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====== Story: Accents ======

You wouldn’t think it, but sound is a surprisingly good way to track someone at a party. Sure, there’s no way you could do footstep tracking or anything like that, but with the right pair of ears, keeping tabs on a guest is fairly easy. Particularly if they’re popular.

My target was very popular. Tam Weystone, former governor of the Sirius system, rich bastard, and still a strong believer in the old League values of “stuff for me but not for thee” and “people who look different are inferior”. He’d been off the radar for a while after the League fell, but now, four years later, he’d decided to resurface and reconnect with a few of his old business associates.

That was where I was stalking him. A party hosted by fuel magnate J. Maximus Armstrong (a name I strongly suspect he made up himself) for shady dealers and alleged war criminals. Not my kind of party, since I prefer to hang out with people who have more than one ethic between them, but I go where the briefing tells me to go.

The trick to audio tracking at a party is conversations. People go to parties to talk, so if you know someone’s voice, you don’t even have to look at them to know where they are. If your ears are good, anyway.

I’d only actually seen Weystone once at the party. I’d managed to pass myself off as one of the security guards outside, and made light conversation with Weystone while he waited in the ID line. Voice-to-face match confirmed, I snuck away a few minutes later, once he’d gone inside.

Following him in the main hall would be difficult for a regular agent. Serving staff are blindfolded and guided by VR paths, so they’d have to infiltrate as a guest, and that would mean fabricating a backstory that makes you look like a high-class douchebag. High-class douchebags tend to know each other, which makes it easy to spot the one no one’s ever heard of before. Thing is though, I’m not a regular agent. I have good ears.

Stepping out into the hall blindfolded was a little disorienting, even with my VR guide. Normally, sonar makes up a good 10 to 15% of my situational awareness - much higher if I can’t see. Here, though, the sonar picture was total nonsense. Turns out, while you can track //people// by the noise they make, the sound of hundreds of people talking loudly is absolutely useless for building an environment map. I couldn’t fall back on radar, either. Security would pick up an EM ping pretty much instantly. Restricting myself to the VR map was a weird feeling.

Still, I managed to stabilise. I picked up Weystone pretty quickly, mostly because people kept greeting him. It seemed like he was some kind of VIP guest. Asshole Olympics winner, I guess. Anyway, he didn’t seem to be planning to leave for a while, so I browsed for interesting noise.

You can tell a lot about someone from their accent, I’ve found. Most of the people here were posh, upper-classy, and had accents from Sol or Alpha Cent. The exceptions got my attention. One guy, Joe Narzu, the briefing had pegged as a black market weapons trader who’d come from a family with connections to the core of the League’s military manufacturing. That was dead wrong, though - his accent was a soft Thai variant, probably out of Rookwood, at a guess. Rookwood is a farming system, and has been for centuries, while the League brass usually hail from industrial or political backgrounds. Someone in Intel needed to do some more research on Narzu.

There were other interesting cases. A few I could tell had been soldiers, talking quickly and clearly. There was someone with a broken, strained, voice - throat injury, most likely. I spotted a few who were faking accents, too: “Bill”, struggling to maintain a patchy Earth accent to cover a miner’s dusty rasp. “Jennifer”, trying on one of the developing Andromedan dialects in the hope it might sound cooler than her stuffy Martian.

Bill was talking to one of the industrial corp-heads most of the time. Apparently, even though all the corps that were just money farms for League brass got broken up after the War, this guy had managed to hold on to a ton of private manufacturing capacity. Bill wanted some of that for his own purposes, but it sounded like whatever he was offering was kind of mediocre. I could hear him getting angry, his accent slipping. The corp guy laughed it off, and that just made him angrier.

Meanwhile, Jennifer was performing for an audience. A few of the younger League sympathisers were hanging on her every word as she described the decadence and anarchy she’d seen on her tour of the Andromedan regions. I quickly cross-referenced a few of her claims and realised she was bullshitting - she’d clearly never been to half the places she was talking about, based on geography alone. Of course, the starry-eyed young fascists had never been either. Soon enough, the conversation started to turn ugly, and I switched off.

I filtered for Weystone’s voice. Still there, going on about some grand construction project he’d put on back in the day. Boring.

Someone set off my proximity sensors and I had to stop myself reflexively breaking their jaw. They reached over my shoulder and took a drink off the tray I was carrying. Then they were gone, back into the crowd. I suppressed a scowl.

The corp-head’s friends had gathered around to join in laughing at Bill’s increasingly wild offers and threats. A radio crackle told me one of the host’s security people was keeping an eye on it.

A fast-talker with an old Terran inner-city accent cruised past me, a girl on her arm, painting pretty pictures of a daring, exciting, life of crime. Some of it was wildly exaggerated, naturally, but other parts matched up suspiciously well with a few heists I’d heard about, so I recorded her voice for later analysis. Her lady friend giggled and asked silly questions. I let them fade into the background.

I followed my VR path back into the service areas and picked up a fresh tray. The other staff were quiet and businesslike, but I could sense a faint resentment. They were being paid for their discretion, but they didn’t buy into the haze of self-righteousness the rich assholes were cultivating in the main hall. Too many of them had family or friends who’d suffered under the League. Too many had suffered themselves. I could sympathise.

Back out on the floor. As soon as I stepped out, I lost two drinks to a man with a deep Germanic voice and a very tall tale about how he’d personally led troops on the ground at the Third Battle of New Warwick. I knew he was lying because someone who would later become me had been at that battle, and everyone who’d been on the ground there knew it was one of those things you just didn’t brag about. He got the general picture right, though - maybe he’d been on one of the ships in orbit, the ones that turned the city into a crater after the League admitted they weren’t winning. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t.

A glass sailed past my head and shattered against the wall, splashing something strong all over the lying soldier and his friend. I couldn’t place the trajectory until I heard the security guard arguing with Bill about it. Behind me, the liar shouted angrily and shoved me out of the way, almost knocking over my tray. He stomped towards the altercation with his friend trailing behind, leaving a cloud of alcoholic residue as he went. I tagged the spill on the VR service net and moved away before things got ugly.

Weystone was still there, now explaining that of course he’d treated his subjects fairly, and they were so horribly ungrateful to immediately join the rebellion as soon as it started. I considered knifing him, but I knew the mission needed intel more than it needed a corpse.

Another unusual accent cut through the buzz of conversation. A strong, clear, voice, carrying an accent in the Japanese family. Only a few generations away from Earthborn, by my reckoning. They were talking about plans...plans to attack shipping, plans to raid industrial stations, plans to build a private army. Bad news. I started recording.

The speaker’s name was Shikawa. It sounded like they’d been in deep with the League - I could hear the conviction in their voice when they talked about the League’s ideals, about the barbaric aliens who’d risen up against it, about how the League needed to be restored for the good of humanity. Shikawa had a high opinion of Weystone, and was looking forward to meeting him after the party to discuss options. Someone asked about one of the medals they were wearing. //Order of Luna//. I recognised it instantly: this was one of the old guard, Xiang Storm’s highest admirals. This was a big fish - like, shark big. How did someone like that slip through the net?

One of the guests was thinking the same thing, and asked the same question. That measured, calm, tone: //I became very good at identifying their agents//. If I could sweat, I would have started right then. I made sure I was looking the other way, paid a little more attention to my serving duties. The moment passed, and soon Shikawa was regaling their listeners with a story about how they’d escaped from a pursuing surveillance drone. I waited a few minutes, then moved to a new spot.

This time I found myself near a crowd of younger guests, less old-style League purists, more newly-made exploiters. These were the black-hearted bastards who ripped off the people struggling to recover from the War, who tried every trick to undermine and game the support programmes the new government put in place. When the Eridani hyperfreighters offloaded clean food and building materials on planets the War had torn apart, these were the slimy rats who stole the containers out of the yards and ransomed them back to the locals. This lot must have had a good run, because they were laughing, joking, and absolutely toasted. I let them take more drinks, and privately hoped they got alcohol poisoning.

Jennifer breezed through with her gaggle of admirers in tow. She avoided the crime lords, and I caught a disparaging comment about them as she headed for the buffet table. It was darkly funny - the pirates were doing the same things to the same people as the League Navy had back in the day, but they were //different//, so they were dirty. Divided by their similarities, or something. I recorded a few voices and moved on. The vultures would get theirs from the civil authorities.

The night wore on. The drinks got stronger, the standards got lower, the voices got louder. By 0300, when security started moving the staggering, raucous, guests out into their cars, I’d had no less than four drinks spilled or thrown on me. No one cared, of course; I was just a  servant, and my uniform would be burned in the morning anyway, along with everything else that indicated the most wanted people in the galaxy had been here.

Weystone was still here, along with the host, Armstrong, a giant man from Alpha Cent who’d made enough money off the League to keep this grand palace, but not enough to be worth chasing, or so we let him think. The two of them clustered around the buffet with Shikawa and a few trusted aides. I waited in the shadows, having managed to get myself assigned to holding their coats. The room was quiet now, and I could easily hear them despite their lowered voices.

Shikawa talked about an uprising, about resurrecting the League Navy and laying waste to the new cities before our own fleet could respond. They said they could get access to the Navy warships laid up in boneyards across the galaxy, and they only needed money and people to refit and recrew them. I hoped Weystone and Armstrong would blow it off as too dangerous, but they were worryingly enthusiastic.

I checked the tracker gun in my pocket. This was the mission: stick a microscopic transponder to Weystone, so we could follow him, monitor him, and find out who all his secret friends were. I had to do it just as he was leaving, or Armstrong’s security would pick up the signal, and Shikawa being here made it even riskier because I’d have to stick them, too. If Shikawa was as good as they claimed, it would be a hell of a trick to get it done.

Finally, Armstrong called for their coats. I headed over and presented them - Shikawa’s long and concealing, Armstrong’s neat and modern, Weystone’s older with a touch of League opulence. I’d seen them earlier when the guests arrived. The stylings matched their cars. Only Armstrong had a car built after the War, a big Eridani limo with smooth-sounding turbines and a red stripe. I’d sensed a faint disapproval from some of the League guests; after all, Eridani had been one of the corps that sided with the rebels.

I was about to slip away and sneak outside when someone pulled my blindfold off.

I put my hand up, pretending to shield my eyes against the light, but it was too late. I had human skin painted on, a nice glossy brown that I thought suited me, but it’s hard to hide glowing eyes. I heard Armstrong draw a gun and shout for security, and I lowered my arm. Shikawa was standing there, blindfold in their hand and a smug smile on their handsome face. My auxiliary senses spun back up, and I picked up security guards sprinting across the room to surround me.

Shikawa was gloating. //I did tell you I had a good eye for infiltrators. It is obvious if you know what you are looking for. The tension in the posture when I mentioned being able to spot them. The silent steps, perfectly identical. And, of course, the reflexive dodge when that drunken idiot threw his glass. No blindfolded human could have seen that coming and moved so fast.//

So they knew what they were dealing with. I checked my six. The guards had handguns, except for one who had a compact assault rifle. Okay, so Shikawa knew what they were dealing with, but Armstrong either didn’t, or was too drunk to think about it. I had to move fast before they realised.

I moved fast. Cut support in my legs and crumpled straight down, then laid on the power and dove left. The guards were slow to shoot, having to bring their guns around to avoid hitting their boss. Way too slow. I was on my feet and running, hitting the main door with a shoulder that splintered the wood and shredded my jacket. I kept going, heading for one of the security guards outside. She was turning to face the sound of my exit when I hit her, slamming her to the floor with a palm that shattered ribs. I grabbed her gun and a spare mag, then ditched my gloves and wrecked jacket, and disappeared into the darkened garden as bullets started to crack around me.

The remaining guards poured into the garden after me, but they were spooked and moved too fast. A team passed within feet of me, but with no breath and no movement, I stayed in a corner behind a bush and they never saw me. After they were gone, I slipped out again, back towards the front entrance. The three conspirators were hurrying towards their cars, surrounded by guards. Shikawa was on the ball, carrying a big gausstech rifle and wearing a night vision visor. Without my armour, that could hurt me, but I didn’t intend to start a fight.

I pulled the tracker gun from my pocket. Armstrong was talking animatedly with one of the guards, gesturing wildly. Shikawa and Weystone paused by the cars, waiting for him. That was my chance. I crept forward, pushing the tracker gun between the branches of the bush I was crouched behind. The gun had no sights - it was disguised as a pen - but my eyes automatically measured it and projected a virtual crosshair. Armstrong started to move.

Electrical signals through contacts in my fingers fired the gun. One shot, two shots, completely silent. Transponder signals blinking on in my vision as the tiny beads stuck to Shikawa and Weystone’s necks. I slid the gun back into my pocket and raised the security guard’s pistol. I’d need to disguise my intentions. Weystone was looking around nervously, while Shikawa started to move for his car - didn’t seem like either of them had noticed the trackers.

I popped up over the bush in a jump with a two-metre apex, curving my body into a forward dive, the pistol at its fore. I snapped off two quick shots, one at Shikawa’s car and one at Weystone’s. As I hit the ground I fired another pair, punching a hole in Armstrong’s coat and dropping one of his guards. Shikawa raised the gauss rifle and I rolled right. The rifle made that noise gausstech makes, a supersonic crack combined with a metallic noise like an iron hammer and anvil, and the ground where I’d landed disappeared behind a curtain of thrown-up dirt. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the nearest wall, loosing a fifth round as I went that sent Shikawa diving for cover. I made it over the wall, but I heard Shikawa’s rifle start to hammer it to bits as I went.

Weystone’s car started to spin up its turbines. The thing was an older model Persey, and I recognised the scratchy, hesitant, startup noise. Perfect. Armstrong’s car started next, a smooth whirr building to a whine, then to the windrush of modern gyrotors at cruise power. Shikawa’s took a little longer, then at last the gauss rifle went quiet and I heard a sinister purr rise gradually to a howl. Sneaky shit somehow managed to get away with driving around in a classic League government car. Well, not for much longer.

The cars started to rise out of the driveway, stirring the leaves in the garden with the breeze from their turbines. Armstrong’s drifted overhead briefly - surveying the house, I guessed - then lit off a reaction thruster for initial speed and disappeared into the night. Shikawa and Weystone left in opposite directions, automatic navigation lights briefly marking their passage before switching off. I let off a couple of shots at Weystone’s car as it flew over, and saw them spark harmlessly off the car’s wings. It banked sharply, then accelerated away.

I switched on a HUD layer in my vision, and watched as high, high above, a pair of IFF tags denoting high-altitude drones detached themselves from an orbiting cruiser and sped away after the departing cars.


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