Free Final Days by Gary Gibson Page B

– but they had a shared history that bonded them. He remembered Mitchell, sober and drawn, at his brother’s funeral; then, months later, grinning in a field under a brilliant Arizona sun, tugging off his wing-suit and laughing as Saul clung to the soil as if it were a lover.
    ‘He was killed serving under Hanover?’
    Sanders glanced at Donohue, who replied. ‘He was just coming to the end of a long-term secondment to a high-security research programme when he died, so, strictly speaking, no. He was due to rejoin Hanover’s task force in a couple of weeks. His death makes it easy enough to put you in his place as a temporary replacement. Frankly, the timing couldn’t be better. Hanover’s going to be taking his task force out to follow up the hijack, and we’re going to make sure you go with them. We’re betting that if someone on his team was involved in the snatch, they’re going to show themselves.’
    ‘Show themselves how?’
    ‘Put yourself in their shoes, what would you do?’
    Saul thought about it. ‘Find any evidence of my involvement and do what I could to destroy it.’
    Sanders stepped up close to him. ‘Find our mole, then, Saul,’ he said, ‘and there’s a chance we can figure out who’s responsible for losing Galileo.’

 
SIX
     
    Copernicus Array Security and Immigration Office, Luna, 21 January 2235
     
    Thomas Fowler checked his reflection in the elevator’s mirrored side walls and saw the face of a man who hadn’t enjoyed a decent night’s sleep in weeks. A course of amphetamines from an understanding physician was helping with that, but he’d been warned more than once there was only so much abuse his body could take. But, then again, a solid night’s sleep was out of the question when you happened to know the world was going to end.
    The doors slid open to reveal a busy operations room. While he waited for a guard stationed by the elevator to clear his ID, he counted at least a dozen uniformed ASI staff and a smattering of civilian analysts manning workstations. Dr Amanda Boruzov came towards him, weaving her way through staff and between workstations. The director of research for the Founder Project had skin like porcelain, while small folds around her eyes hinted at an Asiatic inheritance worn smooth over several generations. On this occasion, however, her eyes were rimmed with red, her exhaustion also showing in the way she carried herself.
    The pro with women who had skin like porcelain, thought Fowler, was that they always looked like they might easily break.
    ‘Thomas,’ she said, as the guard gave him the all-clear, ‘I must have just beaten you here. I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to make it, at such short notice.’
    Fowler stepped forward, once again struck by the unaccustomed buoyancy of his body. No matter how often he made the trip to Copernicus, he never quite adapted to the sudden drop in gravity once he had passed through the Florida Array. The first-aid clinics that served the tens of thousand of people flowing back and forth through the CTC gates worked twenty-four-seven repairing broken bones and fractured skulls. They’d wound up padding the ceilings of the lunar-transit systems, once they realized most people coming through from Earth kept smacking their heads into them.
    Their hands touched as they spoke, the touch lingering. If anyone had been paying attention at that moment, they might have guessed at their relationship.
    ‘I guess we should get started,’ he said.
    He followed her across the busy room, passing wall-mounted TriView panels displaying real-time video of the mass-transit systems connecting Copernicus City to the nearby Lunar Array. They arrived at a second bank of elevators, where another guard checked their UPs for clearance, before allowing them passage.
    They both relaxed as soon as the elevator doors closed. Amanda stepped in close to him, her hands taking hold of his lapels and tugging him down towards her, so that he had to