[Fiction] Symphony

[Wargear]

01/01/2017, 4:30 am; Port Harcourt, Nigeria, Africa

The pre-dawn rain slicked down from the sky, a gray veil over the jungle thick enough to blind the eyes and drive the soldiers beneath the canopy out of their filling foxholes. Banking through the heavy weather, surplus F-22 Raptors bearing United Africa flash-panels banked across the line of hostilities. Through the constellation of spy satellites orbiting high above, Alexandra Rothstein watched the precise formations of fighter jets snapping back and forth above the battlefield, obviously attempting a show of intimidation in the hopes that the Nigerian forces would back off from their 'futile' defense against the United Africa forces. She could almost touch the mind behind them, the man who had shown the audacity to call himself the Alexander of Africa and the skill to tear a swath across the continent wide enough to nearly earn the title. The fool. No one was going to back off now.

Of course, General Mufasi probably presumed that the preconditions that had enabled him to come this far still held; Utopia was far too busy with its other responsibilities, particularly developments in Kashmir, to concern itself with a relatively minor brush war in Africa, and the United States had actually been selling arms and advisors to Mufasi for the last three years while the man prepared his campaign in the hopes of displacing some of Africa's less savory rulers. His targets had, as a rule, been too poor and too stunned to appeal to anyone for aid. Until now, of course. Nigeria, particularly one Alafin Sango who hadn't pulled his country thorugh the Equatorial wars and made it a beacon of progress in the face of Utopia and the world community to lose it to a nova upstart, had shown the good sense to hire a professional. Alexandra's lips parted in a wolfish smile as she ran a final check on the components of her operational units, pausing long enough to text a reassuring message to Sango in Lagos; he was, after all, mortgaging the next ten years of his country's life for a few days of her services and was thus more than slightly apprehensive. He needn't have worried, of course. Still smiling, Alexandra extended her hand and gave the downbeat.

The prelude ripped a dozen of the F-22's from the sky within a fraction of a second, DeVries VTOL jets bursting from the canopy at precisely calculated points, their missiles already blazing free, and then the counter-point joined in with a ragged crackle as prepositioned Nigerian infantry raked the UA troops with fire that exploded out of the morning stillness after hours of virtually no contact between the armies. RPGs and grenades added their distinctive crackle to the storm, almost lost against the boom of thunder as lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, and the IR signatures of Mufasi's lead battalions tensed like a wounded animal, recoiling from the lashing rain of bullets. Alexandra sent the VTOLs sliding back beneath the canopy as she finished her first movement, letting the Nigerians press their newfound courage with an irritated sigh as their commanders ignored her carefully scripted deployments to wade into close-range crossfire with the enemy. If it had been a critical variable, she might have bothered to countermand their actions for the contract record, but for now she contented herself with a private snort of disgust. Amateurs.

The first blossoming fireflowers of artillery fire began to rip through the jungle canopy as Mufasi's gunners shook off their morning sluggishness and set to work, their handful of old US howitzers slamming shell after shell uselessly into the empty space behind the advancing Nigerian troops. They'd sort that ranging problem out in time... if she gave it to them. She considered the satellite take a moment longer, then sent the command for the symphony's second movement humming out over the wires. For a moment there was nothing but the crackle of small arms fire and the occasional crash of an exploding shell... and then the volley of firecracker sub-munitions from the four batteries of DeVries-crewed Mjolnir rocket howitzers exploded across the exposed UA infantry massing to counter-attack like the kiss of the sun, and the earth itself began to ripple and gout under the hammer of the guns. Alexandra allowed herself a quiet smirk as she silenced the pathetic excuse for artillery Mufasi had assembled with a single FAE from Battery Three, the flash of eye-searing brightness a momentary monument to their incompetence. That's how you should have done it, turtles.

She shifted the fire from her batteries, spreading it across the flanks of the UA position, feeding their panic as the big guns turned their orderly fortifications into the vestibule of Hell, and for her third movement send the dozen ROAV-5's she'd had shipped by airlift from Liverpool crashing through the threadbare remnants of the UA center and the shell-shocked masses of Nigerian infantry cowering in whatever meager cover they could find. Conventional wisdom said tanks were too bulky and too clumsy for the densely woven forest east of Port Harcourt; conventional wisdom, on the other hand, hadn't counted on the half-sized, hyper-responsive automated tanks the British had so kindly provided for operation at a modest fee in exchange for her evaluation of their effectiveness in real combat. Which, from the rapid drop in available targets showing up on her satellite imagery, was going to be very positive indeed.

The four F-15H's came screaming in barely over the canopy, their wings heavy with destruction, and even as the snap-shot missile fire of her VTOL fighters blew two them to blazing fragments the other two snapped up on their wingtips, twisted into a shallow dive and unloaded a volley of heavy penetrators into her central command bunker before they joined their comrades in oblivion, heaving the remnants of the primary command areas nearly a hundred feet skyward in a blazing mushroom of metal, dirt and fire. The computers beneath, armored with the best temperature-controlled protection available, survived to transmit their response; her howitzers shifted their elevation, tracking the satellite intercepts of that particular mission command back to the bunker nearly three miles behind the UA lines and shattering it with rocket-assisted penetrators of their own. Hanging half a mile above the battlefield, the adaptive camouflage of her battle armor flickering slightly under the lash of the rain, Wargear allowed herself a tight smile as she glanced down at the smoking ruin of the bunker she'd been running her communications through and watched the decapitated UA formation dissolve into complete chaos even the Nigerians couldn't help but manage; with a command broadcast down her whisker-laser datalink she issued the recall orders for her DeVries elements. They'd earned their pay, and it was time to let the natives earn their glory.

Rising through the second, higher level of clouds into the burning brightness of the African sun, she brought up the imagery of the Mufasi's shattered headquarters once more, confirming for her own satisfaction that she'd finished the man, and she allowed herself a soft, satisfied laugh. The Alexander of Africa, indeed. Checkmate, General. Pity we won't have a chance for a rematch.

[Wargear]

Pretoria, South Africa, three hours later

Adjusting her sunglasses against the harsh glare of African summer sunlight, Alexandra ran a quick view of the security cameras through the computer harnessed against her spine and projected it across the mirrored lenses of her shades; the check of the unloading crew removing her gear from Muninn was a formality, especially with a DeVries team, but it only took one truly unlucky idiot having a particularly bad day to reduce her private jet and half a billion dollars worth of bleeding edge military hardware to a cloud of flaming debris. Satisfied that the HR department hadn't (yet) developed a better grade of fool, she wiped the translucent projections away with a blink and turned on her heel, stepping past the security station into one of the several transit tubes to the primary DeVries compound. Her gloved fingertips tapped in her destination, the R&D wing, and adjusted the carryall over her shoulder slightly as the segment of walkway under her feet elevated on a silent bubble of magnetic force and whipped her off down the tunnel with the smooth responsiveness of a well-trained greyhound. Feeling the crisp efficiency of the transit system she'd designed herself humming around her, Alexandra allowed herself a small, contented smile. There is, in fact, no place like home.

The heels of her boots clicked sharply on the abstract patterns of marble tile as she disembarked at the R&D foyer, lips curving slightly at the familiar flicker of amusement as she took in the glittering artistry of the place. Left to her own devices, Rachel would doubtless have left the security area as utilitarian and spartan as the laboratories themselves; it was Ms. DeVries who had insisted on the vaulted ceiling and the artistic talent to put in place “appropriate decor.” The resulting cathedral to the power of science in the Nova Age glittered with artificially back-lit stained glass and intricate geometrical patterns inlaid on the walls and floor, and it rarely failed to impress or outright awe the first-time visitors who were brought down to R&D to see exactly why DeVries was the leading edge of techonological development. Which of course had been Anna's intent from the beginning; she was never a woman to underestimate the importance of making a powerful first impression. Still enjoying her private jest, Alexandra strolled toward the massive security doors that guarded the laboratories and living suites with scarcely a glance at the blonde woman manning the marble greeting desk.

“Excuse me, Ms. Rothstein, but I need your...” The baseline secretary's nervous interruption died with a soft gasp as Alexandra's security pass appeared in her hand as if by magic; her throat visibly clenching, she flicked a nervous glance up at the blank mirrored surface of Alexandra's sunglasses, not even turned toward her, as she ran the slender card through her computer. Contenting herself with watching the rapid flicker of shifting data across the translucent surface of her sunglasses as Galatea brought itself – and her- up to date with the secure database in her laboratory, she paid only the slightest attention to the girl's obvious nerves. She was showing off and knew it, of course, but new to the department or not the obstreperous little creature should have known to wait to be spoken to; Alexandra was in an excellent mood and had no intention of letting it be spoiled by neglecting to break in the new desk girl. The blonde started to bring her hand up, then froze with her mouth slightly open as the card vanished from her hand again as suddenly as it had appeared. Alexandra turned slightly, eyes invisible behind the silvery mirror of her shades, and to her credit the girl managed to keep her voice from shaking too obviously. “You have...”

“Nineteen phone messages, including four marked private and three urgent. I'll take them in my laboratory, Victoria.” Alexandra brushed past the reception desk, adjusting the bag on her shoulder again, and was through the door and twenty meters down the corridor to her suite by the time the girl's whispered “But I never told you my name” caught up with her. That should teach you to mind your betters, girl. She paused at the door to her suite, giving the security sensors time to scan her electromagnetic signature and quantum imprint, comparing them to its internal files, and she ran her fingertips over the words engraved by the door with the little private thrill she felt every time she saw them: “Dr. Alexandra R. Rothstein, DeVries Armaments.” A lifetime of ambition in those handful of words... The repeater display beside the door pinged, flashed a greeting. “October 21st, 1600.”

“Tokugawa Ieyasu, Sekigahara, the arquebusiers.” The door hissed open with a soft thrum of unsealed locks, and she strolled through the tastefully Persian parlor and the formal library beyond with a slight nod of approval as her housekeeping automatons slipped discreetly out of sight with only a whisper of air-jets to mark their passage. She dropped her carryall into the empty rack a few feet past her study door, slipping her glasses off to let her eyes adjust properly to the softer lights of her personal rooms, then stopped short in spite of herself as she caught a half-familiar face looking back at her from the long hallway mirror.

It was her mother's face, the same high fierce Persian cheekbones and dark Pakistani skin that had made Hediyeh Zaidi the scandal of her father's house and the perfect prize to snare a British diplomat; the elegantly upswept and intricately bound hair, raven black and lightly curled; the secretive smile that seemed to know all the secrets of the dark; the rich, flawlessly tailored clothing that accentuated every curve without surrendering an inch of authority. Yet in the heart of that perfected image, where her mother's warm almond gaze had glittered with perpetual mirth and life, there gleamed instead the gunmetal gray coldness of her father's eyes; the stranger in the mirror lifted one elegantly gloved hand to a too-perfect cheek, and with a sudden violence Alexandra tore herself away from the haunting familiarity of her reflection and slammed open the door to her laboratory, bathing herself in the harsh clean light reflecting from its burnished steel walls. Back ramrod straight, she left fourteen years of mourning languishing in the shadows and welcomed instead the crisp echo of her own voice from the distant walls of her workroom. “Initiate. Authorization code Alpha Rachel Seven Three.”

Two dozen computer screens snapped to life in greeting, already flickering with streams of data from a hundred sources, and she waved a chair over with a flicker of thought to settle herself in the center of the near-circle of screens. “Galatea, synchronize data records from the Nigerian engagement with Athena. Delphi, give me the six most probable prospective combat zones for my next contract on screen seven. Athena, give me initial conclusions on the effectiveness of the updated firecracker munitions, screen three. Galatea, cycle Opnet mail on screen twelve and give me voicemail on the speakers, usual screening procedure.”

The audio speakers hummed to life, pouring out a string of rapid-fire sound that would have been gibberish to all but three possible listeners, and with a genuine laugh of pleasure Alexandra mentally translated the message from the private language she and her closest friend had developed into standard English and back again for fun. Alexandra, it's Rachel; happy new year, and I hope you enjoyed your little exercise in Nigeria. I'm sure you gave them a hot time of it, as usual. Come by the lab when you get in, Anna approved Apollo for an all-up test and I've got a couple of refinements I want to run by you before the big show. Queen's knight to king's rook five. “Hold voicemail. Open reply, begin recording.” She shifted languages without a thought, wrapping her tongue around the intricate syllables with familiar ease. “Rachel, I'll be down as soon as I tidy things up here and deal with the rest of my correspondence. We may need to revise our thinking on the artillery defense mode, particularly with the new firecracker rounds I tested out this morning. I'm attaching the raw take to this message, I'll put Athena's analysis on a chip, bring it down with me. Happy new year to you, too; King's Rook to king's rook four. Hope you didn't want that knight for anything else.” Again, she shifted languages so smoothly there was scarcely a pause in the tempo of her voice. “End. Append data recordings from Port Harcourt 2017. Send. Continue voicemail.”

“Alexandra, it's Anna. I'm still not convinced that the Pentagon is the right first bidder for the Archangels. It's your decision, of course, but I've had some very attractive offers come in from...” “End playback. Store message, file Archangel seven three. Next message.” Naturally the British and EU military leadership had gotten in touch with Ms. DeVreis once the news of the Archangel test had leaked, but Alexandra had no intention of letting them off the barb of anticipation yet. Let them wait a little longer; it would sharpen their appetite for when she 'regretfully concluded' she couldn't provide the Archangel system exclusively to the U.S. military. Besides, it would make Utopia S&T foam at the mouth, which was always worthwhile in and of itself.

The drone of the CFO she'd hired for Hellgarde Arms finished another unnecessary 'urgent' message on the excellent performance of her newest products, and then an unfamiliar male voice came over the speakers and Alexandra shifted slightly in her chair in surprise as she caught the complete lack of accent in the deep, smooth and utterly persuasive tone. “Yes, this is Jose 'Polymath' Rivera, from MexCon Inc. I was calling about an independent contraction with a blank line for the payment. Contact me if you are interested in some freelance work and a way to put that brain of yours to work.”

“Hold.” She closed her eyes, considering the implications for a moment as she mentally pulled up every mention of Jose Rivera and MexCon, Inc that had ever crossed her path. Curiouser and curiouser. “Create new file, Rivera eight thirteen. Store message in same. Initiate broad-spectrum troll, Jose Rivera and MexCon, past ten years. Store results to Rivera eight thirteen. Resume voicemail.” Very interesting indeed. Whatever Mr. Rivera wanted would wait for now, but she would observe the results of her little research project with interest. It was not every man, after all, who dared to beard the lion in its den and then ask it politely for a favor.

Such a man would, in fact, bear very close watching indeed.