Duncan Pryde Series

Chapter 2

Pryde was still at his parents’ home. The funeral had taken place months ago and he was finalising the details of selling the family home. He had no need for it; he already had an apartment where he was comfortable.

Grief over the loss of his parents had passed—in fact, being able to compartmentalise things had never been a problem for him. He was able to dial down emotions or dial them up if and when needed. It made him an ideal covert agent. He could dial down empathy and dial up aggression all the while remaining calm and detached.

Some had called him a psychopath but in actuality he was a functioning partial sociopath, which meant he could control his emotions better than most normal people. Psychopaths generally were said to have a personality disorder that had impaired empathy or remorse, exhibited antisocial behaviour which displayed in low fear, high stress tolerance and narcissistic tendencies. It was sometimes synonymous with sociopathy, but in Pryde’s case, although he exhibited a high tolerance to stress and could dial down his empathic response to certain situations to perform certain tasks, it didn’t mean he was devoid of these emotions, only that he could control and contain them until they were needed.

Having dealt with all the family"s details, he was left with a considerable amount of money which he had never even considered before. He was wealthy enough now to live a life of luxury, wherever he felt or wanted. He would never have to work again if he so chose, which faced him with a problem. He loved his job, not the killing part, however suited to it he was, no he loved feeling that he was making a difference. He was doing jobs that normal people could not or did not want to face because they were the kinds of things normal people didn’t want to dirty their hands on. It was a moral dilemma for them—they hated that these things needed doing but did not want to do themselves. It had long been a soldier’s lot to fulfil that need and he was one of the few who were absolutely suited for the task.

He was just about ready to wrap things up and return to work when his comm link buzzed, informing him he was being contacted.

The comm link was a small device implanted inside his ear. With a touch he could activate it and speak, and the tiny mic would pick up his voice easily.

“Pryde here,” he said.

“There has been a situation that’s developed that needs your attention. Are you available?” Chambers’ voice said clearly in his ear.

“I was about to contact you, sir. Yes, I am ready to return to work,” he replied.

“Good, be at Station Five for your briefing in an hour,” Chambers said, then the call ended.

Station Five was the headquarters of the MI7 on Terra II. Situated near the coast of the largest city on the planet, it had entry points from both land and sea.

To an untrained eye, it was nothing more than a boat shed—a long, low structure constructed of local timber that had a jetty attached that boats could tie up to when visiting. At the other end was a landing pad for small-scale craft that arrived either by land or air. In reality, it was none of this.

Inside the building that had been reinforced with more modern materials, it was a hive of activity. It had offices, a communication section, and an armoury. This was MI7’s SecOps HQ on this planet and Pryde arrived soon after receiving the summons from his boss, Chambers.

Every agent in MI7 had a chip implanted in their arm. This monitored their location as well as their vitals. It also allowed them access to certain things, such as bank accounts so they could pay for things, and it also acted as their ID, which could be altered when needing to go undercover with an alternate identity.

As he approached the dilapidated door that was the entrance to the boat shed, he placed his right wrist against a concealed sensor in the wall by the side, which opened it so he could enter.

The entrance was an air lock of sorts. It opened into a small cubicle which allowed him inside while he was scanned for any evidence of tracking or sensory devices unknowingly planted on him. He was also scanned for toxins and explosive devices he might be carrying. When he had the all clear, the inner door was unlocked and he entered the building.

The short corridor led to a door at the far end which, once he walked through, opened out into a wide open-plan space with cubicles filled with people all working on computers monitoring different areas of interest. This was the communication section.

He saw a friendly face at the end of this room smiling his way. Dressed in a white blouse and pencil skirt, she was the epitome of class. Deep auburn hair framed a face that was open and friendly with eyes that had a mischievous quality to them that seemed to smile all on their own.

“Afternoon, Goodchild. I got here as soon as I could,” he said as he closed the gap between them. Stephanie Goodchild was Chambers’ secretary, an old-fashioned arrangement that harked back centuries but seemed to work. Chambers couldn’t function without her valuable organisational skills, although he would never admit to that.

“He’s waiting for you Duncan, go right in,” she said as she opened the door to her outer office. The two of them entered and she operated the intercom on her desk to inform their boss of Pryde’s arrival.

He thanked her, then entered, closing the door after him.

“Come in Pryde, take a seat,” Chambers said. Inside the Ministry, Chambers was known simply as C. This was a direct homage to the British Secret Service of decades ago when the head was called C for Control; now it was simply the initial of his surname.

He was a small man who had a liking for pin striped suits of a dark colour—todays was a dark navy blue. He had a head of wavy brown hair that was cut regularly by his personal barber. Eyes the colour of caramel looked out on the world with the knowledge that not everything was as it seemed. Some thought him to be cynical, but in reality he was a pragmatist; he had seen enough death and destruction during his military career to fill several lifetimes.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll get right to it,” C said, “a couple of days ago an armoured convoy was attacked on Cronus III. It was carrying some experimental missiles to a base there to be tested before giving the all clear for deployment to the various systems that could carry this munition.”

“Attacked, sir? Do we know by whom?”

“It is a bit of a mystery. The craft they used to perform the act was able to carry troops and was incredibly manoeuvrable. It was unlike anything we’ve ever encountered before.”

“I take it the footage from the soldier’s body cams has been rescued then and analysed?” Pryde asked.

“It has. The tech labs edited all the footage from each soldier’s body cam together, and this is what was revealed,” C replied, turning to look at a wall mounted flat screen monitor behind him. The screen came to life with all the gory details of the attack on the convoy, right down to the bodies being blown apart and the callous way in which the three remaining soldiers were dispatched with cold efficiency.

“Do we have anything that can fly and fight like that, sir?” Pryde asked once the video had finished.

“From what I understand, there is a new class of fighter jet that is nearing the testing phase—the new Raptor F95. From what I gather it has similar flight capabilities to what we just witnessed, but they told me it would be months away from testing. They have a prototype built but that’s as far as the project has gone, or so we were informed.”

“Are you thinking they already sold the design to someone else, or maybe it was stolen?”

“That is a possibility I suppose. We need to find out the truth and see who has this design before anything else happens. They already stole those experimental missiles; what else will they go after, and what use do they have planned for the missiles?”

“I take it that’s where I come in?” Pryde said.

“Yes, I want you to find out about those plans from the company that are developing the aircraft and see what you can learn from them. If there was a theft, we need to know about it.”

“Copy that sir, I’ll leave right away.”

“You have the details on your PIN.”

Pryde took out the small device, the Personalised Information Network, or PIN, which acted as a personal internet link. It also was the comm link terminal which connected to every communication network available which he could communicate through via his ear implant.

On the small screen, no larger than the palm of his hand, he saw the name of the company, the address and who to contact.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I have something, sir,” he said as he left.