Chapter 5
June 18, Year 214 NPrE
Al-Haiyan, the capital of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal's colonies on Tar-Mariat
They set out for the highway where the terrorists' van had turned only at eleven in the morning — the transport department couldn't locate and send the camera footage any sooner. The Wad-Prince had spent the remainder of the previous day trying to pry Fialkovskaya's dossier out of MT, with little success. He eventually reached Elena Pavlidis, the head of the MT Inquiry Service, but as Murad saw it, the conversation hadn't been especially productive. AlNilam managed to extract a lukewarm promise of cooperation from Pavlidis, after which an irritated prince called his father once more. Conversations with the Sultan rarely brought AlNilam joy, and His Majesty had made rather pointed remarks about the Wad-Prince's ability to handle the problem he'd been sent to Al-Haiyan to solve.
In the end, Irfan sat glumly beside Murad in an Al-Shadiyar van. The Yakzan and his prince were dressed in lightweight, comfortable coveralls with hoods and high boots; AlNilam's face was hidden not by a tagellan but by a kaita — a "stocking" of synthetic thread that tightly covered his head, with a wide slit for the eyes that could be closed with a protective visor if needed. A backpack with all the essentials lay on Al-Fayyaz's lap.
A dozen specialists from Al-Shadiyar and the perinatal center's SS had accompanied them to the spot where the terrorists' vehicle had vanished from the cameras. But Murad wasn't sure that would be enough to comb through the dense forests surrounding Al-Haiyan — they stretched from the city's outskirts all the way to the tall blue mountains whose peaks disappeared into a grayish haze.
"An entire battalion could disappear here, let alone five terrorists and two hostages," the Yakzan thought, gazing out the window at the thick forest growth rising on both sides of the highway so high it seemed as if their convoy of four vehicles was moving along the bottom of a malachite canyon. The body of the vanished Al-Bikchi could be searched for here for years.
Tar-Mariat was a beautiful planet — warm, fertile, and generous — but the exuberance of its florofauna made maintaining any kind of surface road a constant headache. Though Murad had nothing against plants in general, right now he'd prefer a scorched desert. And Al-Haiyan was far from the only metropolis on Tar-Mariat. The planet was home to just over half a billion inhabitants. That didn't seem like much, but try finding seven fugitives among them.
Murad snorted into his mustache. He loved reading science fiction — it was full of optimistic depictions of galaxies teeming with people. In reality, the cosmos was limitless, the Cradle Galaxy vast, and after 214 years of expansion, humanity had barely covered part of one of its nine arms. The only fully populated planet remained the Metropolis — Ayala, the cradle of humanity. Some hotheads claimed that if all the colonies were granted independence, population growth would skyrocket, but so far the idea of independence appealed to no one.
Terraforming technology was also far from perfect — it had once been developed by Ars Mechana before the MT Corporation deftly snatched it from the hands of the falling giant. Things were better now than a couple of centuries ago, but there was no question of magically transforming every discovered planet into a flowering garden. The florofauna on Tar-Mariat, however, had enjoyed the increased oxygen levels and was thriving.
"This is it," the Wad-Prince said. "Stop."
The autopilot obediently braked, and AlNilam stepped out of the vehicle with his Yakzan. Above them rose a lamppost with a camera eye. A creeping plant with tiny blue flowers was already winding around the post. Broken branches and torn leaves were still visible in the thick bushes where the terrorists' vehicle had left the highway and plunged into the forest, though most of the clearing left by the van had already been reclaimed by the florofauna.
Effendi approached the edge of the highway and stared absently into the forest thicket. His gaze became unfocused, and then the Wad-Prince closed his eyes entirely. Vision, especially during the day, interfered with echolocation.
Three vehicles had formed a semicircle around the one Murad and AlNilam had exited, but the Yakzan signaled for everyone else to stay put. The fewer people who saw the Wad-Prince's peculiarities, the better. Effendi stood at the roadside for a few seconds, then turned slightly to the right.
"There's a large object made of metal, glass, and metallized plastic," he murmured. "Beyond the trees, about five hundred meters from the road."
"Any people?"
"No one. Wait a minute," AlNilam removed his kaita and inhaled deeply through his nostrils, simultaneously listening intently. He could regulate the sharpness of his senses, amplifying his hearing, sight, or smell tenfold when necessary. Once, Murad had asked why he didn't keep his senses heightened all the time, and AlNilam had replied with a smirk: "If I couldn't turn it off, I'd have checked myself into an asylum long ago."
The Wad-Prince's eyes suddenly flew open, pupils dilated.
"There are solvents!" he exclaimed. "It smells like a chemical plant! Quickly!"
He pulled his kaita back on and plunged into the dense undergrowth. Al-Fayyaz signaled to the accompanying officers and hurried after AlNilam. The Wad-Prince activated his neuro-lash, switched it to blade mode, and cut a path through the vegetation. The terrorists' van had forced its way through the forest at about half a meter above the ground, leaving the grass, creeping plants, and lower branches untouched. Murad shouldered his backpack and followed the prince. The florofauna, startled by the neuro-lash, began retreating on its own.
Soon the Yakzan could smell the solvents, melted plastic, and metal, and a few minutes later they stopped before a reeking heap that had been an Airat van a few days ago. The solvents had eaten an uneven circle into the vegetation, but the indomitable florofauna of Tar-Mariat was already reclaiming its territory.
Murad, the Wad-Prince, eight men from Al-Shadiyar, and four from the center's SS stood before this vast but now useless piece of evidence. The solvents had completely destroyed any organic traces by now, and it was impossible to pry apart this melted lump of metal and plastic.
"Unlucky," an Al-Shadiyar officer muttered.
"There must be at least faint traces left," AlNilam said tersely. "Search! They cut a path through the thicket; we still have a chance to determine the direction!"
They split into three groups and began carefully examining the grass, bushes, and trees around. Occasionally, one plant or another would show interest in the search parties — likely gastronomic interest — but the repellent coating on their coveralls was successfully discouraging anyone who wanted a closer look at a protein-based life form.
"Looks like this way, Effendi," Murad said . A narrow gap cut through the vegetation before him. The grass had already hidden all traces on the ground, but broken and cut branches were still visible on the bushes and trees, and torn vines hung lifelessly here and there.
The Wad-Prince examined the remnants of the path the terrorists had cut and leaped onto a large tree root protruding from the ground. The root twitched indignantly, but AlNilam was already climbing up through the branches with the agility of a squirrel. The Yakzan remained below, watching his prince with some concern. Tar-Mariat had no fauna — plants played the role of both food, herbivores, predators, and even insects. They didn't always eat people, but...
"The view is better from up here," AlNilam's voice came from the dense canopy. "Looks like the terrorists headed toward the nearest mountain spur."
"How far is it?"
"Well... a day and a half's hike through terrain like this."
"Maybe they've all been eaten by now," one of the SS soldiers muttered. He must have been new to Tar-Mariat and was eyeing the shifting branches, leaves, and vines warily.
"What if we land on the spur with a jet?" suggested Murad.
"I'd rather follow the path the terrorists left. Who knows what we might find. They could have made camp somewhere along the way. Anger and Shufrir probably couldn't have made it to the spur without rest."
Leaves rustled, and the Wad-Prince jumped back to the ground, patting the tree trunk. It made a grinding, rumbling sound.
"Call for backup," AlNilam said to the SS and Al-Shadiyar representatives. "We're moving toward the mountain along the terrorists' trail."
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
"In summary, during the search of the baggage section," Avi Fleischmann concluded melancholically, "we found several stashes of drugs, some illegal weapons, and a small amount of contraband. I've prepared termination reports for three waiters, three maids, and two junior technical assistants. However, we found nothing resembling the container. Yet," Ax's deputy added in a weak attempt at optimism.
Fontaine silently scrolled through the lengthy report. Avi Fleischmann, a short, lean man with a long narrow face, a long narrow nose, and infinitely sad eyes, had served fifteen years in intelligence. Axel had to sign a mountain of non-disclosure and state secret documents before he could access his deputy's resume. And so he was confident that Fleischmann had made his subordinates sift through the dust behind the shelves and examine it under a microscope — but so far, all in vain.
"God only knows how they manage to smuggle contraband onto the express," Avi continued, lamenting the imperfections of human nature. "But sometimes I think we'd need to conduct total searches around the clock, and even that probably wouldn't help."
Fontaine just sighed. Fleischmann's views on life, the universe, and everything were steeped in deep melancholy and unrestrained pessimism — and Avi was rarely wrong. And as for the contraband, Ax agreed with him. At least this damned search was doing some good.
"Speaking of total searches," Fleischmann perked up slightly, "I hate to bother you with this prematurely, but if we find nothing in the baggage section, the next logical step, it seems to me, would be to search all the other cars."
"Uh-huh," Ax responded grimly. The prospect was not encouraging — searching all one hundred twenty-four multi-deck cars with the entire SS would take at least a month, even if they completely eliminated breaks for food and sleep from the schedule.
"At least it's not a cargo train."
"Keep working in the baggage section for now. You haven't reached the cargo for the crew's needs yet. Hiding the container among the express's life-support supplies would be much easier."
"In that case, it would be wise to pull all the supply documentation. Then we could trace it to the suppliers, shake down the loaders, delivery service personnel, office staff..."
"Good Lord," Ax thought with despair. Fleischmann was talking as if they had years at their disposal, not less than two weeks.
"I wonder," Avi said, "whether these terrorists, whoever they are, might try to steal the container from the train? That could make the task of catching them easier... or not."
Actually, the idea was tempting, especially since Axel had caught terrorists using live bait before. Besides, there were no passengers on the train yet (well, one... but the pastry chef could keep an eye on him), and the crew could be locked in one car or quietly moved to the depot building. However, Fontaine was certain that Anna Dmitrievna would be categorically opposed to turning the express into a battlefield. Considering how much each panel of the hull cost, her position was understandable.
"And then there's this strange sabotage the techs found," Fleischmann continued. "Again, sir, I'm not implying anything, but why would terrorists disable the very train they're planning to use to transport something? Oh!" Avi suddenly perked up. "Could it be that our express is the target of two terrorist groups simultaneously?"
"It couldn't," Fontaine firmly cut off his speculations. He had nothing against Avi, but ten minutes of conversation with him induced depression and thoughts about the futility of existence. "That's statistically impossible. Get back to the baggage section and keep searching. That damn container has to be here somewhere! As for the sabotage, I'll talk to Shen Wei about it today. He seems to have found something important."
Still, Fleischman had a point, and Axel pondered it on his way to the engineering car. Besides the solar drive core, as in the case of the "Dorothea," there were many attractive targets for terrorists on the express — the navigation panel, for instance. Of course, operating the panel required an epsilon-class being with special training, but perhaps the terrorists hadn't intended to operate it, only to disable it.
"No," Ax frowned. "The train would become uncontrollable, and delivering the container would be impossible."
Fontaine couldn't fathom the terrorists' plan. Suppose they'd hit Ferenc by accident. Suppose they'd smuggled the container onto the train, bought tickets, and, again suppose, passed the security checks successfully. Wasn't it in their interest for the express to reach their destination safely? And if they intended to sabotage the train, what did the container have to do with it? Phan was certain it couldn't be detonated or used as a bomb component. Or maybe the client was waiting for the container at a specific location, and the terrorists intended to direct the train there?
"But that's sheer idiocy," Ax thought. Stream-trains, for God's sake, weren't taxis sitting at a rank, ready to be stolen and driven wherever you pleased. Not to mention that operating any train required at least one epsilon-class being with navigator training. And the navigation panel of an express like "Briareus" would require at least three navigators per shift. Only a complete moron would think they could steal an entire train, especially a Transgalactica-2.
To Ax's surprise, Shen Wei was waiting for him not in the engineering car's control compartment, but in some narrow technical crawlspace. Fontaine had trouble finding it, and once he did, he could barely squeeze through, carefully maneuvering past cables covering the walls like snakes. Ax was even more surprised to find a full council waiting at the meeting spot — gathered around a wiring node were Anna Dmitrievna, Shen Wei, the technician Makriiri, and Harada Sayuri — the Express's chief navigator.
"Good morning," Ax huffed. "What did you find?"
"Confirmation of our concerns," said Shen Wei. "Though there is some good news."
"What's that?"
"All the other engineering and technical systems of the express are intact. There was only one act of sabotage, targeting the navigation panel's functionality."
"Which is bad news," Harada Sayuri said coldly. "I'd like to know, if you can explain it, why our SS fails to protect us."
Fontaine silently reached for his glasses. The chief navigator was one of the few crew members with whom Ax had never managed to find common ground. He wasn't alone in this failure — Harada considered navigators a superior caste, and her twelve subordinates, whether imitating their chief or fearing her wrath, kept to themselves as well.
"Anyway, my boys scoured this place from top to bottom," Makriiri began, jabbing a finger at the cables, over which a bright blue virtual schematic appeared. "This here is the communication node between the NP and the command car. It runs on the AS-A1C2 protocol, with discrete failure signaling."
"With what?" Axel asked, almost timidly. His technical knowledge was limited to assembling several types of sniper rifles for speed. Harada exhaled irritably through her teeth:
"To put it at your level, this box contains module A of the system responsible for transmitting signals from the command post to the navigators and back, as well as module C, responsible for monitoring transmission reliability and module operation. There's also an internal failure notification system, FNS. Redundant modules A1 and C2 operate in parallel and perform the same functions."
"And as a result of the sabotage," Shen Wei continued, "the perpetrators rendered both module monitoring systems inoperable and managed to disable part of the general failure notification system on this specific section."
"What does that imply?" Fontaine asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Harada's contemptuous look did nothing to bolster his confidence that he understood any of this.
"If our monitors go down," Makriiri explained, showing them on the virtual schematic for clarity, "the terrorists could disable our module and plug in their own device instead."
"And the navigators would stop receiving orders from the command post?"
"Not only that," Lavrova said. "My command post would automatically switch to the backup system — but the navigators behind the panel wouldn't. So I'd send them orders, but instead of receiving them, the navigators would be getting instructions from the terrorists."
"And we wouldn't be able to identify the problem immediately," Shen Wei added, "since, formally, from the command post's perspective, the backup system would be functioning normally, and from the navigators' side, it would appear that signals were coming through module A."
"Cunning bastards," Makriiri muttered. "I mean, we'd figure it out eventually. The question is how long it would take — and where the navigators would have taken us by then."
"We are responsible for carrying out orders, plotting the route, and keeping the train on it," Harada said sharply. "We are not responsible for the idiocy of the other crew members or the head of SS's inability to grasp the simplest terms."
"Wait," Ax finally felt he was beginning to grasp the issue. "Doesn't this all mean that one of the terrorists must be on board the express and have access... well, to here?"
A grim silence fell.
"Yes," Lavrova said. Her eyes suddenly blazed fiercely. "And it also means that someone sold the terrorists the express's schematics — and the leak is within the Engineering and Development Department!"
Fontaine's throat went dry. He hadn't even considered such a security breach, especially at that level. Even Ax, far removed from technical intricacies, knew that most systems on Transgalactica-2 class expresses were unique, developed and patented exclusively for this class of train. They couldn't be obtained anywhere except from the engineering and design departments of MT Express.
"Maybe the perpetrators stole the blueprints," Shen Wei suggested.
"That wouldn't help them," Lavrova hissed. "To understand the blueprints, you'd at least need to have completed the initial retraining course for working on a Transgalactica-2. The person who did this isn't some dropout from a low-level engineering faculty. He is one of us."
Fontaine coughed. He didn't want to say this, let alone do it, but he had no choice.
"Mr. Shen Wei, Mr. Makriiri, and Madame Harada, I must ask you to leave the technical compartment immediately."
"What?!" Harada flared up. "And why, exactly? No one but us can figure out..."
"Exactly," Fontaine emphasized. "No one but you and your subordinates. Until we conduct a full investigation and interrogate all engineering, technical, and navigator personnel, none of you are to touch a single button on this express."
"This is outrageous! And you're just going to allow this?" the chief navigator turned to Lavrova. "Some primitive ape from the stream-troopers is going to tell us when we can work?!"
"Fontaine is following Express security protocols," Anna Dmitrievna said coldly. "Hand over your access keys, phones, and leave the technical compartment."
Shen Wei silently removed his key card from around his neck, handed it to Ax along with his work phone, and said:
"I will inform my subordinates that work must cease."
Makriiri, snorting angrily, followed his boss's example and left the compartment. Harada demonstratively offered her key and phone to Lavrova. Ax dialed the head of the IT department. All access cards, phones, and email accounts for the navigators, technicians, and engineers would need to be blocked, and they themselves confined to their compartments.
"Well," Axel thought, "at least now the train isn't going anywhere."
***
Teddy lay in bed, glowering at the ceiling. It wasn't that he disliked the wide double bed, or the plush, soft pillows and blankets, or the silk sheets... What Teddy didn't like was that none of his things were around — not even his toothbrush, toothpaste, or razor; everything was from the complimentary set provided to express passengers. It was, damn it, infuriating — as if he were a criminal, forced to flee in his slippers, abandoning everything in his cozy apartment on Astrid Lane.
On the other hand, the pastry chef was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, and that was also unsettling. Not because Ross would have preferred to see him in his bed — but because there was something frighteningly strange about him. He wasn't like the beings Teddy had seen before. But what exactly — the journalist couldn't explain. Something was off about Aguilar's eyes, his gaze — but what?
Ross picked up his tablet and started scrolling through news sites, looking for mentions of the incident at the Eleton Hotel. Fortunately, his name wasn't appearing in the press — otherwise, his father's bodyguards would be storming the train by now. He'd barely managed to convince Rivera not to send battalions of special forces to Almonzis. The press had been given the version of an attempted robbery, the victim of which was "currently safe and under protection." Teddy snorted. Under protection! Safe! More like a prisoner under guard!
A knock came at the door, followed by the pastry chef's voice:
"Mr. Ross? Are you awake? What would you like for breakfast?"
For some reason, this innocent question sparked a wave of visceral fury in Teddy's soul. He flew out of bed, yanked the door open, and snarled:
"Don't you dare treat me like that! I'm not some dim-witted rich kid; I have hands, and I can make my own breakfast!"
The pastry chef looked at him imperturbably, slightly upwards, and Ross faltered into silence. He hadn't noticed before that he was a good seven centimeters taller than his strange savior.
"So I shouldn't make coffee for you then?" Aguilar clarified. The pleasant smells of bacon, eggs, and cheese toast tickled Teddy's nose.
"Uh... n-no... sorry," Ross stammered. "I didn't mean... I didn't want to offend you. But you don't have to wait on me."
"I'm not waiting on you. I'm taking care of you."
"Thank you," the journalist deflated completely. He timidly touched Aguilar's arm and mumbled: "If it weren't for you, they'd probably have killed me by now."
"Maybe not. Maybe if they'd figured out who your father is, they'd have decided to use you as a hostage."
Ross shuddered.
"Don't be afraid. You're relatively safe on the train."
"Relatively?!"
"I'm hoping Fontaine won't decide to use you as bait for the terrorists."
Ross swallowed. That hadn't occurred to him.
"Why are you doing this?" he choked out. "You're risking yourself for me — but you don't know anything about me."
"Risky?" Aguilar raised an eyebrow.
"Well... yes. What if the terrorists track you down and kill you?"
"Would you mind?" the pastry chef asked with a good-natured smile, and Teddy blushed. Aguilar affected him like catnip on a cat.
"What a life," the journalist thought mournfully and trudged to the shower, where not a single thing was his. Even the soap was regulation — lavender...
Ross wolfed down breakfast in five minutes. The pancakes yesterday had been delicious, but with eggs, bacon, and tomatoes, Aguilar had worked a miracle. Teddy hadn't had a breakfast this good since he'd fled the nest. The coffee was also amazing, and Ross sat back from the table, feeling he'd overindulged shamefully, yet he couldn't stop reaching for the cookies the pastry chef had baked that morning.
"When did you have time for all this?" the journalist asked.
"I'm an early riser."
Teddy immediately felt like a lazy drone, a parasite on society. And since that was the case — time to work! He set his tablet on the table, opened several tabs in his browser, switched the keyboard to Averon, and started tapping away briskly.
"What are you doing?" Aguilar asked, loading the dishes into the dishwasher.
"I'm searching for familiar faces among Averon terrorists and radicals. Specifically, one face — that woman, Donna."
Ross hesitated. He didn't want to offend the pastry chef, with his distinctly Averon features and equally Averon-sounding name, but the Averon Union had for decades been a breeding ground for terrorism and a nest for the most radical extremists, from anarcho-communists to religious socialists — and anti-Conventionalists, anti-globalists, and anti-corporatists were as thick as fleas on a dog there.
"She looked like she was from Averon," Teddy muttered.
"That doesn't mean anything. She could have had plastic surgery."
Ross exhaled irritably through his teeth. As if he hadn't thought of that!
"It's the only lead I've got! Or do you think I should just sit in this compartment for the next two weeks, staring at the wall?"
"Oh, alright, alright," the pastry chef said placatingly. "But how are you planning to search? You don't have access to police files, intelligence agency databases, or military records."
"By mentions," Ross replied, adjusting the search parameters. "If a terrorist group decided to stage an attack on a train or rob a factory here on Almonzis, they'd have to have dropped off the radar a while ago. If I filter out the ones who are constantly in the news or online, and those who've already been neutralized by local law enforcement..."
Aguilar looked at him with interest, turned on the dishwasher, and sat down beside him.
"And where are you going to find all this?"
"In the media, on official government, intelligence, and police websites, and in social networks."
"But that will take a long time, and... are you really that fluent in Averon?" he asked, surprised, looking over the journalist's shoulder.
"Yes, I am. And you?" Ross teased. In response, the pastry chef hummed some Averon pop song that must have been popular the year he graduated from military academy.
"As for it taking a long time... well, I've got nothing else to do here, and at least I'll gather material for a new article. I'm going to need a new job, so I can at least add something fresh and unpublished to my portfolio. What will you do?"
"Read a book," Aguilar picked up his phone from the table. "Maybe write some letters. I'm in need of a new job too."
"I could hire you..."
"No," the pastry chef cut him off. "I don't work as a bodyguard."
"But why?! That's exactly what you're doing right now!"
"It's an amusing pastime that I happen to enjoy," the pastry chef assured him. "It's brought a pleasant variety to my daily routine, but otherwise, I intend to continue baking cakes and whipping cream."
"I just don't get it," thought Ross. He could, of course, assume that Aguilar was a bad soldier, but with a being, that was physically impossible. Although... maybe it was a defective being? Teddy stole a glance at Aguilar's face. It was a pleasant, good-natured, handsome man's face. But his eyes were utterly expressionless, like those of a statue or a mechanical doll. And it wasn't the lenses; it was something Teddy couldn't quite grasp.