Amber and Ashes

The conference room was far smaller than Shimada had anticipated from the summons. Then again, he perhaps should have suspected as much. Booking him hu-car on a tramp freighter was beneath Empyrean, even when footing the bill for little people like himself. Lowest of low profile, it must have been for some reason. Despite the lack of square footage, the room was still richly appointed, comparatively. A volcanic glass table, trimmed in synthetic wood stained the color of coffee, ringed by nice highback synthleather chairs. Lesser employees in the corporate hierarchy likely organized their glamor-less work here, the countless unseen functions that kept business running and money flowing.

Shimada Masahiko, a senior investigator for the Lunar Security Authority and retired Solar Republic Inspector, sat across from another man at the end of the narrow table. Unusual for this kind of meeting, Shimada had been whisked through the main tower’s side entrance, immediately up a small service elevator and directly to this room. No check-in, no visitor tag, no scanner imprint. Unusual for his counterpart, there was no train of attendants, no underlings, and no interns in the room with them. Not even an assistant taking notes and manning the datapad.

These details underscored the gravity of the meeting to Shimada, growing heavier by the minute. He still felt a kind of relief nonetheless; when the corp enforcer escorting him had driven straight past the opulent main entrance of the tower, he felt a momentary jolt of certainty that it would never be his birthday again, and he wondered what corporate daimyo he must have crossed at some earlier point in his career.

Ernest Crowley, Chief Risk Officer for Empyrean Reach, moved a finger across the ghostly glow of a holographic keypad just beneath the table’s surface. The overhead lights dimmed to nothing, and the baseboards warmed a soft amber in response. Crowley was forty-three, though he appeared to be a decade younger. A streak of silver threaded his black hair, an affectation to be sure. The youth ended at his eyes; much older, flinty, and brimming with death-sentence secrets.

Outside the rectangular, reinforced window the Martian day was bright and mostly clear, and beyond the geometric bubble of the habitat dome a surface of red and orange iron stretched toward a horizon broken by low, jagged hills. A sleek attack craft in Empyrean livery whizzed by in the distance. No sound at all from its engines reached the tower’s insulated interior. Another press and the window slowly opaqued to near solid. Two pinpoint lights winked on above them, spotlighting the stack of folders, files and other paraphernalia between the two men.

The executive flipped open a metal case and withdrew two cigars, producing a slender cutter from his jacket that removed the end of each with a shivery hiss. He passed one to Shimada - a Beltin Estate Private Selection - and the old inspector’s head swam with the cost of the thing. The cutter clinked on the glass tabletop and Crowley leaned over to offer a light. Tiny lasers played silently over the end of Shimada’s cigar, and then again on his own. The executive settled back in his chair, cushions creaking, as he puffed the cigar.

The flavorful smoke was transcendent, and Shimada slipped blissfully across time for a moment. Crowley regarded him from the chiaroscuro gloom, his cigar’s coal reflected in his eyes. Shimada was older by twelve years, taller, slender but broad shouldered. His jaw and nose sat slightly crooked on his face. Despite his lanky appearance, he carried himself with the unmistakable dignity of a man who had sold his life dearly in one service or another. The men smoked in silence for perhaps a minute, then Shimada exhaled and spoke.

“This is immaculate. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re most welcome. Thank you for coming, Mr. Shimada, and for enduring such unpleasant travel. The particulars of the situation we will discuss necessitated precautions, I assure you.”

“I understand. And please, call me Mas.”

"Very well, Mas. To the point. Empyrean wishes to commission your skills to aid with an intractable problem."

Shimada was under no illusions at all that the request was anything of the sort, whatever it involved. Declining would be a career-limiting move, maybe a fatal one. “I am honored, sir. I’ll help in any way that I can.”

Crowley pressed the glowing outline of a key and a wall panel came to life at the other end of the table. On the screen, a candid photo of a woman in some crowded place, looking right into the camera. She was shockingly beautiful, and savage: caramel-skin, left cheek transited here and there with thin, white scars. Athletic, a graceful neck, sharp cheekbones and jaw. Her head was shaved close on either side, the remaining tresses the color of glossy, purple ink and swept back. From one ear dangled a golden skull, a ruby in its fanged mouth. The photo showed her blazing amber eyes alight with predatory recognition. Shimada recognized the woman, and fought down a momentary urge to shift in his chair.

Beneath the photo: DIMITRA GUILLORY.

Crowley set his cigar in an ashtray and smoothly opened a file folder. “Dimitra Guillory. We suspect it’s an alias.” He muttered, annoyed. "Leader of the Void Burners cartel, acting governor of the Maw, and public enemy number one in the solar system."

Shimada flicked a look at the file and back to Dimitra’s gaze. "I know who she is.”

“The reigning bitch to be found in this, or any, galaxy,” Crowley amplified. He split the screen and scrolling text appeared next to the photo. “Wanted for piracy, hijacking, wanton destruction of spacecraft, murder, conspiracy to commit murder, weapons trafficking, kidnapping, and destruction of corporate property. She is charged with thirty-seven counts of terrorism under the Planetary Settlement Security Act, SR1804. That number is academic, in the end. The Republic lacks the will and the means to deal with her. But Empyrean does not, Mas. This was on Europa, two years ago."

The screen changed to a montage of recorded footage, interspersed with blank screens of text.

—

The corporate site had seemed secure enough. The haulers carrying the refined deuterium up to waiting bulkers were protected by long-range sensor nets in orbit and on the surface. Three full HE-V teams, all commanded by skilled pilots, along with a wing of LAS attack craft and two platoons of exoplanet environment-trained troops guarded the facility.

The Void Burners hit them halfway through the filling window, at their most vulnerable. Precious little time was left to react. They had drifted in the dark, ship reactors nearly cold, on fast ballistic trajectories. By the time the site’s active sensors registered the incoming contacts, the first communications satellite was shattered before it could launch a distress call. Soon after the pirate landers were burning down to the frozen surface, too fast to intercept.

The security force was well-drilled and had scrambled, and other employees sheltered wherever practical. But some unknown mishap had prevented surface defenses from engaging the descending landers. The huge vessels neared the ground, and black HE-Vs with bone white trim jumped out, directly into combat. The assembled clips of surveillance and gun camera footage, and expository animations, paid testament to a brutal assault. No mere rabble of criminals, the attackers moved with the efficiency of veteran fighters. The odds were two-to-one against the security team. A handful of the pirate HE-Vs were destroyed during the melee, but the outcome was never in doubt.

With the fighting finished, the Void Burners’ landers returned and the haulers were commandeered, their crews pressed to work under threat of death. Any who resisted were killed. The pirates completed filling the vast deuterium tanks of both. Cooperative employees and contractors were rounded up into the largest habitat module. The director in charge of the facility and most of his staff were summarily executed. The haulers boosted for orbit, while the remaining HE-Vs razed the complex nearly in its entirety before departing.

Dimitra never appeared on camera, but one heavy HE-V with twin particle cannons and a vicious cleaver-style combat blade, was freeze-framed.

—

"Fifty-two dead, hundreds of millions in material losses. Not counting the stolen ships," Crowley pulled on his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. The haze softened Shimada’s view of Dimitra’s looming HE-V on the screen. “That hit was the result of some meticulous planning, indeed. We are certain she had help from among the staff owing to the timing, the inexplicable failure of the anti-ship defenses." He tapped another button and the screen changed to text again.

Shimada nodded slowly. "Business as usual for her."

"Mm hm." The text on the screen described another infamous incident. Another input from Crowley and it split again with a new picture; a massive, tumbling wreckage field drifting among the cold stars. Shimada winced, coughing over his own cigar. He knew what the wreckage once was: a Solar Republic space station.

"The Republic’s Jovian interdiction station," Crowley continued. "This one is familiar to you, I’m sure." He stared at Shimada. Looking for what?

"It is. The Republic was intent on strengthening the blockade of Earth by inspecting and tracking vessels moving through the Belt, and from or to outsystem. A monitoring post, of a sort. Guillory destroyed the station outright. Unprovoked, no theft, no negotiation. No obvious goal but mayhem. A total loss, one-hundred-three dead. Eight survivors in lifeboats or small craft." Shimada studied the blase text detailing the station’s destruction. "Oddly, she immediately claimed responsibility far and wide.”

Crowley pulled another file from the stack, opened and scanned the top page, and set it down in the pool of light on the table. “Did you know that Empyrean Reach purchased the rights to the station not long after the Republic built it?”

"I… Did not. Sir." That bombshell was news to Shimada. He had been under the impression that the Solar Republic stood up and operated the station completely free of all corporate influence. With cause; the megacorporations were constantly attempting to undermine the blockade of Earth for their own ends, and the operational cutout was deemed necessary for security.

"What was the Republic’s determination regarding the destruction of the station?"

"I was not assigned to the case. A colleague was at the time, and he told me that it followed Dimitra’s usual MO. A lightning assault to take total control. An on-site investigation was impossible, of course, but it was apparent that the fusion reactor was sabotaged with catastrophic results."

"Well. Are you familiar with the hijacking of the Bull Rush?"

Shimada shook his head.

"Good. We can still keep a lid on some things. The Bull Rush was a ship, an independent freighter. An old, dreary D-class. We commissioned it to move sensitive medical cargo owing to increased theft from WegMaCo’s, and our own, fleets at the time. This was kept hush-hush, NDAs all around. Total sequestration of the crew. Despite our caution, Guillory still found out somehow and hit the ship in transit. She took the cargo, killed or kidnapped the crew, and commandeered the ship."

"And then?" Shimada had inferred enough already.

"And then, tragedy. We recovered the black boxes from your station - our station - and the ship." Crowley resignedly tapped another key.

—

The Void Burners had intercepted the Bull Rush while it was decelerating toward its destination. A nimble boarding skiff had latched onto the ship’s hull near the lock, and it didn’t take long for the pirates to cut their way inside. Criminal boarding actions like this were not entirely unheard of after the Rift. Standard protocol for a corporate-chartered vessel with a reputable crew was to cooperate with the pirates in order to preserve as much valuable cargo as possible, the ship, and the crew’s lives, in that order. The crew or the ship’s owners would later file an indemnity claim against the client, the corporation would easily absorb the loss, and everyone would move on.

The Bull Rush’s small crew was not reputable. A firefight broke out immediately, with the vac-armored pirates gaining the upperhand and taking the bridge after eight minutes of frantic close-quarters fighting. An internal camera in the bridge compartment had recorded three captured crew held at gunpoint, the ship’s captain among them, kneeling against a bulkhead with hands on heads. The remaining crew members were killed or quickly flushed out after the Void Burners vented the ship.

Viewed from behind, one pirate approached and stood before the captives. Reaching up with both hands, they slowly removed their helmet, revealing a high, braided ponytail of inky dark hair. Shimada again recognized her at once, and judging by the terrified reaction of the captain, so did he. Even through the grainy camera, his gawking, wide-eyed fear was apparent. He cowed, visibly trembling, silent words tumbling from his lips.

Dimtra stood over the helpless man, in judgment or gloating, before drawing a long, silver dagger from a scabbard on her suit’s left shoulder. She slowly, lithely moved closer to the frantic captain as her bodyguards menaced the other two with their submachine guns. The man was hysterical, in shambles, obviously pleading for his life. The pirate queen reached out, almost tenderly, with her free hand to take hold of his hair and-

The screen blinked back to the debris field.

—

"Good God." Shimada’s heart drummed hard in his chest, ears thrumming with faint tinnitus. He reached for his cigar urgently, suffocating. Crowley’d had a long pull on his own, mouth now set in a thin line, eyes grim.

"We’ll skip that part. It takes a while. The unfortunate captain of the Bull Rush, one Tyson F. Connelly, had previous dealings with Dimitra. He traded information on her to us for the opportunity to contract. We thought it a win-win at the time. Ultimately, the Void Burners set the captured ship to full-burn on a collision course with the station. Emergency maneuvering thrusters proved inadequate to prevent the collision. This is from the station’s black box."

Another few taps on the table, and audio played over the room’s hidden speakers. Crackling static, someone vainly hailing the Bull Rush to avert its deadly course. Other desperate voices in the background, wailing, echoing alarms. Then loud, pure noise. The grinding peal of metal being ripped apart. Screaming, screaming. Rushing air, then silence.

Shimada recalled what he had learned of the incident back when: debris scattered across a thousand kilometer volume, a few frozen corpses found tumbling through the void. He shut his eyes and tried to find refuge in the precious cigar’s fragrance.

"The following text data was transmitted on repeat from the Bull Rush as it closed on the station."

Empyrean. Treachery repaid in full, with interest. We stay free. Stay on Mars. It will be worse next time. See you soon. Regards. DG.

"There is no doubt she has been pulling strings since then, but as best we’ve been able to tell she’s personally been aboard the Maw since." Crowley said. He passed Shimada a paper intelligence file, and right after a graphic appeared on the screen: an immense O'Neill cylinder station, half massive construction, half black asteroid. The latter’s surface was cracked and vaguely geometric, like the scales of some immense reptile. Shimada was familiar with the Maw as most law enforcers were: a notorious freeport and nexus of licentiousness, spinning slowly in the void beyond Saturn.

Shimada had no need to read the file. "A former Helios mining station, built before the Rift. Abandoned when the company’s fortunes sank in the aftermath. Occupied and slowly restored by various independent interests. A haven for criminals."

"Our lady Guillory took control approximately six years ago. Functions as a true freeport. No laws, no regulations, save her own. And no questions asked concerning goods or services." The sworn corpo sounded almost like he admired it.

"I understand it is economically important to various independents and freelancers living outsystem."

Crowley shot a sideways glance at the old inspector. "More than that, Mas," he said. "It's a veritable fortress. Defensive systems stolen or salvaged from ships, intelligent voidmine fields, and an ad-hoc flotilla of freelance vessels in dock, arriving or departing," Empyrean’s CRO went on. "Mercs, fellow criminals, smugglers, all more or less loyal to her. The Void Burners pay well and provide the goods. We know the interior is a death trap. A maze surrounding the numerous drydocks. You'd need an army to storm it, and you'd lose most of them. We’ve run the numbers."

Shimada leaned forward and asked the question he had asked himself and his superiors so many times in the past. "So why hasn't anyone just blown it up? One good bombardment, or a massive kinetic strike?"

Crowley huffed bitterly. "Many have considered it. Problems. First, the extrajudicial killing of tens of thousands of people. A PR nightmare even we can’t conceal. And, the board has said ‘no’. Even if we got her, a decapitation strike, they fear Guillory's network will retaliate directly or otherwise. As much as it pains me to admit, she's proven she has kompromat on just about everyone. Including the board members. If she goes down, she says, if she even suspects as much, she's taking the lot of Empyrean with her."

"But, she could be lying to forestall consequences. A bluff. She probably is."

"Eh, the board is convinced otherwise. She has informants in many more institutions than we are comfortable with. Paranoia is taking hold in some quarters."

The full picture started to resolve in Shimada’s mind as he studied the Maw. He puffed thoughtfully and the men sat in silence again. “Why is Empyrean so concerned with her? Hasn’t she struck at other corporations, other authorities?"

"Yes, on both counts. However, she's got a personal grudge against the Beltin family, and is bloody intent on using their collective necks as a knife block."

That was another surprise. "Is anything known of her true identity?"

Crowley shrugged. "That's the billion-credit question. I’ve got theories. Facial recognition is iffy, but she might be a former corporate pilot. Based on some circumstantial evidence, she graduated from Echelon's CY-REM school. So one of theirs, or maybe even our own. That would explain her tactical ability and skill in the cockpit. But it's not concrete. She could be anyone."

Shimada leaned back, rubbing one temple. "That should make crosschecking against employee rosters easy, no?"

"I checked our own, and tried the soft pass. Echelon was not forthcoming. And her appearance might have been altered since then."

"How many people does she have working for her?" The scope of the woman’s operations was staggering.

"We estimate the Void Burners number two hundred core, committed members. Lifers. But there’s no telling how many she might call on through her network. Mercenaries. Smugglers. Freelancers of every stripe. She pays well, in favors, goods or credits, and she is fair. By the standards of criminals," Another puff. "And, most troubling, she wins. Wins against us. The little people like that." The admission gave Crowley’s voice an edge that was absent before.

Time for the turn. "Mr. Crowley. Why have you brought me here? Surely an institution as powerful as Empyrean Reach has any and all means needed to deal with her? How can I possibly help?"

Crowley dropped his cigar into the ashtray, gazing intently at the thin, older man. "Mas. It is because I, myself, need a specialist with the know-how and the experience to run the wires and find her weaknesses. She’s a wasp nest; the slightest disturbance means considerable pain. Her network must be rolled up, or isolated, with the lightest touch in order to expose her, make her vulnerable. The lightest touch. That is why you are here. I know what you’ve accomplished in service to the Republic. The impossible. And what you still do for the LSA. I cannot call on the rest of my considerable resources at the risk of operational security. You will report only to me, or to my personally appointed staff. No one else."

Shimada dropped his hands to his lap, and his gaze followed. Pondering, troubled.

Before the quiet stretched on too long, Crowley spoke again. "You will, of course, be handsomely compensated for your skills, time and travel. And you will enjoy the personal gratitude of John Beltin the Third, the Beltin family and myself. Furthermore, it is not my intention to put you in any danger, Mas. Some field work might be needed, though. We have to keep everything close to the chest."

Another outcome that was never in doubt. Back in the game, back on the hunt. No more chasing stolen parts and survey device smugglers across the moon’s barren expanse. When Shimada looked up to meet the executive’s gaze, his own expression was crafty. "She's careful about collateral casualties during some attacks, only sometimes. When it suits her," he stated, picking up a sheaf of papers.

Crowley nodded, smiling. "It’s not random. I don’t think so. Everything she does is calculated. Every action serves some greater plan. I believe you can spot that pattern that must exist. That you can anticipate her."

"Premeditation means any criminal can be predicted, in time."

"Be warned. She has lulled us before,” Crowley pulled another file. "Here. We sent a grab team after her. Our elite pilots, top-of-the-line equipment. Tracked her to a supposed safehouse on Earth. Australia."

The screen changed again to show the aftermath of another terrible battle: a crater where a warehouse once stood, HE-V wreckage smoldering.

"She knew we would go in, and she was never even there," Crowley continued. "An ambush with hired guns and a massive IED. Killed half the team."

"The family fears her." Shimada wasn’t asking.

"Respect and fear aren't the same, Mr. Shimada."

"Neither are they mutually exclusive, sir," Shimada replied politely. He flipped through several of the voluminous files. "My instincts say she is more than a woman bent on simple revenge. She's building," he said slowly.

"To what end?"

"Beyond the consolidation of power, presently, I could not yet say."

Crowley was pressing now, eager for new insights on Empyrean’s hated enemy. “Do you believe she has hopes of going legitimate, somehow? Independent territory? An extortion ring? Establishing a dynasty? Historically, many began as criminal enterprises. A tale old as time."

"Hmm. I don’t think so. If she were to do that, her existence would become inherently political. That is not her way. No." Shimada pulled Empyrean’s in-house psychological profile of Guillory from her dossier. He skimmed a section.

Subject demonstrates high intellect, excellent strategic planning and tactical skill. Traits consistent with psychopathy, pronounced lack of empathy. Expert manipulator. Extremely charming when required. Subject is not impulsive or disorganized despite actions, evidenced by all strikes against Company calculated for maximum effect.

"They really think she's a psychopath?" Shimada asked incredulously.

"The shrinks are doing the best they can, but she is wholly beyond them. She's playing the role, and using that reputation as a tool. She’s ruthless, amoral, driven, yes. But not psychotic."

"Reputation is the only universal currency of the criminal underworld, aye.” Shimada replaced the profile and closed the folder. Dimitra’s picture appeared again on the wall screen. The cigars were mostly smoked, and the conference room suddenly seemed too small by half. Shimada all at once felt very tired, shrunken, somehow.

"So. What's our first move?" he asked.

Crowley stood, and Shimada followed, stretching his back. "I want you to compile a new threat assessment, identify potential vulnerabilities, find completely deniable lines of attack. Recommend a course of action,” Crowley pointed a finger. "The way you would do it. Everything, everything, is for my eyes and ears only. Everything. Got it?"

"Yessir."

"Very good. I will arrange accommodations for you here on Mars. I’ve already taken care of your employment back on the moon. You will be considerably more comfortable than you were getting here. However, our meetings must stay discreet. The walls have eyes, perhaps." He extended his hand and the men shook.

"I pray we can bring her to justice, for all our sakes."

"I have all confidence you can, Mas. Thank you. Please wait here, I will send Dunham for you. In the absence of contact or orders, you can trust him as you would me. No one else. The files here are yours. I will be in touch." With that, Crowley shut down the wall screen, banishing Dimitra’s face, and raised the lights before leaving the small meeting room.

The door clicked closed as the window blinked back to full transparency. Shimada sat alone, slightly woozy as if coming out of a trance. He opened one folder to a printed photo of the pirate queen, her lingering presence compelling him. The picture was the same candid one, and her bright eyes stared straight into him, shrewd and patient. She was out there somewhere, bending her will and resources against Empyrean and every soul counted among their ranks.

That included himself, now. Shimada understood that there was no going back. The universe had conspired to move him onto this grandest of stages, and retreat was no option. He could only hope to stay hidden for as long as he could, beneath the notice of those humorless amber eyes, as he searched and plotted. In the great game of cat and mouse, the mouse had to win and win every day, or die. He closed the folder, considered the ashes of the fine cigars, and waited for his escort.

Illustration by Florian Mellies