the main door started to ask for his ID, recognized his leave-me-alone-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you look, and thought better of it. He opened the door behind him and waved Santander in.
 

Once inside, Santander walked through the entry lobby, past the receptionist, and up to a door marked, “Authorized Personnel Only.” His neuretics threw a code at the door’s system and it swung open for him. Inside, through another door, this one marked “Security”, he finally reached his sparse office. He threw his jacket on the desk and sat down heavily into a plush chair. He kicked his feet up on the desk, knocking the jacket onto the floor, and reached behind him to a crystal decanter of amber liquid, pouring three fingers into an unbreakable glass.
Goddamned Mars
, he thought. He tossed back the drink and fired the glass against the far wall, where it bounced and skittered crazily across the tile floor.

Santander was just getting to his third drink when a signal came in through his neuretics. He saw the source ID, and shunted the video to a wallscreen. The screen lit up with a terribly-scarred face.

“Shit, Gurnett, don’t scare me like that,” Santander snapped. “I thought it was Burkes.” He ordered his neuretics to blank the screen and go audio-only on his end.
Can’t stand to look at that man
, he thought, and not for the first time. Invaluable, to be sure, but could use a brown bag.

“Mr. Santander, we’ve got a problem, I think we’re going to need your assistance,” Gurnett said. “We’ve got a couple of employees accusing each other of theft, and it’s basically shut down the entire line.”

Santander sighed and stood up, cracking his lower back and stretching his arms over his head. He looked wistfully back at the now-empty decanter, and down at his half-empty glass. “What’s the matter, boy, this over your head?”

“Well, yes, actually it is. They are requesting you personally, and one of them says you know about the alleged thefts.”

“Who is it?” Santander snapped. He swirled the glass and sniffed the aroma of the last of the evening’s tequila.

“Rechichi and Dural, in Post-Process,” the disembodied voice came back.

The second glass bounced off the back wall. This time, Santander thought he could see a minute crack in its surface, and smiled.
Maybe I do get to break things from time to time.
“I’ll be right down.”

When he arrived, Gurnett and two other security men had two plant workers seated in chairs in a back office. One of the security men was training an odd-looking handgun at them. As Santander approached, one of the plant workers stood up and pointed. “That’s him, that’s the guy who set me up for this!” he yelled.

The handgun butt smashed into the worker’s stomach, and he sat back down hard, gasping for breath.

Gurnett shook his head and looked back at Santander. “Never learn, do they?”

“No, I suppose not,” he replied, avoiding Gurnett’s face. “So what’s the situation?” he asked the non-gasping individual.

The second worker gulped nervously, looking alternately at the other worker, who was just now catching his breath, and his questioner. “You’re the security chief? You runs things here, right?” he asked.

“Correct,” said Santander, crossing his arms.

“Dural has been pocketing vials, skimming from the top of our production. I walked in on him today. I gave him a chance to explain, but he just threw your name back at me, saying you know all about it, and then accused
me
of stealing production equipment!”

“So you’re Rechichi?” he asked. “How long have you been here? What’s your position?”

“Four months, sir. I handle post-processing for most of the final compounds, prior to packaging. Same as Dural.” Apparently unsure of where this conversation was going, beads of sweat began to appear on his upper lip.

“And Dural?” Santander asked Gurnett.

“Two years. One of our best men,” he answered.

Rechichi was now sweating profusely, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m not lying!”