Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (38 page)

“The black raspberry?” suggested Ms. Kneft. All nodded, and I followed suit. “Mustard, tomato, or oil?” She looked across to Mr. B’down’s companion.

“Mustard sauce?” offered Ms. Jazarine. All nodded. “Salted or spiced crackers?”

I tapped Janice’s foot, and she took her cue. “Salted, lightly?” All nodded.

Mr. Habbuk, who was senior in rank, tapped the table screen, sending the order. “An excellent combination.”

Ms. Jazarine seemed to be in an uncharacteristic dark mood, and Janice was very quiet, possibly feeling out of her element, but the other three continued to chat. I utilized my skill at keeping abreast of the current conversation while monitoring those around us. The food and drink was an additional distraction but manageable.

A table behind was discussing war with the Crax, the potential implications to commerce, and which corporations were best situated to take advantage. Some felt Negral would survive, but all agreed that Capital Galactic was well positioned, considering its diversified assets in multiple planetary resource bases, and connections as a favored military contractor.

The table to the left was discussing the racial aspect of
Othello
and if it still had relevance today. One businessman was arguing that individuals, when they work or are in social situations, prefer those who look and act like they do. He was arguing basic human nature, and pointing out examples of company boards and their composition. His associates were scoring points indicating the weakness of allowing this in a company, holding up highly successful corporations known to bring aboard the best person for the job, regardless of economic origin, race, or gender.

“What about you, Keesay?” asked Mr. Habbuk.

I shifted back to our table’s line of conversation. “Me, if I were Othello and discovered the treachery? Translated to a similar offense today? I’d run him through with my bayonet. Wouldn’t even waste a shell.”

“Wouldn’t apprehend him for trial and conviction, eh?” said Mr. B’down.

“No,” said Ms. Jazarine, monotone. “He wouldn’t.”

Mr. Habbuk opened his mouth to speak, but instead looked at me then reached for his drink. He almost toppled it.

“Keesay,” crackled my ear receiver.

Mr. Habbuk’s hand shook slightly as he sipped his water.

“Keesay here, Muller.”

“Report to the colonist area immediately. Will advise en route.”

“Acknowledged.” I replaced the radio. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Specialist Keesay,” Mr. Habbuk interrupted. He looked pale. “Could I trouble you for an escort back to my cabin?”

“Are you ill?” asked Ms. Kneft.

“My apologies, Mr. Habbuk. I have been ordered elsewhere.” I turned. “Specialist Tahgs c
ould contact, or escort you to Medical.” Looking at the man, I knew it was fear. Recent experience suggested the recruiter’s instincts were not to be ignored. “Muller,” I called into the radio. “Dispatch Dorian Ross to the ballroom.”

“She’s assisting engineering. What’s the problem?”

I refrained from clutching the radio. “How urgent is my presence required in the colonist area?”

“There’s been an assault and possible homicide.”

Mr. Habbuk gripped the table. “It is not a problem, Specialist.”

I stared at him. “If no one else is available, Muller, assign a marine. Have him report to Mr. Habbuk, Senior Vice President of Recruiting for the Chiagerall Institute.” A few of the nearby diners had noted my extended conversation into the hand radio.

“Is it necessary?” asked Muller.

“Affirmative.” I surveyed my party. Janice and Ms. Kneft looked as confused as Mr. Habbuk did worried. Ms. Jazarine and B’down stared into their drinks. “Duty requires my immediate departure. Mr. B’down, could you see that Specialist Tahgs is escorted to her quarters?” A sharp look silenced Janice. He nodded. “Mr. Habbuk, there will be an escort momentarily. Again, I apologize for being unable to fulfill your request.”

“Thank you for your efforts,” he said. “You have more important escort duties yet to perform.”

Not knowing how to respond, I turned on my heels and strode out.

One thing mankind learned was to avoid scrapping obsolete equipment during intervals between wars. Vast inventories of combat vehicles rest in under-ocean storage and on otherwise barren moons. Mothballed fleets of military and discarded civilian vessels silently orbit planets and moons. Because military planners required vessels designed with oversized standard modular systems, the decommissioned ships can be recovered and brought to serviceable duty within weeks. Military planners put stock in the theory that “Quantity has a quality of its own,” which mirrors the Chicher’s translated belief, “Swarming inferiors smother superiors.”

I stepped off the ladder access between decks when a marine spotted me over his shoulder and doubled back. “Keesay,” he called. “Communications are down. I have your new orders.”

Explains why I didn’t hear from Muller, I thought as the marine halted. “Private Fleishman?” I’d never spoken to this marine. I recognized him by his large hooked nose, even more prominent than Father Cufter’s.

“Specialist, you are to immediately report to Medical. And avoid the lifts.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Comm’s not the only system experiencing outages.” His tone was composed and direct.

“Private, do you know if anyone has been assigned to escort one of the passengers, a Mr. Habbuk, back to his cabin?”

“Negative, Specialist. I do not.”

“What are your orders?”

“To locate you. Direct you immediately to Medical.”

“Then?”

“Report back to the colonist area. Corporal Smith ordered me to assist Specialist Club. Help secure the area.”

“Are you the only marine assigned?”

“No, Private Joachim.” Agitation crept into his voice. “Specialist Club is on site investigating.” He looked at me hard. “Your superior wanted me to find you yesterday, and for you to be at Medical the day before.”

“Understood.” Joachim was the stocky, angry marine who’d tipped Smith about the Thrust, before McAllister and Gudkov set me up. “What’s she investigating?”

“Specialist, the word
immediately
is part of your orders.”

Maybe there was a reason Private Fleishman hadn’t informed me of the colonist situation and avoided my question. I’d know soon enough. Mr. Habbuk still required an escort. As Priva
te Fleishman was working under Security, technically I was his superior. “Private, return to Specialist Club. Inform her that I assigned you to report to the first class ballroom to escort Mr. Chokks Habbuk, Senior Vice President of Recruiting for the Chiagerall Institute, to his cabin. It is imperative and he is waiting.”

“There’s an awful lot going on, Keesay.”

“Tell Club she can countermand my directive, but I would NOT recommend it.”

“Will do, Keesay,” the marine said, turning on his heel and trotting off.

I descended the ladder, and hustled toward Medical. I sidestepped several technicians tearing open access panels before I crossed paths with Mer and Benny, both faces weighted with concern. Mer pressed the maximum from his shuffling gait. Our eyes met. I knew whatever the situation, it wasn’t good.

Twice I attempted to contact S
ecurity. Before giving up on the hand radio, I scanned broadcast frequencies and came across a scrambled communication. After calling on it, Corporal Smith acknowledged and ordered me to abandon the frequency. Mer’s hand radio wasn’t programmed for Marine encryption. By then I spotted a marine posted outside Medical. It was Smith’s pal, Private DeLark, armed to the teeth. He stepped aside.

“Specialist Keesay,” sobbed a child’s voice. A nurse held Michael.

I looked from boy to nurse. She motioned with her eyes, followed with a flick of her head. I nodded, acknowledging the direction to take.

“My mommy!” Michael broke from the nurse and clutched my arm. “I wanna see her.”

I stooped, eye to eye. “Skids, I’ll check into it.” I looked up. “Dr. Sevanto?”

“Yes,” replied the nurse. “Room One.”

“Skids, Dr. Sevanto and I are close associates. I’ll speak with him.” The boy wiped his eyes, looking hopeful. I handed him my bandana handkerchief. “Here. No promises.”

He bunched it in his right hand. “The med techs took Mr. Owen, too.” The nurse nodded affirmative as she pulled the boy back to a seat.

In Room 1, Dr. Sevanto stepped away from Instructor Watts. A seeping abrasion ran across her right cheek. Hers distant eyes held a mixture of concern and fright.

“Specialist Keesay,” directed Dr. Sevanto, “step next door.”

“Doctor?” I asked.

“Colonist Lowell Owen is in Room Two.” He looked back to Instructor Watts before continuing. “His injuries are extensive. He wants to speak with you.”

“How is Instructor Watts? Her son—”

“Can wait,” Dr. Sevanto said,
cutting me off. “As can Instructor Watts.”

His meaning was evident. I turned and strode next door. Dr. Miller, a nurse, and a med tech crowded around the bed, manipulating respiratory and surgical equipment. Their actions were just short of frantic. Blood covered their surgical gloves. The med tech looked up. “Dr. Miller.”

Dr. Miller passed a surgical device to the nurse. “Do what you can. Focus on the lungs.”

“Why isn’t he in the operating room?” I didn’t yell but got my point across. “And why isn’t Dr. Sevanto in here?”

“Main medical systems are down. Even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t matter for this colonist.”

“What happened?” I moved closer. Lowell Owen was stretched across the table with his tattered clothes cut away. Gaping abrasive lacerations crisscrossed his body while under the skin, red welts, some seeping, covered his torso and arms. Tubes, one from the nose, two from the chest and abdomen ran to a portable support machine. Blood coated two of the three.

“He was attacked with a sonic blade,” explained Dr. Miller. “Moderate intensity one. Not well focused. Still, his internal organs have suffered massive damage. Internal hemorrhaging. Damage to his lungs, liver, heart, arteries, intestines, and one kidney. His spinal cord. There’s more.” He licked his lips. “And an unidentified toxin.”

I mouthed the words, “I should have been there.” The nurse worked quickly, staunching some of the bleeding. The ministration was impossibly slow. In a grim voice, the med tech monitored and relayed information the support computers provided. The miniature fans cooling the equipment hummed incredibly loud.

Beeps erupted from the monitors. “Doctor!” called the technician. “Anti-toxin measures failing!”

Dr. Miller pointed with a blood-covered rubber glove to a shelf. “The colonist left a message for you, in transit. Or so I was told.” He slid back into place. I moved around, next to the technician.

Lowell’s breathing began to sputter and blood welled from his mouth. They applied suction. His eyes began to flutter. I looked up toward the doctor, who was sidestepping to allow Father Cufter room. When did he enter? The med tech slipped a rubber glove over my right hand and urged me closer. I gripped Lowell’s gashed and swollen hand and his eyes opened. Blood had pooled in their corners. Still, he spotted me and tried to speak. The tubes. Desperate.

I leaned close. “Your message, received,” I articulated, nodding sharply. “Understood.” His grip tightened then relaxed. I placed my left hand on his forehead, wiping cold beads of sweat. A spasm, followed by gurgling coughs that wracked his body. Blood erupted around the chest and abdomen tubes and his gaze drifted, unfocused.

Father Cufter leaned close. He placed a hand upon the dying man and began to speak. I couldn’t hear how the priest started; the support equipment drowned him out. I could guess. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Last Rites given. The technician shut off the medical alarms. “Your sins are forgiven, Lowell Owen.” The priest’s words were measured but hurried. He’d ministered to the dying before. I stepped back to offer the two men privacy in one’s final moment. “Rest in peace,” the priest said, and helped the dying man cross.

Lowell gasped and relaxed. Where some lights and screens had been yellow, they flashed red before fading to gray. My guts turned. I should have been there. I struggled to keep my lavish supper down if for no other reason than I still had my duty to perform. Guilt could wait. “Thank you, Father,” I said. “Lowell was a good man.”

“Indeed, he was.”

I said to Dr. Miller and his staff, “Thank you for trying. Did he say anything? Of his assailant?”

“No,” said Dr. Miller. “He was unconscious upon arrival.”

I took the micro recorder from the shelf. It was a sleeve attachment model. “Who was with him when he recorded?”

“We were,” said the nurse, pointing to himself and the med tech. “When we got there Specialist Club was in charge. It’s her micro recorder.”

“The colonist might’ve said something to her,” added the med tech.

“If there’s anything I can do,” offered Father Cufter.

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “Not at the moment. Dr. Miller, preserve the body and any evidence. I’m sure Chief Brold—who ordered the marine posted outside?”

Dr. Miller and the two assistants looked surprised. Father Cufter nodded, affirming my statement. “Thank you,” I said, turning to leave. I heard Dr. Miller ordering blood and tissue samples, as preservation of the body might not be possible if med systems remained down.

In the hall I adjusted the recorder for direct audio and held it to my ear. There was a lot of noise and confusion but I could discern Club barking directives, fading away in the background. The nurse and the te
chnician each tried to contact Medical. Then the tech directed Lowell to speak. His weak, raspy voice whispered, “Kra, ward and ware.” A gurgling cough and groan followed. Then, “The boy...his mother...you must.”

Nothing else except the nurse and med tech for another twenty seconds. The nurse finally said, “He’s lost consciousness.” I pocketed the micro recorder and again sought to speak with Instructor Lori Watts with renewed urgency. Room 1’s external monitor was down so I prepared to knock when th
e posted marine stepped inside Medical and called, “Specialist Keesay, Chief Brold requests your presence in his office.”

“Understood. Will comply momentarily.” I watched the marine return to his post. The nurse and Michael weren’t in the lobby. I knocked, then entered. Inside, Dr. Sevanto and the nurse who’d been with Michael continued to examine Instructor Watts. I spotted Michael on a stool in the corner watching, pale and quiet. I signaled him to me, and picked him up. He gave me a hug and a load of snot on my collar. “I’ve only one minute twenty seconds, Skids. You okay?” He nodded, untruthfully.

I carried him toward the bed. Dr. Sevanto began to protest, but changed his mind. The nurse continued to draw blood. “I’ve been recalled to Security. Be sure the marine remains posted outside.”

Dr. Sevanto’s eyes flashed the direction of Lowell Owen’s room. I shook my head once, but it was enough to get Michael’s attention. “Mr. Owen?” the boy asked.

“Didn’t make it,” I replied, setting him down. Instructor Watts gasped. I took my bandana from Michael’s hand and wiped my collar before adjusting the fold, exposing a clean area. I spotted tears welling anew. “Blow. Harder.” He did. I checked my watch. “Fifty seconds, report.”

Having been under my instruction, Michael knew what that meant. He sucked in and began. “Mom was sick. She went to the bathroom. Mr. Owen came over and took me to his room. I took my bedroll and went under his cot.” He saw my eyebrows rise. “Mr. Owen put his cot up on blocks so I can camp there some nights.” Michael went silent, knowing he’d admitted to breaking a posted habitation rule.

Elevating cots was common, but usually to level it and to increase storage space. “Minor infraction,” I said. “It will be overlooked. Continue your report.”

“Mr. Owen said it was okay, to give Mom a break.” He took a breath. “He went to check on Mom. Someone came to the room. I saw boots and tan pants. I didn’t say anything and he left. It was a long time. Then the C2 security woman and a nurse came and she ordered the nurse and a marine to take me here. They looked me over. I was okay but Mom and Mr. Owen aren’t.”

I looked from Dr. Sevanto to Instructor Watts and back. “She’ll make it,” Dr. Sevanto said.

“Top notch report, Skids.” I checked my watch. “I’ve duties to perform. You do, too.” I reached in my pocket and handed him my whistle. “See this?”

He nodded. “You use it at recess games.”

“You keep it. Use it if someone other than a marine, security or medical enters. Understood?”

He sniffled and nodded. I gave him a thumbs-up. Dr. Sevanto and the nurse took a second to do the same. His mother looked pretty bad, so if they had Michael in the room then the rest of the medical staff must’ve been on emergency calls.

I left and took the initiative to retrieve my com-set and shotgun. On instinct I grabbed my brass knuckles from my pillow, then activated my com-set’s ocular. Nothing. Corporal Smith had enabled my com-set for Marine encryption so I switched to it.

“DeLark reporting,” called the marine. “All clear.”

“Acknowledged,” said Corporal Smith.

I felt better until I recalled Mer’s expression, and broke into a trot. An unnecessary delay was the last thing the chief needed.