Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (20 page)

“Gotcha.” Mer replaced the hand radio and reached into the sack. “Here you go, Kra. One old-fashioned communication head set with belt attached light-weight power pack with send and receive booster adjustments.” He pointed to a wall terminal obscured by clutter. “Instructions are on line.”

It was standard issue equipment to R-Techs. “I’ve had training on these.” I slipped it on my head, adjusted the earpiece and the mic around my cheek. “Has it been calibrated?”

“Yep. All the frequencies set. Just state the name of who you desire to contact in your call. The communications network will do the rest.” Mer pulled out a security cap, an old-style baseball hat with the Negral Logo across the front. “Here, this will help hold it in place.”

“Thanks,” I said, slipping on the cap. “Sturdy, hard wired. Secure, I assume.”

“Secure? Yes. And it’ll get better reception than those microchip implants, and stronger broadcast than the collar mics.”

“I’m sure of that. Let me try it out.” I clicked it on. “Mer? Can you read me?”

He grabbed his radio. “Affirmative.”

I adjusted the volume and gave him a thumbs-up. “Specialist Club, this is Specialist Keesay. I just received my communications equipment and will be reporting to you right away.”

An immediate reply shot back. “Acknowledged.”

“I’d better get moving, Mer. Don’t want to keep Specialist Club waiting.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said, shaking his head and shuffling back to his chair. “Think I’ll catch a nap.”

I had a hunch, so I asked, “Would you?”

“What?” he said, turning back. “Keep Club waiting?” He chuckled. “Have you met her?”

“Yes.” I had a better question. “Could you?”

“What do you mean?” Mer asked, rummaging through his bag, apparently without success.

I tried a different track. “What’s your assignment on this ship?”

“I told you before. I just go around and fix what needs fixing.”

“But you said you were on this ship’s maiden voyage. Are you a part owner?”

“Me, part owner? Nah.” He tapped at his breast pocket before gently directing me toward the exit with his other hand. “You really want to keep Club waiting?”

“Not really,” I said, turning. “Control is right next to the chief’s office?”

“Yep,” he said, extending his hand. “Here, you might want these back.”

“What?” I asked, as he slapped a pair of 12-gauge shells into my hand.

“Now, time for my nap.” The door slid shut.

I looked at the shells and headed toward the elevator. Twelve-gauge slugs. I looked closer. They were my popcorn nukes. How had Mer gotten them? How did he get authorization to return them? Maybe he was the owner of this transport? Maybe he was an associate of Field Director Simms? I was missing something. It was possible I’d been hit one too many times in the head. I pondered that as I hustled to meet with Specialist Club.

Before reaching Security Control, I attributed Mer’s position on the
Kalavar
to three possibilities. He could be a relative of a Negral Corp board member. But that seemed less likely when his attendance on the maiden voyage was taken into consideration. He could be a retired officer of some sort, but that didn’t seem to fit. The last solution, that he worked for intelligence, seemed remote. His age weighed heavily against it. On the other hand, it’d be an excellent cover, and reason for access to the maintenance sleds and ability to return my popcorn nukes. After all, Chief Brold seemed to approve the sled use at least. A mystery that had to wait.

The heavy-duty door opened after I nodded to the camera outside Security Control. Inside the deep, rectangular room sat Specialist Club, wearing what seemed to be her perpetual frown. The circles under her eyes had grown even deeper. I stepped in and she tapped a key, closing the door. She finished dictating log information into the nearest of the three computer consoles, summarizing the findings of the medical staff and clean-up crew. Basically, she established a hypothesis that supported Chief Brold’s suggested cause.

Flat-screen security monitors covered every inch of wall space. Two stand-alone quantum computers covered the far wall opposite the door. Club swiveled her chair in my direction, briefly glancing at some of the monitoring screens before giving me a more studied appraisal than when I boarded.

“Reporting as requested, Specialist Club.”

“Club will do in here.” She pointed to a chair. “I see you have established security codes for your account.”

“That is correct.” I figured to stay formal until common sense dictated otherwise.

“The system rated them satisfactory. Better than I thought you’d come up with.”

“Your point being?” I asked.

“Maybe my expectations aren’t high, Keesay. But I’ll give you a fair shake.”

“That is appreciated,” I said evenly. “I know how to competently implement proper security procedures.”

“So it seems. That’s good,” she added. “With the shortage of personnel in our field, I had concerns the company might be less meticulous in recruiting.”

“Maybe they were,” I suggested, “but even a fisherman with low standards occasionally adds a fine catch to his stringer.” She didn’t seem to follow. “You’ve never been fishing?”

“Nope,” said Club. “But I think I followed your idiom.”

“Idiom?”

“Do you know what an idiom is, Keesay?”

“Yes, Club. Like scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Excellent.” She almost cracked a smile. “Seems we might have gotten a good catch.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you came recommended. The chief and the XO seem to agree with the assessment. Your response just indicated that you’re educated and that you’re willing to question any statement which is less than accurate.” She spun toward the console, tapped a key, and scanned several of the monitors as they switched views. “Think you’ll be able to learn this monitoring system?”

“I believe so, with a little instruction. Looks similar to what I worked with on Pluto.” I inspected the terminals and readouts. “Maybe a little more up to date.” I scanned the walls. “More monitoring stations.” I reexamined the controls and readouts, before looking back into her fatigued eyes. “Basic trouble shooting if there’s a problem.”

“We wouldn’t expect you to do any of the technical work and you won’t be spending that much time in here anyway. Negral contracted you to spend more time on the beat. Also, I requisitioned an ocular receiver-transmitter. It should mount on the brim of your cap just fine but we might get a more advanced one.” She glanced down. “Those leather boots comfortable? You’ll be logging a lot of kilometers.”

“I’m up to the task, and so are they. You know, I have a second pair…somewhere.”

She ignored the comment and instead followed a quick-moving figure across two screens. It resembled a kid in a brown jacket.

“Let’s see what you know,” she said, spinning around and cracking her knuckles. Again, she surveyed the monitors. “Roll your chair on over.”

Most alien races despise and avoid the Chicher, with similar sentiments accorded to the Umbelgarri. As such, the established relationship with the Umbelgarri and the growing contact with the Chicher makes a statement about the human race and its increasingly pariah status in the galaxy.

My meeting with Specialist Club lasted thirty minutes. I’m not a computer genius, but her overview of the security monitoring system was a whirlwind. Fortunately, I had experience on an antiquated version of the system. I was also provided with files on each of the eighty-nine R-Tech colonists. They were scheduled for recovery from cold sleep prior to transfer. Finally, Club gave me a user manual, an actual hard copy, of the standard grade security-bot that would accompany me on my rounds. She assured me it had arrived and was being assembled as we spoke.

We barely touched my list of questions. My request for an electronic note pad, and not a clam-shelled computer clip, wasn’t taken well. Club dismissed me to determine any special arrangements I deemed necessary for the colonists.

After returning to my quarters to drop off the sec-bot manual, I discovered my cart resting inside. I snatched the keys hanging from the new padlock and checked my watch before leaving.

As I strode out, I nearly tripped over a small figure hurrying by. The brown fur and chatter of surprise left no doubt it was a Chicher. “Pardon me for our near collision.” I said, before looking closer. “We have met before.”

“Yes, Security Man,” the Chicher said through its translator. “Our relocation trails have crossed.”

I tried to recall the phrasing. “We shall have to take the time to nibble together on this long trip.”

“Your company will be welcome as a surrogate pack member on this journey.”

It took me a second to interpret. “You are the only Chicher aboard?”

“Yes. I will be without a pack member or a diplomatic counterpart.”

“Well, you know where I am quartered when off duty,” I said, pointing at my door. “You are welcome to stop by.” I hadn’t thought how my roommate would feel about this, but the words were already out.

Staring at my ID tag, he said, “I will transfer electrically to you my temporary nesting location.”

“Good,” I said, holding still and wondering if he could read my name. “I must be on my way, Diplomat.”

“Your chatter is welcome, Security Man,” the Chicher said before scampering away on all fours.

I made my way to the converted cargo area slated for colonist housing. Along the way I thought about the Chicher diplomat. He must have pull to obtain boarding permission so soon after docking. I wished I’d read more on the Chicher. But I’d never had an interest, before.

I made it to the upper decks, just below the current cargo bay where a section had been converted for temporary habitation. It looked dismal with a crude, low ceiling and dingy walls that reminded me of an old city parking garage. I explored further to learn it even spiraled into two levels, mimicking one of the old structures. Whatever I-Tech designed it was either ignorant or sadistic.

The setup lacked individual, or even family, privacy. Only two small sections had been walled off for men’s and women’s facilities. I’d have wagered as an afterthought because half the bolts anchoring the walls were loose or missing. The water hadn’t been turned on, but the piping was poorly installed and bound to leak.

Maintenance had stacked old cots with crates on seven of the tables and associated benches. Piles of ash-brown clothing, and gray sheets and blankets sat organized on several tarps.

I pulled out my notepad and jotted down what had to be done. Weeks, let alone months, under such conditions guaranteed unruly behavior leading to trouble.

I’d bring my concerns to Club. I didn’t know what type of pull she had, even if she cared. Maybe Mer, or my roommate, Tech Cox, could advise me on whom I might consult if Club didn’t assist.

Next, I needed to determine a time frame for colonist boarding. I figured Medical would know the colonists’ cold sleep recovery schedule. Besides, I wanted to pick up my impounded muscle relaxant.

All was quiet in Medical, so I moved to the nearest medical clerk. “Excuse me, is Dr. Sevanto available?”

The young lady looked up from her terminal to my ID tag, and politely smiled. “May I ask what it is about, Specialist Keesay?”

The navy blue bodysuit identified her as an administrative specialist. She probably knew I was connected to the earlier emergency in the lab. “Mainly about the colonists.”

“Maybe I can help you?”

“You might, Specialist Tahgs,” I said, leaning on the counter. “I’d like to know when the colonists are scheduled to board.”

Specialist Tahgs smiled and entered the request. She pursed her lips before answering, “The eighty-nine R-Tech colonists are scheduled to be brought out of cold sleep in seventy-two hours. They will be monitored during recovery at the space dock’s facilities.” She stopped and read further before adding, “Those that survive will be transferred to us shortly thereafter.”

“Those that survive?” I asked. “Do you expect there to be trouble?” Odds were, one or two might have a severe reaction to the chemicals used in recovery.
Maybe
one might die.

“I’m sorry, Specialist, but all I have is an addendum indicating an expected higher-than-normal level of fatalities in recovery.”

“What does that mean?”

She consulted several more screens. “I’m not sure. It could mean any number of things.”

“I understand, Specialist Tahgs.” I jotted down her statement. “Is Dr. Sevanto available? He might have access to the information I need.”

“If you will have a seat, I’ll let him know.”

I sat down and reviewed my notes. Ten minutes later Tahgs ushered me into Dr. Sevanto’s lab. He sat perched on a tall stool, dictating information into a wall terminal. “How can I help you, Specialist Keesay?”

“In two, maybe three ways, Dr. Sevanto.” I flipped through my notes. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Dr. Sevanto closed the file he was working on and gave me his undivided attention. I took advantage of it. “First, the eighty-nine R-Tech colonists are to be brought out of cold sleep within seventy-two hours. Working with them is one of my primary responsibilities. I’ve been informed of a higher than normal fatality rate expected in recovery. As a security official, is there anything that I should be made aware of?”

He gave me a sideways glance while thinking. “Some technical problems were detected after cold sleep was initiated.”

“Technical problems?” He didn’t answer. “Malfunctions in equipment? Improper preparation for cold sleep? Drug contamination?” I’d casted a wide net with no response. Not even a blink or flinch. “Should I discuss this issue with Chief Brold?”

“What I do know isn’t much, Specialist. Speak with your superiors in Security.”

I checked off some information. “Okay,” I said evenly. “I have looked over the quartering area for the colonists. I believe that unless some modifications are made, there will be many justifiably unhappy R-Techs. Who on your staff could I consult with respect to this?”

“That depends, Specialist. What do you believe is wrong with the quartering?”

“It’s not my intention to go through Medical with the issue. I’m new on board and just wanted to know who to consult, should the need arise.”

“Understood. What do you see as problematic?”

“Unsanitary conditions,” I said. “Lack of privacy. If they want to warehouse the colonists, they should just keep them in cold sleep.”

“I believe they are to undergo some sort of agricultural training en route.”

“Well, that’s good. The less time they spend in their housing area, the better. But still.”

“I get your point, Specialist. If you require, I will direct my opinion to your superiors.” He got up from his perch. “Is that all?”

“Two more.” I scratched my head. “I’m quartered with Maintenance Technician Benjamin Cox. A cursory check of his file indicated disability rehabilitation?”

“You haven’t met Benny?”

“We haven’t crossed paths yet. Is there anything I should be aware of?”

“Tech Cox was in a decompression accident.” He paused. “And suffered a severe head trauma. He had neural and other reconstructive surgery, followed by rehabilitation.”

“Okay. So there is nothing to watch for?”

“Well, Tech Cox appears a bit slow, and his gross and fine motor skills are somewhat impaired. It’s likely he’s already reported to the Mavinrom Dock
Medical for evaluation, so you won’t see him around for a few days.”

“So his mental processes function just a little slower because they’ve been,” I searched for a word, “rerouted?”

“Yes, that is one way to look at it.” He shot a glance at the ship’s chronometer.

“Last item, Dr. Sevanto.” I slipped my notepad into a vest pocket. “I had a liquid drug compound impounded when my possessions were searched.”

“You did,” he said, nodding. “It was turned over to Medical for identification.”

I waited. “I would like it returned.”

“I see no reason for a Class 4 Security Specialist to have in his possession such a potent neuron inhibitor.”

“It’s not a controlled substance.”

“It is a dangerous substance.”

I placed my hand on my duty revolver. “This is dangerous as well. Negral Corp allows me to carry it.”

“You have been trained and authorized to carry a sidearm. You do not have medical training.”

“Isn’t that the point of categorizing a substance as controlled?” I began to have doubts of winning this round. “Regulations allow financial reimbursement for confiscations of this nature.”

“That can be arranged.”

I wasn’t going to make this easy. “I expect reimbursement equal to the cost at which the confiscated substance was purchased.” I stared at him. “I purchased the concentrated Triskiseral while stationed on Pluto.”

“You have a record of the purchase, Specialist?”

“As I said, Dr. Sevanto, it was legally obtained for 393 credits. I assure you, I have a verifiable record of its purchase price.”

“I am unable to authorize reimbursement for three times the value of a medication.”

“You can.” I was sure that Dr. Sevanto ran a clean shop, but nobody likes investigators checking into files. “It will send up a red flag calling for an explanation to corporate HQ.”

“Security Specialist,” he said, “do you consider it wise to press such an issue with the head of Medical on a ship to which you’re assigned?” He sat back on his stool, confident he’d just uttered checkmate.

“Medical Director, do you consider it wise to cheat the security specialist responsible for eighty-nine R-Tech colonists?” I let it sink in a fraction of a second. “Colonists who will likely be less than cooperative after weeks of substandard living conditions?” I could live with a stalemate.

“I am confident you will see to the correction of those unsatisfactory conditions.”

“I will do my best.” I measured my words. “Medical appears well staffed. Security is not. Like you, I have a large number of duties. Unlike you and your staff, however, I’d bet that many of the colonists likely to visit
Medical are less than model citizens.”

“You wouldn’t be threatening negligence of duty?”

“I am neither a moron nor an incompetent, Doctor,” I said flatly. “Yet you deem to treat me as one. I assure you, in my list of duties, the priority of escorting colonists to Medical and waiting while they are treated isn’t high.”

“I could speak with Chief Brold on this issue. I think you know those results.” He waited a few seconds. “But I’ll give you a chance. Convince me. Why do you need the Triskiseral?”

“If you insist,” I said, preparing to unbuckle my belt. “But this will take a second.”

“I’ve already given you more time than I intended.” He crossed his arms. “But even if you don’t convince me, I’m confident it’ll be interesting.”

I loosened my belt that held my holster and equipment, before reaching down my coveralls. I pulled out my protective cup. “See, I can tell by your expression your last statement has been confirmed.” I disassembled the backing and handed it to Dr. Sevanto. “Note the micro-syringe loaded in the shallow area. That holds Triskiseral. If I get kneed or punched in the groin, a magnetic pulse propels it forward through the small hole, injecting the striking appendage.”

“Does it work?”

“It did, once.” I smiled. “Except the nerve agent wasn’t fast-acting enough.”

He looked more closely. “Is it patented?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just not a common item.”

He handed it back. “So what you are saying, Specialist Keesay, is that the concentrated Triskiseral is for use in duties directly related to your corporate assignment?”

“That is how it should be interpreted,” I said while replacing the cup.

“And why didn’t you indicate this when you requested the return of the Triskiseral?”

I adjusted my belt. “It shouldn’t have been necessary.”