The Operative: A Military Sci-Fi Series

THE OPERATIVE ©2023 RICK PARTLOW This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors. Aethon Books supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Aethon Books www.aethonbooks.com Print and eBook formatting by Josh Hayes. Art provided by Luciano Fleitas. Published by Aethon Books LLC. Aethon Books is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is coincidental. All rights reserved. CONTENTS Also in Series Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Thank you for reading The Operative! About the Author ALSO IN SERIES RECON THE HUNTER THE MERCENARY THE OPERATIVE 1 I jumped into the darkness between the buildings without a thought, knowing that if he could make it, then I could too. Two meters of empty space felt like the Grand Canyon to me, but I was airborne for less than two seconds. Corrugated aluminum vibrated beneath the soles of my boots as I impacted the gentle slope of the tenement’s roof, scrambling forward a step to keep my feet before I started running again. The guy I was chasing was only about ten meters ahead of me, over the slight rise in the center of the roof and about to jump to the next in the line of three-story row houses that were jammed together on this street. I didn’t know his name, but I knew he could run. He was tall and skinny, with long legs that ate up the meters, and dark, loose clothing that seemed to flap in the breeze like raven’s wings when he made the leap to the next rooftop. From up here, I could see the gentle, muted lights of Sanctuary just a few kilometers away, stark in its contrast with the harsh glares and deep shadows of Overtown. The sudden flares of security floodlights and cheap neon from the bars and brothels scattered between the apartment blocks made it hard to make out details in the darkness, even with the enhanced optics of my contact lens. I held my breath as I jumped again, following the man in black without being able to see where I was going to land. This time it was bare, gnarled buildfoam shaped into a dome, which meant this had been one of the first buildings constructed for the refugees from the occupied colonies during the war. Those were all simple, unadorned pours of raw buildfoam from automated dispensers, though in the years since, they’d been covered up by cheap, colorful plastics in a vain attempt to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Others had filled in the gaps gradually, unauthorized and unregulated, slapped together from aluminum and plastic scraps and wood taken illegally from the surrounding forests. No one had bothered to stop them because there’d been a war on, and they were refugees, and people had felt bad for them. When the war had ended, most found themselves without a home to go back to, so Overtown had stayed and grown, and had attracted gangs and drugs and crime like a rotting corpse drew in scavengers. At some point, it had become impossible to fix. To deal with it would have required an expenditure of goodwill and political capital in quantities that no local politician had been willing to pay, so far. The constabulary on Hermes didn’t even patrol the place; as long as the violence didn’t spill out into Sanctuary or any of the other cities on the planet, no one cared. That was what made it a good place to hide out when you were wanted in connection with a murder investigation, like this guy was. The cops wouldn’t chase him in Overtown, but I wasn’t a cop. Another rooftop, and I cursed as my shin smashed through a handmade wooden railing, sending me tumbling forward into a clumsy shoulder roll. I pushed myself back to my feet and froze for a moment as I realized that there was someone sitting just a meter away. It was a child, dressed in worn and ragged clothing that had probably been fabricated in Sanctuary and given away by some charity. She was maybe eleven or twelve, with long, dark hair in dirty, twisted dreadlocks, and she stared at me with eyes wide and white with fear. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t going to hurt her, that she didn’t have to be afraid, but I didn’t have time, so I did the next best thing and got the hell away from her. My right leg was throbbing, and I was lucky I hadn’t broken it, but I limped to the other end of the roof as