Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (10 page)

Simms reached to the small of his back and pulled a small sidearm. “It’s a late 20th century .22 semi-auto. My father was a collector so I know something about antique firearms.”

“Have you had work done to yours? Mine’s no longer all original parts.”

He handed the pistol to me. “Unfortunately, yes. After a century, wouldn’t be safe to fire otherwise.”

“You sure are the trusting type.” I looked it over. “Nice condition. I prefer revolvers.” I handed it back. “You’ve seen my backup, a double-action revolver. With a semi-auto, if you’re down to one arm, like I almost was, can’t reload and fire.”

“That’s one way to look at it. A standard MP pistol would solve that dilemma. Your shotgun has a mounting for a bayonet?” he asked with a puzzled or amused look.

“More intimidating,” I assured him. “Even makes an A-Tech wonder.”

“How many aliens have you employed this ‘fixed bayonet theory’ on?”

“None.” I smiled. “But seems logical. And why not?”

Simms reholstered his pistol. “Maybe, but don’t try it on a Coregar Crax. They prefer blade combat.”

“Their size and training?” I shook my head and laughed. “Compared to me...but if one’s that close no sense trying to outrun it. Pretty slim odds running into an elite Coregar warrior.”

“You didn’t expect to get shot this morning either.” He closed his clip and began removing the metallic receptor-transmitters. He’d gotten me so off guard I’d forgotten he was monitoring me. “Speaking of your arm,” he said, gesturing. “I was informed you received only minor second degree burns. You’re lucky your opposition was trigger-happy. One full blast would’ve seared right through your vest.”

I shrugged. The medication in the salve was working.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time. You were cleared for duty on the
Kalavar
a long time ago.”

“What do you mean? It’s only a civil transport less than two years out of mothballs.”

“Your involvement in the Colonization Riots got you more than just an out-of-the-way posting on Pluto. I was just reconfirming the decision.”

“What’s on board the
Kalavar
?” I asked, scratching my head. “Rare elements?”

“Some, but that’s not it. Security Chief Corbin will inform you if he deems it appropriate. Don’t bother to ask.”

“But why me, a Class 4 Relic Tech?”

“Do you think a Relic isn’t up to the task?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Just do as you’re ordered,” he said. “Here, this ought to add to the mystery.” He pulled out a small syringe and bottle.

“What’s that, truth serum? Test’s over, isn’t it?”

“Actually, quite the opposite.” He couldn’t have been more serious as he drew a small amount of the clear liquid. “You are not to divulge to anyone the events that occurred. If asked, it was an organized attempted theft. Bureaucrat Linnuhey was simply caught in the crossfire, and you were doing your job as security in foiling the attempt. You know of nothing exceptional on board the
Kalavar
.”

“That won’t be a stretch.”

“This is serious.” He reached for a vein in my forearm. “What I am giving you will foil attempts to use drugs in obtaining answers which you’re unwilling to divulge.”

I was trying to decide if I really trusted him to put the needle into me. In the end I didn’t really have a choice. “Do you have a countermeasure drug?”

“That, like this, is classified.”

“Okay, you do. I won’t tell anybody.”

He finally smiled. “We have arranged for a new uniform and some replacement body armor.” He handed me two magnetic keys and the case. “If you return the manacles, you can have the deposit. It’s been cleared. Just mention my name, Corporate Investigator Simms.” He thought a moment. “The armory here is well stocked and you may be out a while. Chances of coming across R-Tech ammunition are pretty slim.”

“Thank you,” I said, recalling this had been an important military base during the war. Knowing travel schedules often suffered delays, I asked, “When might the
Kalavar
arrive?”

He offered me his hand. “I would expect it to arrive tomorrow at the latest.” We shook hands. “And keep those popcorn nukes of yours out of sight.”

I grimaced. He was sharp. “They’re not illegal. They’re of pre-ban civilian manufacture.”

“Stick with that line, Specialist Keesay, and they’re sure to be confiscated.” His face went blank before he exited. “O’Vorley,” he called, “Specialist Keesay needs to clean up and requires a meal. We owe him that much.”

“Yes, sir, Investigator,” O’Vorley replied in his youthful voice.

News. Reliable, accurate, timely, and unbiased information is difficult to come by. Most sources are corporate with releases issued to suit their specific needs. The same is true of information from military and government sources. Intelligence, generally considered an independent arm of the government, is the best informed, yet the least likely to distribute.

Actual eyewitnesses in positions to distribute uncensored, or unvetted, information are rare. The best an interested individual can do is to gather information from multiple sources and, through careful evaluation, hope to find a sliver of truth.

I stretched my joints as the anxious guard, O’Vorley, peered in. I tucked the case under my arm and headed out. “Which way?” Technically he was my superior, being a C3. But he worked for a different company and I wasn’t on duty.

I
met O’Vorley’s blank stared. Young with short, light brown hair. He was trying to grow a mustache. “Clean up?” I asked. “Meal?” I looked both ways down the dimly lit corridor. Access grates ran down the center of the floor. Conduits covered much of the ceiling and the tops of the walls, so I wasn’t in a fancy civilian section. No sign of Simms.

It took O’Vorley a second to snap out of it. “Sure, this way.” He wanted to say something as we walked but didn’t know where to begin.

If he wanted to ask something he’d have to muster the courage. I licked my swollen lip and wondered how messed up I looked. “Before we go, where’s my cart and equipment?” I pointed. “Possibly that way?”

He looked surprised. “Ah, no, they were...the corporate investigator moved them.”

We just stood there. “Well, who knows? The investigator is gone.”

“Did he say it was to be released to you?” asked O’Vorley. “I wasn’t informed.”

“He said as much, but didn’t he give me a signed permission slip.”

“Signed?”

“Coded authorization, then.”

“Then I cannot allow you access to your equipment,” he replied without confidence.

I was growing impatient. “Then let’s go see someone who will.” I didn’t have much by some standards, but I didn’t want any of it to disappear. “How about Supervisor Gaverall? Where’s he?”

I stepped aside as a tan uniformed maintenance woman and her utility work-bot passed down the hall. She glanced over her shoulder but said nothing.

Finally, O’Vorley spoke into his collar. “Supervisor Gaverall, sir, Specialist Keesay would like access to his equipment.” He nodded. “Where is it, sir? Okay, sir, Investigator Simms instructed me to allow Specialist Keesay to clean up and to provide him with a meal.”

My young escort was getting an earful through his imbedded chip. When O’Vorley was refocused on me I asked, “How long have you been onboard?”

“Twenty-eight hours,” he offered.

I struggled not to roll my eyes. “First posting?”

He nodded. “I’m still getting to know my way around.”

“You don’t know where my equipment is?”

His gaze fell to the floor. “I was told the location.”

“Follow me,” I said, leading him in our original direction, toward a major intersection. After about twenty strides I was loosening up. “Any voice terminals in this area I could access?” We slowed. “You know, one for civilians?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because, if you tell me the location, I can relay it to the terminal and it can tell us how to get to my equipment.” We stopped. “Get rid of the middle man. Your boss.”

He looked confused but hopeful. “This way,” I said, “you won’t have to bother anyone and your voice imprint won’t be logged requesting the information. That’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m on my probationary period,” he agreed. “It might look bad.”

“I doubt it, but this’ll be just one less worry. Which way?”

He indicated the same direction and we were off.

“They been giving you a rough time?” I asked.

He rubbed his hands together. “Sort of. I really don’t know too much.”

I realized it wouldn’t do any good to tell him to make their lives just as difficult. I would, but O’Vorley just didn’t have it in him. We approached a cross section. “Where to?”

“Two decks up there’s one, I think.”

“Let’s try. Makes sense there aren’t many. This was constructed as a military space dock.” I looked around. “Elevator is right over there.”

We waited until it arrived. One marine and two engineering techs were already inside. The marine ignored me, but the red-clad technicians glanced a little longer than was polite. The elevator stopped and we exited.

O’Vorley led me about twenty feet down a more lavish corridor. It was painted a faded green with fewer exposed pipes. We approached a terminal.

“Do I look that bad?”

“Well,” he said, “your lip is split, you have an abrasion across your cheek and your right eye is blackened.”

“Well, your supervisor and his assistants were less than cordial upon our meeting.” My hand explored my face. “I’m surprised there isn’t a boot imprint. I’ve run into worse crowds.”

“Plus your shoulder,” said O’Vorley.

“Good point. Where did they say my equipment was?”

“Green Storage, locker 478, bay 2.”

“Green Storage,” I said. “That’s probably near the armory. Do you know where that is?”

He shook his head. “Not from here. If I go back to Security HQ or my quarters and start, I could find it.”

“Your first time out in space?” There was more to this kid’s story. Kid, I thought. I’m not much older.

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, sir.”

“Yes, it is. And I’m a Security Specialist 4th Class, certainly not sir to you.” I stepped in front of the terminal and surveyed the screen when it activated. I tapped the icon for tourist information requests. Giving it a second, I said, “Diagram route to Green Storage.”

A synthesized voice replied, “That area is restricted. No civilian admittance.”

I looked at O’Vorley, then continued, “Just because I request information does not mean I intend to follow up on it. Diagram route to Green Storage.”

“Request is for information to a restricted area. Your voice imprint does not match proper admittance records.”

I care very little for artificial intelligence programs. “Is the deck level of Green Storage classified?”

“No, it is not.”

I watched O’Vorley frown as I spoke. “Terminal, what deck is Green Storage on?”

“Deck Twelve.”

“Omitting the restricted areas, display layout for
Deck Twelve.” If it did this, it wasn’t too bright of a program or what I was seeking wasn’t restricted enough to alert monitoring programs. Or security would arrive and rough me up again.

I pointed to the screen. “
I’d guess there.” O’Vorley nodded in agreement.

I leaned back and looked near the elevator. “Display layout Deck Eight.” We studied the screen. “Can you find it now?”

“Yes, I can,” O’Vorley said, turning toward the elevators. “You’re R-Tech?”

“Correct.”

“You use an information terminal pretty well.”

“Correct, I do.” I knew where this was going. “Just because I choose not to have various implants or advanced technical training, or become hooked on electronic gadgetry, doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant of computer functions and use.”

“Oh,” he said sheepishly.

“Contrary to popular I-Tech belief, most relic techs aren’t morons.” Maybe I was overdoing it. “A common misconception. No harm, no foul.”

“What?”

“It’s just an archaic sporting reference—means don’t worry about it.” Although I knew the route, I asked, “Which way, Specialist?”

“This way, back to the lift.” As we fell in stride, he tensed up. “Specialist Dribbs said you killed one of the offenders by clubbing his skull with your old-style steel gun.”

The corridor was empty, as was elevator when it arrived. “I figured the second blow might have finished him. He was down in front of me with laser in hand and I was out of rounds.” I shrugged. The elevator ascended. “He tried to kill me. I responded.”

O’Vorley looked at my shoulder. “Him or you?”

“Pretty much. I’d have shot him in the head if I could’ve.”

The door opened. My companion looked a little pale. “I don’t think I could’ve done that.”

“You might be surprised,” I said. “When someone’s shooting at you, your adrenaline—instincts take over.” I watched him ponder as we walked. “It’s kind of like in training, but more intense. You just react.”

O’Vorley said, “I didn’t have much training.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how things are on Earth—the recruiting.”

“Wait!” I grabbed his shoulder. “Slow down. You just came from Earth?” Of course he did, I thought. Pay attention!

“Yeah. Straight to here. Got my training en route.”

“What’s going on? What do you mean?” He didn’t follow. “Who’s doing the recruiting? When I was stationed on Pluto, there was news about the Colonial Marines stepping up efforts. Is that it?”

“Yeah. The recruiters came to my career tech center and everything. Checking records and testing. My dad said not to sign up. I had several months before draft eligibility.” He thought a moment. “My dad got me a contract with Quinn Mining. They told us that I’d complete my study in planetary geology and work for them.”

“I didn’t know the draft had been reinstated. You did this to avoid the draft? And now you’re out here?”

“Uh huh.” He frowned. “The contract’s fine print said that if required, my original assignment could be deferred.”

“How bad is it?” I was anxious. “Where are you from?”

“Security?”

“No,” I said and led O’Vorley past several technicians repairing a heating transfer. “I’ve read sketchy reports that the Crax are gearing up for war.” We almost missed a turn. “Reception on Pluto isn’t much.”

“There was a lot of talk about it in Rio de Janeiro, but hardly any holo-casts.”

“You’re from Rio de Janeiro?” I asked. “When did you leave?”

“I left a week after signing with Quinn. They transferred me to Cairo and enrolled me in tier two geology classes. Then they reassigned me here, around Gliese 876—as security.”

“What do they say about the Umbelgarri? Is that why the Marines are recruiting?” I led the way while O’Vorley searched for an answer. We had a distance to go.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody knows.”

You don’t know, I thought. But now I have something to think over. Damn! I’m missing my chance for the Relic Army’s GASF.

I felt bad for the kid, but I had one more question before I let him relate his ordeal. “You probably didn’t hear if the Relic Army is recruiting for its Ground Assault Support Force.” It was a long shot, but even among I-Techs they’re respected.

“I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”

He must’ve seen my disappointment. “Did you want to be recruited? Can you get out of your contract?”

“Mine would be even harder than yours.” I looked around. “And I bet you and your father tried.”

“We did.” O’Vorley sighed. “But young bodies are hard to come by it seems.” He stared ahead. “I got six weeks training. I don’t think it was very good. Supervisor Gaverall won’t even issue me a sidearm. Says maybe in a few weeks.” He put his hand on his equipment belt. “Issued me a stun baton.”

“They can be pretty handy,” I said.

“If you know how to use it. I got about four hours of weapons training. Most of my work was online. Law, regulations and customs.” He unhooked and extended his telescoping baton. “For this, a thirty minute holo-instruction on its use, care and maintenance.” He looked down. “Maybe you could show me?”

“Sorry.” I disappointed him. “My transport, the
Kalavar
, should be in tomorrow at the latest.” I gave him the name. If he looked it up, he’d know it was the truth. “But, I might be able to tell you how to obtain proper training.”

He looked hopeful.

“Marines are stationed here. Others passing through. Some stay a week or more?”

Confused, he nodded as we moved to the side for an orange-clad engineer and several assistant technicians. Seeing their red uniforms gave me an idea.

“Do you have anything to trade—skills?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“I carve small wooden busts for barter. You know anything unusual like that?”

As we neared Green Sector I spotted an armed marine. “You aren’t going to get much help from Dribbs or his pals,” I explained. “They’re probably shorthanded and mad all they got was you. Young, and untrained.

“Most marines live to demonstrate their skills,” I said. “If you had something to trade. I know your disbursement after company support allocations is nothing to speak of.” I was thinking as we approached the marine. “It might be demeaning, but you might offer to clean and polish boots or...” I pondered out loud. O’Vorley was new, less experienced than me, and unlikely to take the initiative. “Something, and maybe they would help you out. Maybe.”