Roger

"Your contact is Nick Carter."

Lancer paused and reached for a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Roger knew he was watching for a reaction.

Nick Carter. Some entertainer? Wait, secret agent.

He'd read some of the spy novels, relics from the 1980s.

"Is that the name he'll be using?" Roger asked.

"Yeah. Only two or three people know his real name, and I'm not sure I'm one of them."

"And you trust him?"

"Completely. Calamus does too, that's enough by itself. But he's been working with us since the beginning, off and on. He gets around, up in Alliance territory a good bit. He's something of a Swiss army knife, if you know what I mean."

Roger knew. Few men had that status, and he wondered why he'd never heard of this one.

Roger looked down at the dossier. It was just a half dozen pages, probably just the part he would need to know.

"What's not in there," Lancer said, "may explain some of the quirks you may notice. Or not. According to Calamus - Carter doesn't discuss it but knows we know - he's a chimera."

"Legendary spy and mythical monster? Anything else I need to know?"

"It's believed," Lancer said, "that he is the result of an unusual birth. Possibly, he and a twin sister were conceived simultaneously, or sufficiently close together that the two eggs fused almost immediately after fertilization, or before, or something like that. Dr. Hamblin is one of several doctors who examined him, some years ago, and suggested recruiting him. That's his theory."

"He's what, intersexed? Bi-sexual, never mind, I don't want to know."

"He's completely male, physically. They checked to see if he had any vestigial female internal organs as is sometimes the case with intersexed people. Nothing. But two blood types, two sets of DNA. Conceivably it might have some mental effect, but it's hard to say.

"He is autistic, as in having Asperger's Syndrome, but he hides it fairly well. He has the high IQ typical of Aspies, and the curiosity. But he's about as normal as anyone you're likely to run into in this business."

Roger scanned the first page.

"Five eight, one sixty. Brown hair with some auburn. Green eyes. Sixty-one years old. He doesn't look it. OK, if that's all the weirdness..."

"Pretty much." Lancer pushed the cigarette pack across the desk. "Try one of his smokes."

Roger didn't smoke much, and cigarettes rarely. But they had other uses. He took one and looked at it. It had a gold band above the filter, and the letters NC in gold.

"Like the secret agent," Lancer said. "He carries them. He'll offer you one. If he doesn't something's wrong."

Roger lit the cigarette. It tasted expensive. He scanned the dossier.

"240 IQ?"

Lancer grinned.

"The Air Force tested him twice to be sure, back in the day. The average of the two tests was 242. They wanted to recruit him for some special duties, wanted to be sure the first test wasn't a fluke or a clerical error. I believe he tested a couple of points higher on that one, and it was a different sort of test, designed for the purpose. He aced the ASVABs, 90+ on everything."

"Foreign languages. Was he a linguist?"

That's what they wanted him for. He flew around in airplanes, eavesdropping on foreign countries. A year and a half of Russian at the language school in Monterey. He speaks Spanish from his school years, decent German and French he picked up in Europe, some others. Studied Latin in school as well. And apparently he's equally good with computer languages - that's what he was doing before the war started. Software developer."

Roger flipped a page.

"Old school weapons. Partial to 1911 Colts and Smith .44 Mags?"

"He likes them," Lancer replied. "But he uses whatever is appropriate for the occasion. He won't go into a bad situation without plenty of firepower, if it's likely to be needed.

"The preferred 1911 is a long slide, seven inch, if he doesn't have to conceal it. Sometimes carries a pair in shoulder holsters. The Smith is a Model 29, like Dirty Harry. Sometimes he likes a big Ruger in .45 Long Colt.

"Rifles of all kinds he's expert with, including six hundred yard sniping. Or off-hand shooting at running targets. One of those guys that shoots wild hogs from helicopters, or at night with a night vision scope. Pick off one in a group and nail two or three more as they run."

"Impressive. How is he hand-to-hand?"

"Uses every dirty trick in the book and some that aren't. You've heard of Jim Garrison?"

"Who hasn't? Never met him, but if he's half what they say it's enough to want him on my side."

"Carter sometimes teaches at his place. He's ambidextrous, by the way. Makes him even more dangerous in a fight."

Naturally? Or practice. He is two people, sort of.

He decided not to ask. It might be important or not, and Lancer might or might not know. Time to get back and prepare.

"If you don't have any other surprises for me, when do I meet our Renaissance man?"

"When he picks you up at the drop. Tomorrow night, or rather the day after tomorrow. 0300 in Zone 7, Sector 4."

Wonderful. Dropping me into a field in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. Again.

---

Good thing it's dark. We're just about in the trees.

The Comanche was probably not much over a hundred or so feet above the treetops, but he didn't care to see for himself. He looked at the screen on his commtab, clicked if off and put it away.

Six minutes to drop. The trees would end in another minute, and in another two or three they would descend into a field and roll to a stop, for just long enough to let him out.

If nothing had gone wrong in the last ten mimutes or so. It could happen, and had.

He barely felt the touchdown.

Guy knows his business.

He looked out he window as they rolled to a stop. A hundred or so feet away the headlights of a vehicle came on, and after about three seconds went off. The parking lights remained on. He waited. Then the left turn signal came on and flashed three times.

That's it.

He jumped to the ground and ran towards the vehicle, hearing the engine of the Comanche spin up as the pilot taxied away.

He wrapped his hand around the Beretta as he ran, not towards the vehicle but off to one side, into darkness. He crouched and waited.

"Marco Polo!" someone shouted.

OK, let's do it.

"If you can," he called.

"Three and two." came the reply.

All clear.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see the car, a man standing in front of it. He drew the Beretta and held it at his side as he approached.

Good.

Closer, he he could see that the car was empty. That didn't mean Carter was alone, there were other eyes out there.

He's about the right size. Can't tell the hair color in the dark. Or the eyes.

"Hop in," he said, "and let's get out of here before someone notices."

Nick got in on the drive's side and Roger took the passenger seat. Nick extended a pack of cigarettes, one slightly protruding.

"Smoke?"

The interior light was on and he saw the gold band with the initials. He took it and placed in the corner of his mouth but didn't reach for a lighter.

"Light?"

The Zippo Carter handed him had a design that looked like a shield, in enamel paint. Red, blue, green and ivory.

If Carter had offered him a cigarette but didn't offer to light it something was wrong. He lit the cigarette and relaxed. A little.

The Comanche had turned and was beginning its takeoff roll. They watched as it disappeared into the darkness.

"All clear tonight," Nick said. "We arranged a couple of diversions to keep them busy. They suspect something, but don't know what. But insertions are one thing they look for."

He started the engine and turned away from the landing zone, leaving the field on a narrow dirt road. Vegetation almost amost as high as the top of the Jeep was the only thing visible. About five minutes later then entered a cleared area.

A handful of small metal buildings of the type found on most farms were scattered around, with large trees here and there. Several of them had vehicles parked nearby, others didn't. Nick parked in front of one of the ones that didn't.

"Here we are," he announced. "Hang on."

He took out a commtab and activated it, tapped the screen a couple of times. He studied it for a moment, tapped again. A door in the wall of the building, just twenty feet away, opened and someone came out. The someone walked casually over to the driver's window, and Nick lowered it.

"Hi Elly," Nick said. "Can a guy get a cold beer this late?"

"I put some on ice an hour ago. It should be cold."

"Sounds good. Roger, let't go."

Elly backed away and Nick opened the door and got out. Roger did the same. Probably the remarks about beer were a final code check. He certainly didn't want a beer. He wanted a shower and bed.

"This here is Roger," Nick said. "Roger, Eleanor. Mantis section."

Mantis huh? Lancer didn't mention them. Wonder why.

"Nice to meet you."

"Same here."

Young? Hard to tell with women. Thirties maybe. Early.

As they moved nearer the building he could see that she looked younger. Twentyish. In black BDUs it was hard to tell. A blonde ponytail visible under the baseball cap was the only clue she was a woman, in the dark and from a short distance. She was wearing a pistol in a belt holster.

The walls of the building, like most of the others, was solid metal. No windows. Elly had left the door ajar and he could see that it was thicker than most, and once inside they passed through another door. This one opened into a large room, with doors on the back wall. They followed her to one of them.

Inside was a small conference table with eight chairs, all looking like decent-quality office chairs.

"Grab a seat," Nick said, "and I'll brief you. Just take a couple of minutes."

He sat down across from Elly and Nick.

"Elly is in charge of site security," Nick said. "She's one of three security bosses that rotate every two weeks. We're pretty isolated, not just in distance but in keeping quiet. Some of the buildings, like this one, are hardened. Elly and her people will show you.

"She has a crew of a half dozen Sehtairi adepts along with the Ranger force. If you don't know what Sehtairi is... nevermind, there are quite a few things out here that don't get out, even to our allies."

Sehtairi. Adepts? Some kind of martial arts? I know who the Rangers are, tough bunch from all accounts.

"Anyway, between the fortifications and the personnel, there are few safer places to be about now. And it things do go south, she'll also brief you on escape routes. You'll be staying here tonight, and tomorrow we'll get started. Want a nightcap?"

On second thought, I am a little keyed up. Maybe have that beer.

"Sure.

Nick and Elly both got up and went over to a row of cabinets on the back wall. Nick opened one and Roger saw that it was filled with bottles of liquor.

"Cold beer on the bottom," Elly said, "or something stronger?"

"Beer's good."

Elly opened another cabinet that turned out to be a refrigerator.

"Heineken and some of our local brew," she said. "A pretty generic lager, but good. And a nice local brandy, which I'm having."

"Me too," said Nick. "Good stuff."

"Brandy sounds better," Roger said.

Nick set three glasses on the open table part of the hutch and Elly opened a bottle.

"Say when," she said and began pouring.

"When," said Roger in time to stop her at half a glass.

"Good idea," Elly said as she brought two glasses to the table. Nick brought his over and they sat down.

"My grandfather has a some vineyards and orchards winery on the ridge overlooking Cherry Valley," she said. "His family has been making wine, beer, and brandy for three generations. And whiskey of course. They did quite a business before the war began, and we sell quite a bit that gets smuggled back into enemy territory."

"They can't feed the population," said Roger, "and they're buying contraband booze. Sounds about right."

"Hardly booze," Nick said. "This stuff is legendary in certain circles. Elly's family has trade secrets some would give a good bit for."

These two must go back a ways.

Roger took a sip. He didn't consider himself a connoisseur of liquor, of anything else for that matter, and didn't drink a lot. It seemed to taste slightly of apples, and was pleasantly smooth.

"Smoke?" Nick asked. "We get pretty good cigars here."

He pushed a small cigar case across the table.

Might as well. Drinking and smoking, and still finding time to fight.

He extracted one of the small cigarillos and lit it. Despite not being much of a smoker, he always carried a lighter. They came in handy sometimes, for other things.

Elly took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It was long and the paper was brown. Not dark brown, more like coffee with a lot of cream. She lit it and leaned back in her chair, putting her feet on the table. Roger noticed that she was wearing what looked like motorcycle boots, but of a somewhat unusual design he had never seen. The tall shaft had three evenly spaced buckled straps, and what looked like brass edge on the soles. The cigarette smelled strange too.

She seems to wield some influence, especially for her age. And in Mantis. Nick works with them a lot.

After finishing her cigarette and most of her brandy she took a commpad out of a pocket and began tapping and swiping the small screen. Like his and most of the ones the rebels carried it was a little larger than most phones.

After a while she put it away and drained her glass, and Nick did the same. Roger finished his as well, beginning to feel as if it was more potent than he had expected.

Don't know if I'll make it through the shower or not.

"All secure," she said. "Our rooms are down the hall on the left."

They exited the conference room and went down the hall, Elly in the lead.

"Yours is here," she said, indicating a door. "Yell if you need anything."

Elly and Nick continued down the hall as he entered his room.

Do they sleep together? Wouldn't surprise me. I suppose, there is that chimera thing though. Wonder if she knows?