Their first stop was the headquarters of the First Barroche Guards regiment. Nicknamed the ‘Fires from heaven,’ they enjoyed pride of place in the planet’s society, and would be at the head of the Founder’s day parade. They were supposed to be one of the toughest fighting units in the galaxy, with a fearsome reputation across the League.
But even as the car drew into the base, Weslan could see the signs of neglect. Paint peeled off the sides of buildings, while the hardy arctic grass was long and patchy. A quick study of recent news articles about the unit revealed that a decade of peace had left them with a reduced budget, and officers promoted for family ties, rather than merit.
His eyes passed over a platoon of soldiers marching past the main square. They were tall and muscular, and they seemed disciplined. A pair of appropriately respectful enlisted men led the agents to the regiment’s office block. Their bearing was stiff, while their eyes were fixed ahead. Weslan had never received such deference, even on Rackeye. Or were they secretly mocking him? How could grown men be so sincerely robotic?
The first interview was conducted with a staff major responsible for civilian affairs, who had only recently been transferred. He had obtained the position as a favor from his previous commander, who had been close to the army’s chief of staff. The unspoken implication of disloyalty greatly displeased him.
“Is all that really necessary?” he demanded, as Marsella leafed through a list of his college acquaintances.
Weslan had contented himself to stay quiet and take notes up to that point, but his patience had already worn thin.
“Major Bastaff, do you consider yourself above the League’s security protocols?” he demanded.
Marsella stopped what she was doing and fixed the man with a severe expression. She might not like Weslan’s hijacking of her interview technique, but they had to appear united. The reprimand would come later.
The major turned a contemptuous eye on Weslan. “Are they something I need to be lectured on by a lab technician?”
Weslan raised an eyebrow.
“I understand that the entry requirements for Sentinels have been stretched recently, haven’t they?” the major said in a neutral voice. “Budget cuts, no doubt.”
“The only requirement is to obediently serve the League,” Marsella said icily. “And you will answer my colleague’s question.”
Major Bastaff sighed in exasperation. “No, I am not above security protocols. But you could have done all this busy work from your office. We have many preparations ahead of us for the parade, as well as seeing to the defense of the planet, and the readiness of our force. I’d hate to have to explain to the chief of staff that bureaucratic entanglements have distracted us from our work.”
He eyed Weslan, no doubt waiting for a retort. But Weslan didn’t play games.
“If I contact any of your former colleagues,” he said calmly, “will I hear similar examples of how Major Bastaff believes himself better placed to decide how League defense should function?”
The major eyed him with thinly veiled hatred. Of course, Weslan had no power to end the career of a well-connected soldier. His report could just as easily backfire and get him tossed onto a backwater planet, monitoring street enforcers. But Bastaff didn’t know that. He had no idea that Weslan’s highly respected father had broken off contact. He didn’t know how far the young man’s influence reached.
Ignorance could be a powerful weapon in League society.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said eventually.
From then on, his patience with Marsella’s questions seemed to be restored.
Weslan hated soldiers. They believed themselves to be unique as ‘honorable men of action’, but in truth they were just as petty and vain as everyone else. He suspected that even they didn’t appreciate the true horrors that war offered. They had only staked out their corner of the galactic bureaucracy and were defending it like anyone official would—to say nothing of their failures during the Frontier War. When the League was truly threatened, would they offer a genuine solution, or pour fuel on the fire?
Once they had finished for the day Marsella gave him a quiet dressing down in the car for his impetuosity.
“I’d say you have the instincts for this kind of work,” Marsella said, after he apologized. “But you also have to find patience for people who view us with suspicion.” She nudged the car through traffic as they headed back to their headquarters building.
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“Don’t you think that the military at least should respect the security service?”
“They’re afraid of Sentinels, as everyone is. As we are afraid of the Adjudicate.”
“I don’t fear them,” Weslan said. “Their work is vital to the League.”
“Obviously.”
“But those soldiers despise us. They look down on us as parasites. They think they can do our job better.”
Marsella glanced at him curiously. “I think you’re reading too much into the interviews today. They were tense, yes, but their effectiveness could be compromised because somebody made a dumb joke at a party.”
Weslan shook his head. “Major Bastaff would destroy us, if he thought he could get away with it.”
“He’s just a spoilt brat who resents being questioned.”
“No, I think the entire officer corps are petty warlords in waiting. Their culture shows it perfectly.”
The atmosphere in the car turned cold. “You’re still new here, Genny,” Marsella said. Her tone matched the reprimand she had just given. “You haven’t yet come to appreciate how much pride Barrochians have in our regiments. Especially the First Guards. I hope you do, in time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Weslan said, and though his voice was contrite, he felt bitter anger.
Why should he show respect to people who hated him? Why should Marsella? Didn’t she understand her superiority over them? In the darkness of his mind, the dark lady laughed at him, and he clenched his fingers around the car door’s handle.
Once they returned to the office, Weslan began sorting through his notes until the regional director summoned him to a meeting room.
When he walked through the door, he glanced at one of the video monitors, and his skin tried to crawl off his body. The assembled agents were in the middle of a conversation with a woman via Sig-link. She was gaunt, and her eyes smiled cruelly even though her face remained blank.
Terror soaked through his pores and into his blood, arcing off nerves like electricity. But what was he afraid of? Almost all of the most senior agents on the planet were looking at him, which would certainly trigger anxiety in most people. Perhaps his weaknesses were worse than he thought? Weslan waited for the dark lady’s laughter, but she had vanished.
“Take a seat, Agent Genny,” the director said. “This is Carlotta Divine, an employee of the VennZech corporation. She was present at the terrorist attack on Ambrosia and has some troubling revelations to share with us.”
“Yes, Ms. Divine,” the station-chief said, “Weslan Genny is one of our younger agents from Caldera, and will certainly have some on-the-ground experience to share on this matter. Could you just repeat what you told us about the night of the bombing?”
“Certainly, director, and pleasure to meet you Mr. Genny,” the woman said pleasantly.
She was lying, and it seemed obvious that her cheerful politeness was an imperfect mask. On the other hand, he too had to wear a mask, if only to hide the fear and bitterness. His sudden concern was probably a little juvenile. Taking a chair, he set up his tablet and prepared to take notes.
“So, once the explosion happened,” Carlotta continued, “we saw these masked thugs parading through the building. They were yelling revolutionary slogans—phrases like ‘freedom for Caldera from Helvet tyranny.’”
The station chief turned in his chair to face Weslan. “Now, I know you’re not a specialist Genny, but does this track with any colonist tension you may have seen in your time there? You’re first impressions will be helpful here.”
“Of course,” Weslan said, eager to be helpful. “And I can certainly confirm there were some very aggressive elements amongst the colonists. We—that is the Helvets in Rackeye city—were often warned not to go unaccompanied into the rural areas.”
The chief nodded gratefully and turned back to the monitor. “Obviously, over the last year, VennZech has been increasing their operations on Caldera, including the development of industrial sites around Rackeye’s periphery. Would you please help us understand, Ms. Divine, what your security situation looks like?”
“We’re very concerned,” she said. “Workers receive threats and harassment in their social feeds. We’ve had to step up the armed security presence, and we’re seeing increased criminal activities around the construction sites. Between this and the terrorist attack, VennZech is greatly concerned about the potential for violent conflict between Helvets and colonists. Hence why I reached out to you.”
The director nodded and glanced around the room. “Sentinel cannot countenance taking a lax attitude in the face of such dire warnings. We don’t have much on file about terrorist movements in the colony per se, but they do have to start somewhere.”
“I agree,” the chief said. “And failure to react at all would only provoke boldness from radical elements. I believe this office should put together a proposal to step up surveillance in Rackeye.” He turned to Weslan. “And I think we will move you to join the station there, Mr. Genny. I know your lifelong experience with the city will be most valuable to the team.”
Weslan smiled and nodded. The apparently rapid escalation was surprising, and he wished he could have had more time with Marsella. But the time had come. His duty was obviously back on his home world, where terrorists might soon try to kill his fellow citizens.
“Agent Espher?” he said, as he teetered in the doorway to her office.
She turned from her monitor and recognition brought with it a restrained, but friendly smile. “Bored already Genny?”
Weslan stepped inside. “Well, I just wanted to say thank you, and—I’m afraid—goodbye. I’ve been reassigned to Caldera effective immediately.”
The smile flattened. “So soon? That’s quite unusual. You’ve barely had a chance to get to grips with this department.” Her brow furrowed. “Maybe I should have a word with—”
“It came from the Station Chief—I think there’ll be an official communiqué shortly. I just wanted to come and thank you for everything you’ve taught me over the last year. It’s been invaluable. I do hope we will meet again.”
Marsella got up from her desk and moved to shake his hand. “I’m sure that we will. You have a lot of promise, Weslan. I know you’ll make an impact where you’re going.”
They exchanged a little small talk, and Weslan left the building pained by the separation. But he had a new mission, and he sensed that it would give him the opportunity to banish the dark lady from his mind forever.