"Yeah, imagine his face when my clone turned out to be six feet tall... fuck it." He throws up his hands. "Let's go find us a map of the sin-monger's flesh pit."
They obtain a map. And a commando team. And a rental lift-van, which they drive to a mountain side-trail overlooking Ryoval's main biologicals facility, a complex of several large buildings clustered tightly within a larger fenced-off area, patrolled by a sprinkling of visible guards.
The team's pilot, Sergeant Laureen Anderson, does an excellent job setting the lift-van down in a perfect imitation of a stalled-engine sprawl without actually damaging its vital components in any way. Miles has assigned her as getaway driver, to wait at this roadside outpost with Thorne and another trooper in case the raid team requires backup or a quick exit; he hopes neither Thorne nor Anderson has twigged to the gender distributions involved. It's not that he doesn't believe women and herms competent to pull off this raid; it's just that some corner of his Barrayaran soul wails at the thought of what would happen to them on a live capture. Not that the male troopers would be in for anything less exciting, if the rumours Miles has heard are true, but his internal prejudices are not amenable to the soundness of this logic.
So.
He runs over the pre-mission briefing one more time, to refresh everyone's memory. The plan is: get in, pick up the first employee they see who looks likely to know something about Bharaputra's creature, apply fast-penta, extract the intel, race the clock to get to the thing and dispatch it and retrieve the tissue sample and burn the body and get out again before the drugged employee's absence is noticed. Their planned route lights up on the map projection, and he gives them all some time to study it and compare it with the view down the mountain.
"Remember, the word is quietly," he cautions. "The plasma arcs stay packed until we find the creature - you're to stick with stunners until then. Before I get the sample, we are but harmless little lambs frolicking into the facility, and at the first sign of serious trouble we will surrender quietly and await ransom. After I get the sample and cremate the critter, it's back to combat rules, with the highest priority being getting that sample back to Captain Thorne intact. Laureen, please confirm your choice of emergency pickup spot on the map."
She points it out on the vid display.
"Everyone got that? Are we clear on all details? Anything to say last-minute?" He surveys his troops, then nods. "Right. Communications check."
They verify the function of all their wristcoms. Ensign Murka dons the weapons pack. Miles turns off the map display and tucks the cube in his pocket. A very expensive but utterly critical little convenience, that, obtained from the construction company that built and modified the complex. Miles, Murka, and the other two troopers who will be accompanying them into the facility all creep out of the van and head down the wooded slope.
At the outer wall of the complex, Murka and the troopers boost Miles over, then climb it themselves and hand him down the other side. Their journey through the inner court is interrupted by one close encounter with a guard, during which they huddle in a dark corner and imitate bags of trash, covering themselves in IR-reflective ponchos brought along for just this purpose. The guard and his scanner pass them by.
Now comes the magic moment: Miles scrambles up to stand on Murka's shoulders and cut through a narrow ventilation grille, then wriggles his way into the duct thus revealed. A bigger man wouldn't fit; a heavier man would be likely to fall through the ceiling on the trip. Miles slithers all the way to the corresponding interior grille, a tight but not impassable squeeze, and locates the controls for the loading bay doors once he has safely reached the floor. Then he disables the alarm and foxes the controls, raising the door high enough for his team to crawl through.
Once they're all inside, he lowers the door again, and they're off across the cavernous receiving bay. A stack of shipping containers provides cover behind which they hide from a passing janitor; then it's down into a tunnel, at the end of which Miles stands on Murka's shoulders a second time and hauls himself up into the ceiling, where a tangle of power cables awaits. As he examines them for the set that will open the next door, the weapons pack rises through the open panel to nestle in beside him, and the panel itself ghosts back into place.
That was not part of the plan. Miles squirms around silently until he can peer through the crack between one panel and the next. Murka is just done lowering his arm when a shout from the corridor freezes him in place. Armed guards pour in through the door which Miles was about to carefully unlock, surrounding Murka and the troopers.
Miles thinks some very bad words very loudly, but allows nothing more than a silent huff of breath to escape his lips.
"What are you doing here?" growls the leader of the pack.
"Oh, shit!" yelps Murka. "Please, mister, don't tell my CO you found us in here. He'd bust me back to private!"
"Huh?" The guard sergeant responds to his confusion by prodding Murka with a nerve disruptor. "Hands up! Explain yourself!"
"We - we came into Fell Station on a mercenary ship," Murka says nervously, "but the captain wouldn't grant us downside passes. I mean, come on!" Indignation overpowers fear. "All the way to Jackson's Whole, and we're not even allowed on the planet? I wanted to see Ryoval's!"
Meanwhile, the guards commence searching Murka and the two troopers, coming up with nothing but stunners and Murka's share of the security penetration widgetry.
"So I made a bet, see, that even if we couldn't afford the front door I could get us in the back."
"They're not armed like an assassination team," one of the guards observes.
"We aren't!" protests Murka, in deep offense.
"AWOL, are you?" inquires the guard sergeant.
"Only if we stay out past midnight... look," says Murka, adopting a pleading air. "My CO's a real bastard. Is there any way I could convince you not to let him know about this?" His hand hovers by his wallet pocket, suggesting one possible avenue of persuasion.
"Maybe," allows the smirking guard sergeant.
A base for negotiation having been established, Murka adds, "Any chance you could let us see inside first? Not the girls even, just the place? So I could say I'd seen it."
The sergeant frowns. "This isn't a whorehouse, soldier boy!"
"What?" gapes Murka, with a realistic expression of confused dismay.
"This is the biologicals facility."
"Oh," says Murka.
"You fucking idiot," mutters one of the troopers, giving Murka a sour look. Miles resolves on the spot that all three of them are getting bonus pay if they pull this off. Murka can have a promotion.
"But the man in town," says Murka, not quite ready to let go of hope. "He said - "
"What man?" interrupts the guard sergeant.
"The, uh. One who took m'money," mumbles Murka, deflating.
The guard sergeant gestures with his nerve disruptor. "Get moving, boys. Back that way. This is your lucky day."
"You mean we get to see inside?" Murka asks, brightening.
"No. I mean we aren't going to break your legs before we throw you out on your ass." He motions his men to search the troopers again, this time checking their identification and relieving them of any loose currency, while subjects Murka to the same indignity. Murka is appropriately indignant, but declines to argue with the sergeant's deadly authority. "There's a whorehouse back in town," the guard sergeant adds as he replaces Murka's wallet in the pocket from which it came. "They'll take your credit cards." And the guards prod Murka and the troopers back down the tunnel toward the loading bay.
Amazing.
Miles waits until he can hear absolutely nothing from any of them before he activates his wristcom. "Bel?"
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2014-08-29 06:23 pm (UTC)They obtain a map. And a commando team. And a rental lift-van, which they drive to a mountain side-trail overlooking Ryoval's main biologicals facility, a complex of several large buildings clustered tightly within a larger fenced-off area, patrolled by a sprinkling of visible guards.
The team's pilot, Sergeant Laureen Anderson, does an excellent job setting the lift-van down in a perfect imitation of a stalled-engine sprawl without actually damaging its vital components in any way. Miles has assigned her as getaway driver, to wait at this roadside outpost with Thorne and another trooper in case the raid team requires backup or a quick exit; he hopes neither Thorne nor Anderson has twigged to the gender distributions involved. It's not that he doesn't believe women and herms competent to pull off this raid; it's just that some corner of his Barrayaran soul wails at the thought of what would happen to them on a live capture. Not that the male troopers would be in for anything less exciting, if the rumours Miles has heard are true, but his internal prejudices are not amenable to the soundness of this logic.
So.
He runs over the pre-mission briefing one more time, to refresh everyone's memory. The plan is: get in, pick up the first employee they see who looks likely to know something about Bharaputra's creature, apply fast-penta, extract the intel, race the clock to get to the thing and dispatch it and retrieve the tissue sample and burn the body and get out again before the drugged employee's absence is noticed. Their planned route lights up on the map projection, and he gives them all some time to study it and compare it with the view down the mountain.
"Remember, the word is quietly," he cautions. "The plasma arcs stay packed until we find the creature - you're to stick with stunners until then. Before I get the sample, we are but harmless little lambs frolicking into the facility, and at the first sign of serious trouble we will surrender quietly and await ransom. After I get the sample and cremate the critter, it's back to combat rules, with the highest priority being getting that sample back to Captain Thorne intact. Laureen, please confirm your choice of emergency pickup spot on the map."
She points it out on the vid display.
"Everyone got that? Are we clear on all details? Anything to say last-minute?" He surveys his troops, then nods. "Right. Communications check."
They verify the function of all their wristcoms. Ensign Murka dons the weapons pack. Miles turns off the map display and tucks the cube in his pocket. A very expensive but utterly critical little convenience, that, obtained from the construction company that built and modified the complex. Miles, Murka, and the other two troopers who will be accompanying them into the facility all creep out of the van and head down the wooded slope.
At the outer wall of the complex, Murka and the troopers boost Miles over, then climb it themselves and hand him down the other side. Their journey through the inner court is interrupted by one close encounter with a guard, during which they huddle in a dark corner and imitate bags of trash, covering themselves in IR-reflective ponchos brought along for just this purpose. The guard and his scanner pass them by.
Now comes the magic moment: Miles scrambles up to stand on Murka's shoulders and cut through a narrow ventilation grille, then wriggles his way into the duct thus revealed. A bigger man wouldn't fit; a heavier man would be likely to fall through the ceiling on the trip. Miles slithers all the way to the corresponding interior grille, a tight but not impassable squeeze, and locates the controls for the loading bay doors once he has safely reached the floor. Then he disables the alarm and foxes the controls, raising the door high enough for his team to crawl through.
Once they're all inside, he lowers the door again, and they're off across the cavernous receiving bay. A stack of shipping containers provides cover behind which they hide from a passing janitor; then it's down into a tunnel, at the end of which Miles stands on Murka's shoulders a second time and hauls himself up into the ceiling, where a tangle of power cables awaits. As he examines them for the set that will open the next door, the weapons pack rises through the open panel to nestle in beside him, and the panel itself ghosts back into place.
That was not part of the plan. Miles squirms around silently until he can peer through the crack between one panel and the next. Murka is just done lowering his arm when a shout from the corridor freezes him in place. Armed guards pour in through the door which Miles was about to carefully unlock, surrounding Murka and the troopers.
Miles thinks some very bad words very loudly, but allows nothing more than a silent huff of breath to escape his lips.
"What are you doing here?" growls the leader of the pack.
"Oh, shit!" yelps Murka. "Please, mister, don't tell my CO you found us in here. He'd bust me back to private!"
"Huh?" The guard sergeant responds to his confusion by prodding Murka with a nerve disruptor. "Hands up! Explain yourself!"
"We - we came into Fell Station on a mercenary ship," Murka says nervously, "but the captain wouldn't grant us downside passes. I mean, come on!" Indignation overpowers fear. "All the way to Jackson's Whole, and we're not even allowed on the planet? I wanted to see Ryoval's!"
Meanwhile, the guards commence searching Murka and the two troopers, coming up with nothing but stunners and Murka's share of the security penetration widgetry.
"So I made a bet, see, that even if we couldn't afford the front door I could get us in the back."
"They're not armed like an assassination team," one of the guards observes.
"We aren't!" protests Murka, in deep offense.
"AWOL, are you?" inquires the guard sergeant.
"Only if we stay out past midnight... look," says Murka, adopting a pleading air. "My CO's a real bastard. Is there any way I could convince you not to let him know about this?" His hand hovers by his wallet pocket, suggesting one possible avenue of persuasion.
"Maybe," allows the smirking guard sergeant.
A base for negotiation having been established, Murka adds, "Any chance you could let us see inside first? Not the girls even, just the place? So I could say I'd seen it."
The sergeant frowns. "This isn't a whorehouse, soldier boy!"
"What?" gapes Murka, with a realistic expression of confused dismay.
"This is the biologicals facility."
"Oh," says Murka.
"You fucking idiot," mutters one of the troopers, giving Murka a sour look. Miles resolves on the spot that all three of them are getting bonus pay if they pull this off. Murka can have a promotion.
"But the man in town," says Murka, not quite ready to let go of hope. "He said - "
"What man?" interrupts the guard sergeant.
"The, uh. One who took m'money," mumbles Murka, deflating.
The guard sergeant gestures with his nerve disruptor. "Get moving, boys. Back that way. This is your lucky day."
"You mean we get to see inside?" Murka asks, brightening.
"No. I mean we aren't going to break your legs before we throw you out on your ass." He motions his men to search the troopers again, this time checking their identification and relieving them of any loose currency, while subjects Murka to the same indignity. Murka is appropriately indignant, but declines to argue with the sergeant's deadly authority. "There's a whorehouse back in town," the guard sergeant adds as he replaces Murka's wallet in the pocket from which it came. "They'll take your credit cards." And the guards prod Murka and the troopers back down the tunnel toward the loading bay.
Amazing.
Miles waits until he can hear absolutely nothing from any of them before he activates his wristcom. "Bel?"