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Shadow Arts by monitor101
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Shadow Arts / Log 1
Date: 22 September 2006, 1:18 am
A.D. 2551, 2 November, 2000 hours / UNSC building, NYC, Earth
The meeting chamber of the UNSC council was massive. A large dais dominated the front of the room, lit by rectangles of fluorescent lights that hung from far above. A single mahogany podium sat in the middle bathed in the most light, a solid gold seal of the UNSC sat upon it, a testament to those few who stood behind it and changed history, something that was going to be made tonight.
The endless sea of countless seats stretched on incessantly to the back of the room where people were flowing out from doorways that connected the cavernous room to the main atrium. The rows of seats were filled with representatives of every nation on the Earth, and every off world colony within the authority of the UNSC. Some were sitting, some were standing, and some were filing down the narrow isles to get to their respective seats.
Normally the air would be electrified with debate, opinions, and squawk. Each representative feeling as if it was their obligation to voice their own view or else be thrown against the rocks by the opposition as politics was dog eat dog.
But not tonight, the air was unusually calm for this particular room that had seen unbridled displays of debate on more than one occasion in its five hundred year run as host to the rulers of humanity. No, tonight the inaudible white noise of a thousand voices all speaking at once was kept at a comfortable level of decibels. Each person kept their ego in check. It was a reciprocal respectability that was not made obvious by signs or door attendants telling people to do so, it was something that everyone felt and knew on a subconscious level. There was a time for debate and there was a time for unified gathering and listening, like tonight.
However, there was another type of excitement that buzzed within the multitude. An underlying eagerness for the night to hurry and transpire, everyone was anxious for something.
A short, bald man in a well-tailored black suit melted out of the darkness and into the lights, he mounted the podium; the room fell instantly silent. There were the last few sounds of an occasional cough and creak of someone's chair as everyone took their seats at the sign of the chairman of the UNSC General Assembly, a routine that they were all accustomed to doing. The chairman waited patiently as the last few delegates filed into the room and found their seats.
He cleared his throat and the sound echoed down the massive chamber through strings of speakers that lined the walls, the first loud noise all night. He picked up his gavel and rapped three times on the podium with it, an age-old tradition that probably didn't make a difference in getting people's attention in the colossal chamber, as it did in a courtroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began in the softest of British accents, "thank you all very much for coming. This will be and exciting and interesting night for all of us. Tonight, we are on the eve of an election. Tomorrow, the General Assembly goes to the polls and votes on who will be the next secretary general of the United Nations Space Command," he paused and took a drink of water. "There are two final candidates that have been nominated by their individual parties and have survived the last six months, as we all know is worse than fighting Covenant face to face."
Waves of amused laughter rippled through the audience, and then died down.
"They will both be delivering their final speeches before you all cast your ballots." He tried to suppress a smile. "Our first speaker is ahead in the pre-election polls by fifteen points," he said, the excitement in his voice was unmistakable.
Excitement gesticulated throughout the audience. Whispers and muffled shouts of enthusiasm rose.
"Delegates, it is my profound pleasure to introduce to you," he outstretched his arm behind him, "Quentin Chantillis."
The crowd burst into applause. More than half of those sitting gave a standing ovation to the man who walked out of the black curtains and into the pool of light.
Quentin Chantillis was tall, stalwart, and broad shouldered. He wore a silk Valentino suit that shimmered over a muscular frame. His medium length dark hair was neatly parted and edged with gray. His smart looks drove women mad. However, physical features were not his only attribute. He was backed with an edgy intelligence and rare blunt honesty that was a breath of fresh air to many in a world where lies came in abundance. He had brains and balls, something that attracted other politicians to rally behind him. The Hispanic man was a genius who knew how to navigate the rough seas of politics, and the position of secretary general, where the seas were the stormiest; he seemed to fit the role of captain well.
He strode over to the podium with a charismatic step, shook hands cheerfully with the chairman, and flashed a set of pearly whites that looked like they could have come straight from a clamshell. The chairman stepped down and Chantillis stepped up to a place he was sure to occupy in the future.
The clapping continued for five minutes, then finally dimmed and faded.
"Thank you ladies and gentleman, and thank you chairman," Chantillis said in an English accent with a slight Latin inflection. "In the midst of a terrible conflict with an alien empire, I stand before you to lay out my agenda for the UNSC…for humanity."
The majority of the audience had been waiting for this speech for the bulk of the race and he told it exactly as they had anticipated. He delivered every word without faltering and every word was spoken with passion. The speech dripped from his mouth like honey, and the audience devoured it like bees.
Twenty minutes into the speech, half of which had been occupied by applause, Chantillis was reaching the end of his dialogue. He had managed to keep the attention of the room for every second. Now, there seemed to be general disappointment as it came to a close.
No one noticed a pinhead sized red dot that suddenly flashed onto his chest. No one heard the two silent gunshots. No one realized Chantillis had been shot when he collapsed to the ground.
The elation that had swept the room, instantaneously changed into a surge of panic and chaos. The man who was going to lead the UNSC into the next stage of the Human, Covenant conflict was now dead. Moreover, to many, the death of a Human victory had died with him.
Again, the meeting chamber filled with shouts and shrill screams. However, not shouts of rage or protest. The shouts were new to the chamber, something it had never heard before. These were shouts of horror.
2100 hours / Waldorf Astoria hotel, NYC
Demetrius Granitsky sat in the restaurant of the Waldorf Astoria, nervously sipping his glass of Chivas Regal scotch. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and scratched at his disheveled brown hair. His eyes jumped around the room.
Granitsky was the only one occupying a table in the large restaurant, something that didn't surprise him in the least. Everyone else, including the staff, crowded around the bar, watching recorded footage of Quentin Chantillis collapsing at the podium.
One of them shot him a quick glance then returned their gaze to the TV screen, probably wondering why he wasn't glued to the breaking news like everyone else in the world. He didn't need to see it, he was there when it happened, and seeing it again would only push him closer to the brink of a nervous breakdown. He scanned the room again.
She was late and he hated waiting, especially at a time like this. In the past hour, the UNSC was already feeling the political effects of Chantillis's death. The UNSC was in a shit storm. Off world, delegates who were not able to attend the final speeches had already cast their votes and the results were in, Chantillis was unanimously the winner, although the outcome was to be determined tomorrow. Now those votes had been cast out and it seemed inevitable that Chantillis's opponent would be announced indefinitely.
From where he sat, Granitsky had a good view of the door. He instantly recognized Alice Levigne as she walked in. His eyes roamed, she wore a beautiful Armani dress that stopped just above her knees, giving a good look at her long, toned, and very tan legs. Her olive hair was pulled back into a bun and gleamed in the light. She rose and fell as she walked model style with one foot in front of the other, as if she were on a tight rope. She walked over to him on Stiletto heels and landed in the chair opposite him.
"Is this bad or is this bad?" he said in a shaky voice.
"I'd say not as bad as you. You look like hell," she said, studying his messy hair and unloosened collar on his dinner jacket that he had worn to the speech ceremony.
He leaned forward and fired up a cigarette. "Thanks again for meeting me. This is urgent."
"Then quit bullshitting and make it urgent," Levigne hissed.
"We have little time to pull this program before Gates gets bumped into office," he said.
Mick Gates was Chantillis's opponent in the race for secretary general. He opposed every policy Chantillis proposed. Levigne was on the secretary general's staff. Foreseeing the winner, she had met with Chantillis on more than one occasion over the duration of the race and had already begun setting things up for the candidate even before he was to become secretary general. Now that Chantillis was dead and Gates was on his way in, she had to cease all programs and activities that they had implemented while the race was still in full swing. If Gates discovered this then he would surely wipe the slate clean once bumped into office. The secretary general was only able to change his staff if there was corruption involved within their ranks. Levigne had been on the staff under the past three secretary general's, and she had done shady deeds on more than one occasion and never been caught. Nevertheless, if she didn't purge her surreptitious activities at once then she would give Gates an excuse to get rid of her.
She needed Granitsky because he was the predominant power broker in the political arena. Through his half law, half lobbying firm Granitsky & Associates, he was very capable of creating a temporary political shit storm to distract Gates while she pulled the plug on all her surreptitious activities.
Indent]"Have you started?" Levigne asked, tapping a fork against an empty wine glass.
The waitress heard the beckoning and left the group of fervent viewers. She walked over and pulled out a pen and paper.
"We're not eating tonight," Granitsky replied, playfully smiling at the striking waitress, his mind briefly forgetting the terrible events of the evening.
"Belvedere vodka," Levigne said without looking at the waitress.
The waitress nodded and left.
Granitsky sipped his scotch and took a timid drag from the cigarette. "I already started to pull some strings. This little fiasco will kick up in a few days."
"Good," Levigne answered, her attention focused on twirling her only piece of jewelry around her finger. Her wedding ring was a reminder never again to get mixed up with a politician, especially one who would have been her boss.
To Be Continued…
Shadow Arts / Log 2
Date: 13 October 2006, 2:20 am
A.D. 2551, 3 November, 0600 hours / UNSC building, NYC, Earth
"Those sons a bitches!" General William Lenox growled, holding the document with white knuckles.
He threw off his reading glasses and burst out of his office. Three minutes later he stormed into General Howard Treftz' office to see the chairman of the Security Council sitting behind his massive oak desk, staring at a file of papers with Lieutenant General Sarah Ackley standing behind him. They both looked up.
"Bill, how can I help you?" Treftz smiled and said in a scholarly, British accent.
"What the hell is this?!" Lenox demanded, shaking the papers in his hand.
The smile on Treftz face vanished. He leaned back into his large leather chair that was taller than he was, and interlocked his fingers. A serious look overcame his old, tired face. "Did you read it already?"
"Yes I read it and there is no way I am going to agree to this!" Lenox hissed.
The older general rubbed his eyes and looked at Ackley. She shrugged and he nodded. Lenox watched with astonishment.
"You've been planning this for how long behind my back?"
Treftz stood up, his dress uniform looking too big over his slim, five foot nine inch frame. It hung from his shoulders with a plethora of metals and campaign ribbons that confirmed his long service to the UNSC. He ran a hand over his slicked back, silver hair, and took a deep breath. He walked past Lenox and over to a private bar, an arm pointed behind him to a sitting area comprised of two leather couches and two leather chairs that were arranged in a square with a coffee table in the middle.
"Take a seat and we'll discuss this," Treftz said while pouring a drink.
Lenox knew better than to disobey his senior officer and remain standing. He quickly sat in one of the couches. Ackley walked over and sat in one of the chairs.
"Sarah, can you stand some Glen Livet?" Treftz asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Or would you like a nice cabernet?"
"Give me the scotch," Ackley replied briskly.
Treftz smiled, finished pouring three glasses of diverse liquor, picked them up, and took a seat in the couch across from Lenox. He set the glasses down and slid two of them over to Lenox and Ackley.
"For you Bill, your favorite, a little Ezra Brooks Kentucky straight bourbon. And for Sarah and I, the Glen Livet," he said and sipped his drink.
Lenox was growing impatient. "Now, answer my question!"
"Very well, Bill. We want to bring him back," Treftz said.
"Why? Why Crist, what makes him so special? We have a dozen good investigators and half as many assassins who are all more than qualified for the job," Lenox exclaimed.
"Yes, but how far has corruption spread, Bill? We do not know who is clean and who isn't. Chantillis's death has shaken the UNSC to its core. We know there was a plot to kill him, the only question is who. No one can root out the conspirators better than Crist," Treftz said firmly.
Lenox's face grew dark. "The only thing Richard Crist is good for is rotting on that godforsaken planet!"
"That was seven years ago," Ackley interjected.
"I don't care if it was a hundred years ago, that doesn't change anything. This son of a bitch will never step foot on a Human occupied planet as long as I am in power," Lenox spat. He threw the crumpled paper onto the table.
Treftz eyes narrowed, a rare look of indignation formed on his face. Both Lenox and Ackley fell silent.
"Your missing the point. Now put your grudges aside for a moment. Quentin Chantillis was a personal friend of mine. This is my final year as chairman. I was going retire knowing that the UNSC would be in good hands. Now I know I am going to leave at the worst possible time," he stared at Lenox with staid eyes; the friendly twinkle that normally accompanied them was gone. "Crist is coming back because he is the only person I trust right now. He will come back and there is nothing you can do about it."
A.D. 2551, 3 November, 2200 hours / LAX spaceport
Richard Crist sat in the final departure lounge of the Bradley Terminal, awaiting his flight to New York. He had drained two vodka martinis earlier and he felt their effects coming in full swing. He leaned back into the stiff, oversized leather chair and pondered his present circumstances.
Seven years out of a job and he was living off the last of his trust fund his grandparents had left him. The large sum of money was disappearing very fast. To compensate a credit card debt that was beyond recovering, he had to sell his eight thousand square foot mansion, his quarter million-dollar Ferrari, and lose his supermodel girlfriend who was popping up on the nets and public vids across the colonies, someone he was planning on marrying. She was the one great loss that left him with a void in his heart that no amount of alcohol could fill. He had been so close to true love only to have it walk out on him. His life in fast lane had abruptly been pulled over.
Before Crist had been a spy, a damn good one too. After he graduated from OCS, he was bumped into the Office of Naval Intelligence, something he was very much against. The agency was shrouded in mystery and a billion rumors had surfaced during OCS as to what really went on behind the curtain. No candidate wanted that particular duty station, especially Crist. To make matters worse, he had been put in Section Three, the notorious branch headed by the even more notorious Colonel James Ackerson. Once there, Crist quickly adjusted to the life as a spook. He learned the tradecraft of a spy and quickly became the top assassin of ONI. Amidst a war with the Covenant, Human splinter factions sprouted throughout the colonies. It was Crist's job to quell these uprisings, and he did his job well.
Seven years ago, he had assassinated the leader of a small rebellion on the planet Virgo III. The leader was a young, trendy student named William; he was an outspoken challenger of the UNSC and stirred up rebellion within the ranks of Virgo III's youth. Crist held no scruple in killing him, it was business as usual. However, as fate would have it, young William was the son of General William Lenox Sr., a member of UNSC High Command. Upon hearing of his son's death, the General ordered Crist to be executed. Others in HIGHCOM slowly persuaded Lenox to consider a less severe punishment, claiming that Crist had done it on orders with no knowledge of William's kinship to General Lenox. An infuriated General Lenox reluctantly agreed to a sentence that did not seem as dreadful as the death penalty...but for Crist death was the better alternative.
They stripped the assassin of his position and shipped him to a remote monitoring station on Sagittarius II, a frozen and abandoned rock that's yearly temperature never reached higher than twenty degrees Fahrenheit. For the last seven years he had sat in the ice cube, his only link to the outside world were news reports that were weeks old by the time they reached him.
Seven years…he contemplated that time in his life. Seven years of his life wasted, and for what, an assassination of an enemy of the state who undoubtedly deserved what he got. In the last seven years, he had thought a lot, and this was what he thought about most, the life of one for the lifetime of another.
"Now boarding, seats A through F for flight 221 nonstop to New York, thank you," a kindly female voice said over the intercom.
Crist gave his ticket a second look and confirmed he was had an A seat. He dragged himself out of the chair and shuffled onboard. With tired arms, he stuffed his only suitcase into a crowded overhead compartment and took his seat, which was thankfully by the window. Bliss overcame him as he reclined in the comfortable chair. He felt himself on the verge of an enjoyable sleep but a thought crawled into his mind, interrupting a rare moment of repose.
Crist dreaded going to New York. He was going back to an old life, one he had gotten over years ago. General Lenox was in New York. This man still held a grudge against Crist. There was no reconciliation with Lenox. The murder of his son would never be forgotten or forgiven. Crist had wondered why they wanted him out of exile. Whatever it was, it must be serious, especially if Lenox agreed to bring Crist back.
The small plane quickly filled with passengers. The flight attendants went through their procedure safety announcements, and then took their seats as the plane taxied onto the runway. After a shaky takeoff, the plane began to climb to its cruising altitude.
Crist was fortunate to have a window seat and he shifted his gaze to it. The ascent offered an amusing view of the Los Angles sprawl, a sea of city lights that glittered like fire flies and stretched onward into the horizon. Jagged peaks of downtown LA skyscrapers slowly shifted into view then moved off.
Crist didn't admire the sight of a large populous. Seven years of uncomfortable solitude had estranged him from the rest of humanity. To see a self absorbed, urban society dominated by techno industrialization was a sight for eyes that looked upon it with dissent. Crist had been alone for all these years, yet this place and these people had been alone forever, even if they lived next to one another. Nobody knew anybody. Behind those lights, was a group of people who lived a self-serving existence, so caught up in their own lives that they had not a care in the world for the people they shared their little corner of the universe with. He had longed to be a part of society again, but now that he was, he regretted returning.
He had been a part of the LA upper-class scene. The cars, the yachts, the clubs, the women, these had all come in excess for him. He had lived a materialistically oriented life that was defined by external sources. All this time he had taken lives yet not lived his own.
The flight attendants went through the cabin, ordering people's drinks. Crist ordered a gin and tonic. It came five minutes later and was gone five seconds later. With alcohol in him, Crist melted into the chair, pushed aside his sociopathic thoughts, and nodded off.
Two hours later the plane jostled him awake as it landed at JFK. The plane came to its gate and passengers slowly filed out. When it was his turn, Crist quickly grabbed his bag and unhurriedly left the airplane.
When he came to the terminal, he saw two broad shouldered men in dark business suits, standing behind the sea of seats. A smile crossed his face. Treftz had hired mercenaries to escort him to the UNSC building, this meant that his arrival was extremely confidential, and few people knew he was here. He walked over to them.
"Mr. Richard Crist, please come with us, sir," the taller one said as he stopped in front of them.
Crist sized them up and wondered if he could take them. Being an assassin, he had to be in good shape, and he had not lost it in the seven years he was in exile. One was taller than Crist by a full head, and towered over the other who was short, maybe five ten, with muscles that barely fit underneath the suit.
"So, let me guess…Sigma Security maybe?" Crist said suppressing a smile. Sigma Security was Treftz favorite private sector security company. When Crist was in the game the old general wad constantly hiring out jobs to Sigma mercenaries, and it looked like things had not changed.
The taller one looked down at his partner perplexingly; the short one shrugged and gave Crist a dark look.
"Let's go," the short one said in a thick Scottish accent.
They walked through the maze of hallways that comprised JFK. They crossed a sky bridge and into a large parking garage. They entered a four-door sedan and barreled out of the airport and into New York.
Ten minutes later, they drove up to the UNSC building. Crist was about to get out but they continued past the large building.
"Where the hell are we going?" Crist demanded, looking at the taller one who drove through the rearview mirror.
The man smiled and took a left. They circled around and parked in an almost empty back lot in the shadow of the looming structure. It finally clicked; they didn't want him to be seen by anyone.
The two led him through a creaky door and into a dark corridor that led to a service elevator. They went up to the tenth floor and entered a new hallway. This one was carpeted and decorated with mahogany walls. The two bodyguards stopped in front of a pair of double doors labeled, General Howard Treftz.
Crist hesitated for a moment; he did not want to enter this room. In it was the past, a place he didn't want to visit. General Lenox was on the other side, a man who truly hated Crist with every fiber of his being. Crist took a deep breath and opened the door.
General Treftz' enormous office had not changed much in seven years. It was still dimly lit and had the same setup, his monstrous desk loomed in the back and the sitting area took up the middle, the old sticks of furniture replaced with inviting leather pieces. In addition, it was very clean; Treftz had always kept his things orderly.
Crist took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. Relaxation flooded him when he saw that it was only General Treftz sitting behind his desk, no Section Three spooks, and no Lenox.
A wide smile broke out on the old general's face. "How are you, Richard?"
Crist almost didn't recognize Treftz. His hair was thinner and grayer. Wrinkles had invaded his tired face. He was skinnier and seemed slower. The general had aged, but Crist was pleased to see a familiar, inviting twinkle in the general's eyes. He had not changed one bit.
"Fine, how are you, general?" Crist responded.
"I've been better," Treftz replied with a dismal tone.
"Why's that?" Crist asked.
"We'll get to that later. In the mean time, please sit down," Treftz motioned for Crist to sit in one of couches.
Crist almost jumped into the couch. The routine was still the same; Treftz walked over, poured them two drinks, and joined Crist at the sitting area. Crist exhausted his Chivas Regal whiskey and got comfortable.
"How have you been?" Treftz asked.
"Seven years stuck in the goddamn South Pole, and a five week long vacation in a cryotube, I'm just peachy. Now why don't you tell me what the fuck this is all about, general?" Crist said harshly.
Treftz sipped his drink. "Are you ready to resume your old duties?"
"Kill again? I might shoot someone's relative by accident and get thrown halfway across the galaxy into some remote outpost," Crist said, letting every word drip from his tongue with bitter sarcasm.
"Damn it, can you forget about your past for one second. This is serious!" Treftz blurted. "Quentin Chantillis is dead and we know there is a conspiracy behind it."
"I haven't been keeping up with current events lately, but the murder of Chantillis was big enough to reach even my ears," Crist said. "What does that have to do with me?"
Treftz leaned forward as if someone was going to hear him. "As I said, there was a conspiracy behind it."
"Who?"
"We don't know how far up this goes," Treftz said almost at a whisper. "Even the Security Council could be compromised."
"Is that why you don't want anyone to know I'm here?" Crist asked.
"Yes, I want you to keep a very low profile. That means no gambling, no seducing delegates' wives, and no parties. No one at Section Three or ONI for that matter can know you're here. As far as they are concerned, Richard Crist is still wasting away on a frigid planet in the Sagittarius system," Treftz said.
Crist smiled amusingly. "What do I get in return?"
"Your freedom, but, let me remind you, after this you will have more enemies who will hold bigger grudges than General Lenox," Treftz said.
"I want more than my freedom! I want to get paid a quarter million for every person I whack," Crist said sternly.
Treftz was in the middle of a drink and nearly choked. "A quarter million! Are you mad!"
"My offer is going once…twice…" Crist trailed off, letting three hang in the air.
Treftz slammed his glass on the table. "Fine, I'll make it one hundred a piece. Plus, another fifty when your through. Does that satisfy you?" the general hissed.
"Very good. To start off, I'll need a list and descriptions of all the people who knew Chantillis or had him on their hit lists."
"I have a full report on file for you. You can download it at the hotel."
"The hotel?" Crist asked with raised eyebrows.
Treftz grinned. "Yes, we picked a nice room for you at the Hotel Splendide."
"Very nice," Crist smiled at the thought of a comfortable bed, room service, champagne, and a hot shower.
"We have a prime suspect as well," Treftz said. He got up, walked over to his desk, and pulled out a file.
"Who is he?" Crist asked intently.
"She is Chantillis's former lover. A femme fatale type," Treftz said walking back over and handing Crist the file.
He took it and flipped it open. His eyes widened at a picture of a remarkably beautiful woman. The photo was of her on a yacht, a smile spread across her face laughing at someone's joke.
"Her name is Alice Levigne, a member of the secretary general's staff," Treftz sat down and took notice of Crist's enthrallment in the picture. "She has been conducting in secret activities of the most illegal nature under the last three secretary general's," the old man's tone turned serious. "I hope you still have your charm."
Crist finally managed to peel his eyes off the photo and look at Treftz. "That's one thing I've been saving."
To Be Continued…
Shadow Arts / Log 3
Date: 8 February 2007, 10:46 pm
A.D. 2551, 4 November, 1100 hours / Hotel Splendide, NYC, Earth
The room General Treftz had picked for Crist turned out to be the hotel suite on the top floor. It consisted of one main room supplemented with a kitchen, full bar, balcony, a master bedroom, and a Jacuzzi tub with a shower rod. It had all the amenities Crist could have hoped for, and it was a welcome sight for someone who had just the other night slept in a cramped, uncomfortable cot on the coldest planet in the universe.
Crist set his bag on the bed and immediately took a hot shower, his first enjoyable one in seven years. He stood under the spray of hot water for an hour, savoring every drop. Then he stepped out, dressed in swim trunks, grabbed a bottle of brandy from the bar, and jumped into the Jacuzzi. He turned on all the jets and the heat to its maximum setting and relaxed in the hot bubbles. Slowly, he nodded off into a tranquil sleep.
A beeping awoke him. Crist looked at the time, he had been asleep for three hours and his skin was shriveled like a prune. The jets had automatically shut off and the water had turned cold. Used to cold temperatures Crist climbed out of the Jacuzzi without a shiver. He quickly dried off with a towel and listened as the beeping grew louder. He followed the noise. It led him to the bedroom where a telephone on the bedside table chirped away. He hit the speaker button. General Treftz's old, academic British accent rose from the speaker.
"How do you like the room, Richard? It only comes with a cost of one thousand dollars a night," Treftz said bitterly.
"And I assure you its money well spent. Now, what do I owe the pleasure of you calling me?" Crist said with the slightest edge of annoyance. Nothing pissed him off more than interrupted R&R.
"It'll soon be time to go to work. Our main lead will be attending several after parties tomorrow night for the inauguration of Mick Gates as Secretary General."
"Ah, the femme fatale," Crist said while changing into jeans and a T-shirt.
"No, priorities have changed. A power broker by the name of Demetrius Granitsky has caused a sudden uproar in the political world," Treftz said.
"What happened?"
"I don't have the time to go into details. Its on file so I suggest you read it."
"Okay, in the meantime I need a few things," Crist said.
"What?" Treftz's voice suddenly became quieter and dubious. "Why?"
"You said there will be some killing. If I'm going to get my hands dirty I might as well have a weapon," he said.
"Yes, yes, I'm sending someone to assist you, he will bring a standard M6D pistol with extra ammunition and a silencer, that will get the job done," Treftz replied dismissively.
"I'm not hunting elephants?" Crist said irreverently. "I don't need twelve point seven millimeter exploding rounds to cap a few bad guys. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it my way. I'll need my old arsenal. Not a damn hand cannon"
Treftz grunted in disgust. "Oh can't you forget about those antiques," he sneered.
Crist shook his head. Treftz had never been a fan of old fashioned weapons. After seeing the power of Covenant technology, he became an outspoken advocate for new weapons systems that did not rely on projectiles. He had even gone so far as to propose a bill to the UNSC General Assembly that propositioning a five billion dollar bond for the research of new energy based weaponry. The bill failed in one, unanimous vote on the floor. Five billion dollars was not something you spent on unfamiliar technology and an old man's dream. This had left him devastated, his hatred of projectile weapons only deepened. It was an almost absurd cause that the general had rallied for, wasting limited resources and valuable time. "My weapons, General, be sure your man shows up with them." With that, he picked up the receiver and dropped it back on the hook. A dull dial tone blared from the speakerphone and he shut it off.
5 November, 1500 hours / Hotel Splendide
The elevator doors parted and Crist walked into the hallway in shorts and a T-shirt. He walked fast, after two hours in the hotel's fitness center he was ready for a shower and hot breakfast. Coming to his suite door, he swiped his key. A split second later a soothing female voice greeted him and the door opened wide for him. He stepped through and instantly stopped the moment a strange smell entered his nostrils…beacon and eggs. Someone was here. He backed up against a wall and lowered to his knees. Across the room from him, the shades were opened bathing the room in mid afternoon light. An unmistakable sizzle of beacon on the frying pan came from the kitchen. Crist doubted room service would make themselves lunch, it was undoubtedly an intruder. But, why would they give themselves away so easily?
A rummaging sound caught his attention. It was coming from the bedroom. As quietly as he could he ran across the main room to the kitchen. Using the sizzling beacon as noise cover he opened a drawer and pulled out a large steak knife. He crept back onto the carpet and slowly made his way down the hallway towards the bedroom. When he was five feet from the entrance, he looked up at a mirror. From his angle looking into the mirror, he could see the back of a man hovering over something on the bed. After waiting a few more seconds, Crist was certain the man was too preoccupied and would not turn around. He slowly entered the bedroom.
Mere feet in front of him, the man was sorting out objects on the bed. In one swift move, Crist rose and grabbed the man by the shoulder. The man let out a yelp as Crist spun him around and slammed him face first into the wall, the knife poking in to the hollow of his neck.
"Move and I'll sever every artery in your neck. Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?!" Crist demanded.
The man let out a gasp of air and held his hands up as if he were at gunpoint. "I-I'm Jackson, AJ Jackson, your mission support. Treftz sent me!" he blurted.
"Oh," Crist said surprised and back off. He dropped the knife on a dresser and looked at the bed. It was covered with a mini arsenal of guns. "How'd you get in?"
Jackson rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. "We got you the room. You think I don't have a key."
Crist nodded and pointed to the guns on the bed. "Are those mine?"
"Everything you ordered." he replied, going over to the bed and resuming what he was doing.
Crist scrutinized him. Jackson was short, portly and balding with a potbelly. He wore a long trench coat over a nicely tailored gray suit and matching tie that Crist instantly recognized as Brooks Brothers. There were no signs of a Sigma Security badge or any other privatized security firm on the man. Good, Crist thought, the man worked for the UNSC, most likely a civilian worker for the intelligence branch. He never trusted contractors from security firms General Treftz always hired to run security for him. There were always trigger happy, always ready to spray lead. They made good backup in a balls out firefight, but in the shadowy world of espionage where patience and a low profile were key, there was no place for them.
Jackson finished laying out the guns. "Here's everything."
Crist looked at the bed. Each gun he had used during his assassin days lay before him. His primary weapon was a Fabrique Nationele de Herstal (FN) Five Seven, two twenty 5.7 X 28mm armor-piercing round magazines lay beside it. Next to the Five Seven was his main weapon for close quarter's assassinations, a skinny Ruger Mark III Competition rimfire semiautomatic. The skinny pistol was chambered for .22 caliber ammunition. It had a stainless steel frame with a blue finish, adjustable read sights, a Cocobolo grip, and long integrated silencer that replaced the normal five-inch fluted barrel. Lastly, as a backup, he had a blunt Para Ordnance Hawg 9 that sat in a small ankle holster.
"Each pistol comes with two clips. The only gun that doesn't have a silencer is the Hawg 9. The Ruger's barrel is replaced with an integrated silencer and damn near impossible to remove," Jackson said while watching Crist examine his new arsenal.
"There'll be no need to remove it," Crist replied. A small, unopened briefcase lay on the opposite side of the bed next to a duffel bag. "What're those?" he asked pointing to them.
Jackson smiled, walked to the other side of the bed, and snapped open the briefcase. Inside, encased in foam, were a large, silenced M6D pistol and two clips. Crist shook his head.
"What the hell is that?"
Jackson laughed and said, "That is a little piece of modern military hardware courtesy of General Treftz. He thought it would make you appreciate contemporary firearms a little more."
"What's in the duffel bag?" Crist asked frowning at the large handgun, it was big, messy and loud, completely useless to him.
"Some standard equipment: two encrypted cell phones, listening bugs, night/thermal glasses, a monocular, and a laptop with net access. There's also a syringe with an identification implant with two assumed identities that will get you passed security checkpoints," Jackson said.
Crist's eyebrows shot up. "You have a portable syringe to inject the implant?" An identification implant was what every legitimate member of the human race carried in their wrist. It carried everything from your name, age, social security number to you address and waist size. Upon birth, an infant was taken to a local clinic where they were injected with one and registered in a vast databank as a member of humanity, unless a person was born in some splinter faction or non-official colony. Illegally injecting one was in violation of several UNSC laws.
"Of course, we are the UNSC, we can do whatever we want," Jackson said.
"Very well, when do I start my duties?"
"Tonight," he glanced at his watch. "Its only seven in the morning, you have all day, read up on the report and get some sleep. I will come by to pick you up."
"This is going to be a party, what do I wear?" Crist asked. "I don't exactly have a suit."
Jackson sighed. "The general was anticipating this, I put a little something in your closet so you won't be fashionably late."
"Sounds good but I won't settle for anything less than the finest designer suits," Crist said. He wouldn't show up to a party dressed in a twenty dollar mall bought tux. "Preferably Italian."
"Trust me," Jackson replied and pointed to his Brooks Brothers suit. He collected the bags that he had carried the guns in and shoved them into a suitcase. "I made some eggs and beacon as a late breakfast if your hungry but their probably fried by now."
When Jackson left, Crist dumped the now burnt bacon and eggs onto a plate and ate what he could. He pulled the laptop out of the duffel and booted it up. On the desktop a small icon blinked, he had new mail. Spreading himself out on the couch in the living room, Crist opened the email to see a ten page long document summarizing Treftz's conspiracy theories surrounding the Chantillis assassination. He began to read.
There is a line that separates the UNSC. It is visible to all who occupy a seat in the General Council. Every delegate knows of it, but rarely speaks of it. It is a line that is only spoken of in whispers and behind closed doors. The line separates the field of politics from the field of the military. This line is a slash between the UN and the SC, the United Nations being the political arm and the Space Command being the military arm. The two were separated long ago. Military brass ran the war against the Covenant while the politicians ran humanity. These two were separated by the clash of opinions. The military hated the pouring of cool aid diluting their decision-making; the politicians hated the militaries' brashness. A divide that had been there since the dawn of politics.
Chantillis wanted the fill the gap of antipathy and unite both sides, something many in the military were not fond of, but politicians loved, by making a bridge to the other side many saw this as a chance to begin many oversights and congressional investigations into top secret military operations, especially a delegate named Rosie Watts. A radical American protectorate delegate from California, Watts despised the Office of Naval Intelligence, most notably Crist's old corner Section Three. For years she had tried to lead massive investigations into Section Three's surreptitious activities and that of it's leader Colonel James Ackerson. Her battle with Ackerson was almost as legendary as his with Doctor Catherine Halsey and the Spartan II program. It was never Chantillis's intention to lead investigations into clandestine operations that were being conducted by ONI and other organizations, as far as he was concerned, no matter how illegal, they were saving peoples lives in the battle against the Covenant. Nevertheless, some politicians, like Watts, saw it as an opportunity to strong arm the military and have politics take total control.
According to the report, Treftz did not see any higher ups as prime suspects, rather a political power broker who would not be helped by Chantillis's policy of unification. Demetrius Granitsky was the sole partner and head of the most powerful law firm in the UNSC, Granitsky & Associates. Crist was no stranger to Granitsky, he had been a huge player when Crist was around and it surprised him that the man had not gone away. The man was an egocentric billionaire with ambition, ego, and an agenda. Through his many years, he had made connections, pocketed politicians, and made more than just a few bribes. Granitsky had a strong business with Ackerson. The Colonel was able to keep meddlesome politicians like Watts out of his hair by having Granitsky work his magic with the Assembly leaders, they would block any oversight requests by Watts, and in exchange, Granitsky received money, lots of it. If Chantillis had been elected and given Watts an opening to begin her oversight hell, that would mark the closure of a major avenue of money for Granitsky.
Crist nodded as he read, it all made sense. Granitsky had pocketed billions from ONI (among other things) and he did not want that cash flow to end. He had to be behind Chantillis's assassination. If he had gone after Watt's than it would have been obvious who had been behind it, no one held a bigger grudge against her than Granitsky. Instead, he had gone after the one person who had the charisma and popularity to get oversight requests unblocked, Chantillis would have definitely owed Watts a few favors since she was one of his biggest supporters during his campaign. If not for her, Chantillis would not have won the election.
"Clever bastard," Crist muttered and kept reading.
Treftz wanted him to go to an Inaugural after party for the newly elected Mick Gates; the party was at Granitsky's mansion. It was impossible to externally raid Granitsky's private files, he had firewalls and encryptions so advanced and seamless that even the smartest AI could not infiltrate from the outside, the key was to get on the inside. Once inside the party Crist would sneak into Granitsky's office and plant an intrusion AI into his personal computer. Once there the AI would easily infiltrate Granitsky's data encryptions and then sift through all of Granitsky's personal emails and data, searching for any indication that he was behind the assassination, it was bound to find something. Once the AI obtained hard evidence, it would send the data to Treftz. As a failsafe, Crist would download it onto a flash drive as a hardcopy.
Crist finished the report and shutdown the laptop. He checked his watch, it was only four in the afternoon, and Jackson would return around eight-thirty at night to pick him up. He sighed, trying to think of what to do for the next four hours. Treftz had banned him from going out into public, which he despised; here he was in the middle of Manhattan and not allowed to leave his hotel. He checked his watch again and concluded it was not too late to catch a hotel meal. The bacon and eggs Jackson had cooked up did little to quell his hunger. After seven years of freeze-dried food, he was in need of a good meal. He got up and headed to the shower. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and out the door.
There were two different meals the hotel offered, an all you can eat buffet laid out in the lobby with several tables that gave guests to converse with each other over their food, and a five star restaurant on the top floor. He decided against the latter, undoubtedly half the guests here were delegates in town for the elections and they would surly be frequenting the restaurant. He did not want to run into any old acquaintances.
Crist took the luxurious elevator down to the lobby and went to the buffet table. There he stacked his plate with hot chicken wings, mashed potatoes, and more bacon and eggs. Once he returned to his room, he polished off the meal within minutes.
Still bored he decided to undermine his travel restriction. Opening his only bag, he put on a large fleece and a long raincoat. To hide his face he put up the large collar and slipped on a pair of darkly polarized sunglasses. He put his key card and wallet into a money belt and left the room. He went to the lobby and exited into a chilly Manhattan morning.
The Hotel Splendide was a block and a half from Times Square. The street was lined with astronomically priced electronic stores and Broadway theaters. Just down a block was the Milford Plaza and just to the right of it was the Westin. Crist walked to the hustle and bustle of Times Square. He descended a flight of stairs to the subway station and caught a train to Rockefeller Center. There he took his biggest gamble. He walked into a Universal Bank branch and activated a backup account he stashed money in for an emergency during his days as an assassin. It had been lying dormant for the last seven years and he breathed a sigh of relief that his funds were still there. After that, he activated a bankcard under a false name he had used in the past and left the bank. Once out, he went to an ATM machine and withdrew fifty dollars.
He caught another subway to Canal Street. There he walked past a long line of street vendors selling anything from fake watches to blowjobs. Each person he came across selling watches and jewelry had obvious rip offs, it was not what he was looking for. After walking the duration of the street, Crist finally came across a tall African man selling watches to anyone who resembled a tourist.
He stopped in front of the man. "What have you got?"
The man plunged a hand into a bag hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a black box. He quickly opened it and flashed a silver, antique analog watch to Crist. "Rolex?" he asked in a South African accent.
Crist examined the watch. It wasn't a Rolex, it was a Movado. Just as good, he thought. On the band, he spied plastic wrap and above the watch was a warranty card and a price tag displaying a hefty number. He smiled instantly, the watch was genuine and he did not care how this man had come to possess it, most likely he was in a ring of watch sellers. "How much?"
"Eighty-five bucks," the man said, rubbing his fingers together.
"Only got twenty."
The man frowned, "Forty then."
Crist nodded, pulled out two twenties, and handed them to the man. Grinning, he eagerly accepted the cash and handed Crist the watch.
"A pleasure my man," he said and shoved the cash into his coat pocket.
Crist thanked him and left. He went to the subway terminal and caught a train back to Times Square. From there he went back to the hotel and up to his room.
When he entered the suite, he immediately took off his shirt and grabbed the implant kit from the duffel. Sitting down on the bed, Crist opened the kit and read the directions. The implant was already in the syringe. All he had to do was put it against his wrist and shoot away. He set aside the direction booklet and pulled out the cold, plastic syringe gun that slightly resembled the Ruger. Through the translucent barrel, he could see the cylindrical implant, a quarter inch long silicon microchip encased in a thin plastic shell. A slight feeling of apprehension slowly crept forward from the back of his mind, causing him to hesitate for a moment. He had always been a little nervous around needles. He shook the feeling out of his mind. He was an assassin for God's sake; he had faced bullets, bombs, and mass murderers, why should a small needle be so intimidating. Without a second thought, Crist jabbed the syringe gun down onto his arm and squeezed the trigger. There was a slight pinch and a hissing of air as compressed gases released, driving the implant into his arm. Crist immediately pulled the syringe away from his arm looked down at his wrist. The implant was visible as a small protrusion underneath his skin. Just above it was a pen point thick, red hole where the needle had penetrated, a slight trickle of blood escaped and ran down the curvature of his upturned wrist. He wiped it away.
Crist put the syringe back into the case and set it aside. He glanced at his watch once again; it was six o'clock, plenty of time for a nap. He set his alarm two wake him up in an hour and a half and quickly nodded off. At seven thirty, he awoke to the vociferous beeping of his alarm clock, he quickly quelled it with a fist on the snooze button. Wasting no time he hopped out of bed, took a quick five-minute shower, and threw a robe on. With low expectations for what Jackson had got him to wear to the party, he walked to the closet and opened the door. He grinned from ear to ear.
On the rack, hung a dark Brioni suit in a protective cover, a Grupo Italiano shirt, and on the ground, immaculate Bruno Magli wingtips and a pair of matching socks, the finest in Italian clothing with a price just shy of two thousand dollars. It was the perfect disguise to fit in the party tonight. Crist just prayed to God he didn't run into any old faces. If that happened, he would not only blow his cover but also the entire investigation.
In no time, he was dressed in the suit. Next, he had to decide what weapons to take. He laid them out on the bed and thought for a moment. There would be no assassinations tonight, at least not on his behalf, so he ruled out the Ruger. There was no debate with himself on the M6D, he simply would not take it, the gun was so bulky hiding it under his blazer would be like trying to hide an assault rifle. After five minutes of thinking, Crist decided on just the FN Five-Seven. He screwed the small silencer on the barrel, slid the gun into its holster, and strapped the holster onto his shoulder. Crist was certain the gun didn't make a bulge under his blazer, but just to be sure, he checked in front of the mirror, there was nothing.
At seven-thirty sharp, Jackson came walking into the suite, only this time he wore a black chauffeur suit and hat.
"Are we going to a costume party?"
Jackson grunted. "Funny, but no, we're going in a limo and I'm your driver."
Crist nodded and they exited the suite. They walked out of the hotel to a waiting limousine. Once on the road, Jackson looked at Crist through the rearview mirror.
"Look in the seat pocket in front of you," he said.
Crist leaned forward and pulled a manila envelope out of the pocket. He opened the flap and dumped out its contents into his hands.
"Inside are a wallet, a subvocal earpiece, and the intrusion AI datachip. Through the subvocal we'll be able to keep in contact. In the wallet is a few hundred dollars to give off the smell of someone who is rich and has money to spend, and a hardcover of your invitation in case the guards get a little confused with your implant," he paused and risked looking back at Crist. "You did inject the implant, didn't you?"
"Much to my displeasure, yes," Crist replied.
"Good," Jackson returned his eyes to the road.
"Where will you and the general be in case someone happens to stumble into Granitsky's study while I'm on his computer?"
"I'll be in a surveillance van with some techies a few blocks away. As for the general, he'll be at home probably treating himself to some of his wife's special truffles," Jackson said. "Now remember, your name is Richard Rehnquist, your a security consultant, often hired by Sigma Security."
Crist chuckled, even while devising a false identity Treftz incorporated his beloved Sigma Security firm. "Sounds good," he said, taking the subvocal and placing it in his ear, static hissed then settled.
Jackson steered the limo passed a large, open iron gate, went up into a private driveway and they came up to Granitsky's mansion. Crist looked through the windshield at the massive estate. A large circular driveway dominated the front, in middle of the driveway a small lawn with a fountain of a woman holding a pot of water over her head stood illuminated by bright lights aimed upwards. The driveway was filled with a mini traffic jam of private limousines and expensive cars. The mansion itself resembled an ancient Roman villa; only this one was made of whitewashed limestone.
After a short wait, it was their turn to pull up and drop off. Jackson came to a stop and faced Crist. "You haven't been in the field in a while. Keep a low profile, avoid eye contact like the plague, and don't get sidetracked by blond secretaries with more cleavage than brains. Get in and get out," he cautioned.
Crist smiled. "No need to worry. For me a black bag job is like sex, I only get better each time I do it." Not waiting for an answer Crist opened the door and exited the limo.
Jackson pulled away, leaving Crist alone. In front of him, two flights of stairs led up to two massive oak doors. Four security guards stood at the base of the stairs, scanning people's wrists. Four others stood on the platform midway between the stairwells, each keeping tight grips on the leashes of four sitting Dobermans. They were composed for now, but if a guest caused a ruckus, the animals would be the four horsemen. Crist noted that the security detail was well armed. Each guard was armed with either an M7 caseless SMG or stubby MA5K assault rifles, and they were likely to be carrying sidearms. One of guards approached Crist. He had a slung SMG and wore a thick gray raincoat, but beneath it Crist could make out the bulk of a Kevlar vest.
"Sir," he said in a French laden accent. "May I scan you?" It was more a command than a request but the guard masked it with a polite tone.
"Certainly," Crist shoved up his sleeve and held out his wrist. The guard pulled a small PDA device from a pocket and held it over Crist's arm. A red light flashed and he watched as his forged identity scrolled out on the PDA's screen.
The guard nodded. "Mousier Rehnquist, thank you for being patient, enjoy your evening," he said and turned to another guest.
Crist adjusted his sleeve and ascended the stairs. He went up to the large, open oak doors and entered the main foyer. Here a large chandelier dangled from the ceiling, its crystal outline spilling interesting geometric light patterns on the wall and floor. Two doorways led to the main hall where soft, classical music played and a sea of people chatted. He was glad there were no metal detectors, but there were several guards. In the foyer, there were small clusters of people standing and talking, this attracted waiters to bring trays of champagne glasses around. One passed him and he snagged a glass of bubbly just as the waiter passed. He sipped it and the familiar taste of Krug champagne welcomingly flooded his taste buds. He savored the flavor for a second and drained the glass. It was time to go to work.
Crist entered the main hall, which was really a large rectangular room. A ring of socializing guests stood on the outer perimeter, in the middle, occupying the most room, were several dancers enthralled in their tango. He guessed there were around seven hundred people; Granitsky was very well connected indeed. He immediately scanned for any familiar faces, there was none.
Spying the staircase in the back of the room, Crist began making his way through the outer crowd. He was halfway there when he saw the recognizable stark face of a man. It was the last person he wanted to see. It was General Lenox.
To Be Continued…
Shadow Arts / Log Four
Date: 27 April 2007, 1:43 am
A. D. 2551, 5 November, 2100 hours / Demetrius Granitsky's mansion, NYC, Earth
Crist froze for a second. He hadn't seen the man in nearly a decade, and here he was, standing in the same room as him. He quelled the brief feeling of apprehension and ducked into the crowd, putting distance between General Lenox and himself, but his eyes never strayed from the man. The general didn't much look different. He was still stocky with broad shoulders and a wide waist that gave off a large, somewhat intimidating appearance. The only noticeable change was his hair, the once jet black crew cut now had streaks of silver and had visibly thinned at the crown. Right now the general was mingling with a small group of Arab dignitaries dressed in black robes and white headdresses.
Crist slowly maneuvered through the crowd along the outer edge of the room, avoiding the dancers who occupied the middle. He came out of the sea of people on the other side by the staircase. There were no cords or signs prohibiting access to the upper floors, in fact, much to Crist's delight, there was a sign with an arrow pointing upwards and the word bathroom spelled out in five different languages. A perfect excuse if he got caught wandering. He quickly darted up the steps and came to a long hallway, its walls painted red and hung with the very ugliest in modern art. There were several doors, more than he wanted to count. Looming at the end of the hallway was a set of large double doors that Crist could only imagine led to the bedroom.
Jackson's voice crackled over the sub vocal in his ear. "Okay, the satellite is in position; we have you on thermal now."
"Where I am going, there's got to be fifteen doors down this hallway?" he asked, walking slowly as two people went past, going towards the stairs.
"Do you see the bathrooms?"
In the middle of the hallway another sign pointed to the bathrooms.
"I see them," he said. "Do I want to go through the large doors at the end?"
"No, no, take the door just before the first bathroom, the women's room I believe."
"Is there anyone near who I should be worried about?"
A pause. Then Jackson's voice crackled back. "No one near you. All the security seems to be relaxed on the top floors, probably because all the doors are locked up there."
Crist came to the door and waited.
"Hold on, the techie is hacking into the mainframe…wait…okay you should have access," Jackson said.
The door emitted a faint click and Crist slipped into a dark room. Closing the door quietly, he looked around. The room was a fitness center replete with barbells, dumbbells, rowing machines, a line of treadmills, stationary bikes, and mirrors for walls, but no computer console anywhere.
"Where the hell am I?" Crist whispered.
Jackson's voice came back, "all the rooms are connected. Go to the door on your right. It leads to a study where his computer is."
Crist found his way to the door and entered a study. In the back on a large mahogany desk sat Granitsky's computer. He wasted no time and quickly went to it and booted it up. It was a typical console: a keyboard, holographic screen display, and the CPU. The computer whirred to life and a user domain and password popped onto the holographic image.
He hesitated for a second. He was not very tech savvy. "Where do I connect the AI?"
"There's an AI port next to the computer. Right. In. Front. Of. You."
Crist mumbled a four lettered word under his breath, produced the intrusion AI's datachip, and connected it. The screen instantly went to the desktop, then to a window displaying a list of several files, but they were blocked by a circular wall of blue, crystalline, hexagonal shapes, the visual representation for a firewall. A small pinpoint of red light appeared, small at first, but it quickly grew in size and brilliance until it had engulfed all of the firewall. It faded, each of the hexagons shifted from blue to red and shattered. The files were there, exposed and free to access. The red light was now the arrow shaped cursor. It systematically went through each one of the files.
"The AI is working its magic, quite fast I might add. What happens now?" Crist asked.
"This AI isn't technically an AI, its simply designed as an intruder. All that data is too much for it to hold, so it's copying it all and sending it to us."
The cursor fell onto the last file, it was immediately copied it and sent off. The computer screen logged off and went dark. Crist pulled the AI chip out and got up.
"Its done. Did you get everything?"
"Everything," Jackson replied. Crist was about to go for the door when Jackson's shrill voice came through the earpiece. He was yelling at someone in the background. "What do you mean you lost the feed? Get it back!"
"I'm trying," came a faint reply from somewhere in the background.
"Richard, we lost the satellite feed, we don't have you on screen anymore. Get out of there before someone comes," Jackson said, breathing heavily after yelling at the man.
Crist didn't respond, the door to the hallway began to click as someone unlocked it. A man in a tuxedo with an earpiece coil snaking down his neck and into his shirt opened the door and took one step in. The lights flickered on and he instantly saw Crist. They locked eyes for a split second, the man momentarily stunned or confused at the sight of someone standing in a dark room. Crist however didn't hesitate for a moment; he quickly drew the silenced Five-Seven and put two rounds into the man's chest. The security guard fell through the doorway and into the hallway. A loud scream from by the bathrooms filled the room. Crist ran out of the room, stepped over the body, and down the hallway. As he did he almost chuckled at the near precise timing of the satellite feed's failure and the security guard's entry. Was it coincidence…or planned, he would think about it later. Right now circumstances did not allow for thought.
Two more security guards were already up the stairs and going towards the body. They didn't notice Crist, he walked right past them. He dared a look back. The guards went to the body, one called for backup while the other went into the room.
He was nearly to the stairs when the woman who had screamed pointed to Crist and yelled, "There! That's him! The shooter!"
"Shit," Crist silently muttered. He spun around. Both security guards were in the hallway now, standing over the body and drawing their sidearms. The woman, anticipating a firefight, had cowered back into the woman's bathroom and for this Crist was thankful as he again pulled out the Five-Seven and hammered on two rounds, one for each of their shoulders, there was no need to kill anyone else. Both men fell and Crist ran.
"Slight change in plans," Crist said while running. "Meet me in the front!"
"What's going on?" he heard Jackson say but he didn't have time to answer.
Right before he barreled down the steps he pulled a fire alarm. Sirens blared and the overhead sprinklers spat out streams of water. Crist bolted into the main hall where the party was taking place. The throng of guests were screaming and rushing towards the doors like a stampeding herd, trying to escape the rain. Crist joined them and got lost in the crowd as security details and a small emergency crew burst in and began fanning out.
The throng of people was packed tight and moved slowly, when Crist finally got outside he took the side of the stairwells and glided down the steps, leaving wet footprints as he went. The surveillance van sped up and screeched to a stop, its tires smoking. The sliding door slammed open and Jackson stuck his head out.
"What the hell is going on?" he screamed.
"No time to explain," Crist said, jumping into the van.
Jackson gave him some room and threw the door closed. The driver stepped on it and the van screeched out of the driveway. In no time they were out of the neighborhood and on the New Jersey turnpike, headed for Manhattan. Tonight traffic was light; the van weaved around other vehicles at a furious pace.
The interior was crammed with surveillance equipment, two techs, Jackson, and now Crist, making no room for comfort. Crist intertwined his legs into an uncomfortable crisscross applesauce position and looked at Jackson, the man's face twisted with anger.
"What the fuck was that!" he spat.
"You tell me, why did the feed suddenly go flatline? Why did a security guard enter almost immediately after? Why didn't you see the guard's heat signature as he came down the hallway? Surly you would have seen him just before you lost the feed!" Crist spat back.
There was an unsettling beat. Jackson's looked down at the ground, darted his eyes about and then said, "Why'd you kill them?"
"Him, why did I kill him I think is what you meant to say. I only killed one guard, the other two I wounded," Crist replied, bracing himself as the driver took their exit and slammed on the brakes, coming to the bumper to bumper congestion of people trying to get into Manhattan.
"Lenox was at that party. Pray to god he's not at your meeting."
2200 hours / UNSC building, NYC
Crist burst into General Treftz' large office to see the old general reclined on his couch with Lieutenant General Ackley sitting across from him. They looked up.
"Richard, please sit," Treftz said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Crist walked over to the square sitting area and dropped into a chair directly opposite Treftz. The old man was sunken in the couch, looking far too small for it. A tired look spread out over his wrinkled face.
"We've heard what happened," Treftz said quietly. He swirled a few fingers of liquor in a tumbler he held and brought it to his lips.
Crist didn't respond at first. This was unlike Treftz. Usually he welcomed people first, started a conversation at his desk, mellowing the guest out with idle talk, and then he rotated their position to his sitting area and then slowly delved into what was on his mind. He was never straight to the point.
"News travels fast," Crist said.
"As do many things, its amazing how fast a mission can go from smooth to shit in so little time, no matter how thoroughly you plan," Treftz sipped down the remaining liquor.
"But," Ackley said, "at least the mission was completed."
Treftz nodded. "Indeed, do you still have the datachip?"
Crist fished the AI chip out of his pocket and placed it on the glass table. Treftz plucked it up and set his tumbler on the table.
"What a marvelous little piece of technology," he said, examining it. "But a shame it could not do more." With little effort he crunched the datachip with his fist.
Crist almost jumped up. "What're you doing?"
Treftz dropped the fragmented chip on the table. "No need to panic, it served its purpose," he said nonchalantly.
Crist settled back into his seat. Treftz stood up, snagging his tumbler off the table, and went to his bar.
"Tell me exactly what happened," Treftz said while opening a decanter of brandy and pouring a few centimeters of it into his glass and taking his seat again on the couch.
Crist began to speak but was interrupted by a ringing. Ackley got up and went over to the general's large desk. She picked up his small cell phone.
"You have a call from a Mr. Brown," she said.
Treftz sighed and shook his head, then looked at Crist. "What do you say we go for a late night dinner? Somewhere with no interruptions" Before Crist could answer Treftz finished off his brandy and was already headed for the door.
2230 hours / Kina Lillet
Thirty minutes later Crist and Treftz were seated in a private booth at the general's favorite restaurant, Kina Lillet, an upper crust joint just a stone's throw from One Wall Street, making it a popular destination for stock brokers and lawyers in the hours after the market closed down.
Treftz was a common face in the restaurant, as well as a big tipper, he was greeted and treated like a king. Tonight he was famished and had plans for a fully rounded meal. First came the apèritif, Treftz a gin Negroni cocktail, and Crist a Stinger brandy with crème de menthe.
Treftz sipped his drink and leaned back into his chair. "Now that we are settled and can expect no interruptions, please retell what happened."
In no time Crist retold every little detail of what had happened at Granitsky's party. Treftz listened intently.
"So you didn't kill all of them?"
"No," Crist replied," just one. The other two I wounded."
"A shame you didn't."
"I'm sorry?" Crist said, surprised.
Treftz sighed. "I said it is a shame you did not kill the other two. Even if they were only doing their job, they still saw you. This could complicate things. If word spreads that we brought you back, there's no telling how bad things will get stirred up. I'm very disappointed things went the way they did, but I understand the mission came first. You did what you had to do. "
"Indeed," Crist muttered, taking a sizeable gulp of his Stinger. "Now, what about damage control. Granitsky is surly to have some type of surveillance system in his house. I don't want a photo of me to pop up on the six o'clock news."
"Actually an external CCTV system, you were picked up entering the party, but, no worries, its been taken care of," Treftz casually replied.
Crist nearly spit out his drink. "Damn, how do you know all this."
The chairman of the Security Council smiled. "You can thank Mr. Jackson and his team of specialists later."
The hors d'oeuvres came and went. They both drained their cocktails and Treftz ordered them a bottle of Tiffon cognac to go along with their main courses. Treftz bit into his rack of lamb the instant it hit the table, but Crist, not feeling hungry, hardly touched his steak. Treftz noticed.
"What's wrong?" he said, biting into a shank cut of lamb. "You've barely touched your food."
"Nothing, I'm just not feeling hungry, I think I'll turn in for the night," Crist said. He pulled out a few hundred dollar bills he had been given earlier and placed them on the table. "Thanks for dinner," he said, getting up.
"Hold on, let me call my limo."
"No need, I think I'll walk tonight."
"I don't know which part of keeping a low profile you do not understand," Treftz said, rising out of his chair and standing in front of him.
"Stop me then," Crist said. He placed his hands on the old man's shoulders and moved him out of the way and went for the door.
Hotel Splendide was literally on the other side of the island and Crist had no energy to walk across Manhattan. Having a few dollars left, he took the subway to Times Square and went to his hotel only a block and a half away. Once in his room he immediately collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.
6 November, 2400 hours / UNSC building, NYC
Deep within the confines of the United Nations Space Command building, past the pressrooms and podiums, behind layers of impenetrable security, UNSC's top AI's worked day and night to keep humanity going.
One such was Pegasus. He normally carried out an array of more important tasks, but tonight he got stuck serving as a sifter of information, but it was something he used to. The AI's function was to analyze thousands of forms of information. Information collected from spies all across UNSC space. The information pertained to humans, small splinter groups and factions breaking away from the UNSC as the war with the Covenant escalated. The Covenant and information, if there was one thing Pegasus was glad for, it was not having to go through intelligence gathered on the Covenant, his poor counterparts over at ONI had the unfortunate deed of spending nearly eighty five percent of their operational lives going through such data, that was all they were designed for. He only had to spend less that ten percent carrying out tasks such as this one.
Pegasus sifted through all the data, sorting the important stuff from the non-important, and sending it off to intel officers at ONI or any other acronymic organization. It was all the same old same old; a splinter group on Jericho III fled the system and joined another group in exile, a small community threatened recession.
Pegasus was nearly done when something popped up labeled TOP SECRET. Curious, no file ever contained these words since all the data was thrown together and ninety percent of it was junk. He opened the file and read it. It talked about a special investigation on the Quentin Chantillis massacre. The AI paused for a moment, remembering the great leader, and then resumed processing the rest of the file. It was vague, offering little information about the investigation, but a name stuck out, Richard Crist. Pegasus swore he had heard the name before, but could not remember where. He put a reminder to look it up on his to do list and began sifting the information gathered by the investigation. This time the name Granitsky popped up. What he heard underneath it made him equivalently gasp.
To Be Continued…
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