Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (9 page)

I moved to the prone position and spread my arms and legs. My shoulder wound didn’t hurt much.

The representative was on his back with someone attending him. Blood flowed from a gash across his cheek. He looked my way. “Delighted to see you found the most effective method to employ your weapon.”

“I think they stepped on your teeth.”

He returned a grin with his authentic, smaller set.

“Shut up!” came from above. “Hands behind your back, Relic.”

“What for?”

“Do it, now!”

“Hey, I just saved his life, Chip. Where were you?”

Several boots and a stun baton later I was unconscious.

Shortly after the Silicate War an official nomenclature was established for navigational software incorporating a trinomial system similar to the standard biological taxa of three terms. Thus genus, species and subspecies for biological identification corresponded to celestial identification as stellar system, planet and moons.

Human nature was anticipated in this venture. First, common names have always been more easily recalled. Just as a great percentage of people would be able to conceptualize a specific fresh water turtle when given the common name, red-eared slider, a precipitously low number would accurately identify it when provided with its scientific name,
Trachemys scripta elegans
.

Secondly, stellar and planetary identification has remained a hodge-podge of historic, scientific, and corporate naming. Political sponsored renaming has added further complexity.

All of that being said, it can be argued that more people have a greater interest in colony locations than freshwater turtles. And despite the whims of current influential officials, human navigational programmers wrote code and initiated artificial intelligence programs anticipating such factors.

I awoke to the taste of blood. It took a second to recall that I was on the space dock, orbiting Mavinrom in the Gliese 876 system. With my wrists and ankles cuffed, two men hauled me face down. I knew where I was, but not my situation. I decided to remain quiet until I knew more, other than the fact that my dragging boots would require polishing.

After about twenty seconds a youthful voice from the warder on my left commented, “Some mess.” He shifted his hold. “A lot of blood. Especially the bureaucrat’s.”

“And his,” replied a husky voice on my right.

Their jovial attitude did little to help my injured shoulder. Complaining would’ve made it worse. Four pairs of feet and maybe my cart escorted me down the corridor.

“Put him in there. His stuff in there.” It was the S2’s harsh voice.

“Sure thing, sir,” promised a voice with my trailing cart. “Break it open?”

“No,” said the S2. “Use the key. Here. Wait for the inspector.”

Metallic clatter, followed by laughs echoed in the corridor. “Nice catch, Dosser,” said the right porter. “Don’t lose it.”

“I’ll just have maintenance cut it off.”

I almost snickered at the thought. A door slid open to my rear and the S2 departed. The porter shifted as he tapped the door code. I didn’t bother lifting my head to look.

The left warder asked, “On the bed?”

“Sure, why not,” said the right porter. “He’ll be sore enough.
Gaverall sure don’t seem to like R-Techs. I don’t blame ’em.”

“Some are okay,” responded the left, his voice lacking confidence.

They lifted me onto the bed. The process was too painful to continue my ruse. “Ugh.” I rolled my head and opened my eyes.

“Hey there, fella,” said the right warder. “Up for another go round?” His nametag read, Dribbs. He looked a little old to still be a Class 3 Sec-Spec. His C3 partner, at least twenty years younger, frowned at the remark.

“Didn’t think so,” Dribbs said. “C’mon, O’Vorley.”

I shifted to a more comfortable position and watched them exit. I didn’t bother to request removal of my cuffs. The bed was hardly more than a table with a couple of blankets. A stool sat in a corner and an obvious security camera hung recessed in the single intense light. No doubt, the door was locked.

I examined my shoulder as best I could. The laser blast had burned through my protective vest and uniform. I rolled my shoulder. The wound felt superficial and someone had taken the time to slap on some ointment. My lower lip was split and swollen. I tasted fresh blood and medication on it so I hadn’t been out long.

I rolled onto my right shoulder and got comfortable. It could be a long wait, and I knew better than to try and slip my arms under my legs. Magnetic locking cuffs had a tendency to further activate when the wrist and ankle versions came in close proximity. Things were bad enough.

I closed my eyes and waited. Although the hit attempt had been quick, I vividly recalled it. Instead of replaying the event, my mind wandered to broader questions. Why was Representative Vorishnov traveling in disguise? I thought about corporate news editorials denouncing his populist voting record. Was it enough for some CEO to order his assassination? Apparently so.

I was getting stiff. Stun batons were bad, but better than a complete boot bruising. I got up, and in three hops, reached the stool. Sitting, I took a new line of thought. Why was Vorishnov here? Was he working with Negral Corp? My sponsor was more inclined to favor his policies. A successful political hit was rare away from Earth, unless there was an itinerary leak. Tough questions. Somebody knew, of course, but not anyone who’d confide in me.

Without a ship chronometer in the room and unable to see my watch, I guessed two hours had passed. I wasn’t closer to any answers. I began to wonder if the
Kalavar
would arrive on time, and if this mess would be sorted out before its scheduled departure. If not, I could be in a bit of trouble.

Startled, I looked toward the open door. A plain-faced man dressed in casual business attire walked in. No tie to identify standing. Definitely intelligence.

“Good afternoon, Specialist Keesay,” he began. “I am Field Director Karlton Simms.” He pulled a small cylindrical object from a jacket pocket. “Would you like those removed?”

“Actually, yes. That would be nice.” I turned on the stool.

Director Simms removed my manacles and placed them in their case before tossing it on the bed. His face remained emotionless even while he spoke. “Quite a morning.” He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a small remote control device. He pointed it at the light and tapped an icon, dimming it.

Not exactly how I expected an interrogation to start. “Yes. Quite a morning.”

Director Simms put the remote away and pulled out a small clamshell computer clip. “Want to tell me about it?” he asked, leaning a hip against the table.

“Not really. What’s the clip for? Aren’t you recording this anyway?”

“Specialist, I’m busy and you have a transport to catch.” After tapping a few keys he pulled some small metallic disks from his jacket’s inner pocket.

I knew what they were so I unbuttoned my collar. “Has it arrived?”

“It’s not due yet and I expect it to be delayed,” said Simms as he approached. He placed one of the disks over my left carotid artery, one on my right temple, another at the base of my skull, two across my forehead and last on my right palm.

“How would you know that?”

“Common occurrence.” He tapped away at the clip. “Now, Specialist, this isn’t the first time you’ve been debriefed by our agency, so let’s get to it.”

He knew about my involvement in Earth’s Colonization Riots, probably from records on his clip. I didn’t think a Field Director would have such access. So much for promises. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you know who you were sitting next to on the shuttle?”

“I do, now.”

He stared at me a moment. “This is going to take a long time unless you’re a little more forthcoming, Specialist.”

“Let it. I see no reason to confide in you.”

“Why would that be? I’m only asking simple questions. I’ve already interviewed other witnesses.” He moved a step closer.

“I’ve been debriefed only one other time in my life. You shouldn’t know that unless you’re other than who you claim to be, Field Director.” I decided to stand before continuing. “And if you do, and you are who you say, then someone further up has been dishonest, giving me even less reason to comply with your request.”

He was several inches taller than me and stood his ground. “This is the way it is, Specialist. I’ve got a very important job. Occasionally my superiors do send subordinates to do work in the field. And they don’t generally send us out ill informed. You have security training. Think about it. Think about who’s involved and what you’ve seen.” His stare intensified before refocusing his gaze on his computer. “This incident is peripheral compared to the big game.”

I sat back down and thought about the S2 on the shuttle ride up, with a box and heavily armed. A controversial representative in disguise in an out-of-the-way place, and an assassination attempt. Was Director Simms telling the truth? My guts said, ‘Trust him.’ My training said, ‘Make him work for it.’

I decided to play it by ear and see what happened. “Well, you’re here right on schedule so intel must’ve been doing more than trailing a cold scent.”

After thirty seconds of silence I continued. “He was Vorishnov. I didn’t know it—until after someone tried to kill him.”

“Thank you.” He returned to the table. “Now why did you sit next to him on the way up?”

“He approached me. He seemed annoying but otherwise...I was glad I did.” The director split his attention between the readouts and me. Verifying truthful statements is usually a two-person job, unless the operator is exceptionally good. “At the time.”

Director Simms concentrated on his readings. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, “after a while I figured something wasn’t right.” I knew it wasn’t possible, but I could almost feel the receptor-transmitters monitoring my brain activity, my vital signs, my reactions. “I thought he was a corporate spy and I told him I was going to report him to my superiors.”

“What made you suspect?”

“He knew an awful lot. About Negral’s activities. Asking questions about security. Certainly more than a bureaucrat the level of his cover would.” I thought a second or two. “He seemed more accustomed to luxury. You might tell him that.”

Simms smiled. “He was complimentary toward you. Why did Special Agent Brown think you might have been part of the attempt on Representative Vorishnov’s life?”

“What do you mean?”

“She turned her firearm on you?”

“Correct. During the trip, she seemed suspicious. I thought she was a bounty hunter. Then I pegged her as a bodyguard.” I figured Simms already had this information from the representative. “My actions in determining this might have alarmed her. She wasn’t very covert.”

“No,” agreed Simms. “Her specialty is combat tactics and weaponry. You’re lucky she was unsure about you.” He pointed between my eyes. “Top five in the agency.”

I didn’t bother to point out Simms’s lack of past tense. He tapped at the small screen. Did he detect me holding back a foremost thought. Was he that good?

“Why did you intervene on Representative Vorishnov’s behalf?” he asked patiently. “You didn’t know who he was at the time. Why defend a corporate spy working against your sponsor?”

“Good questions,” I said, stalling. “He was still on the ramp of the shuttle, Negral Corp’s property. I work for Negral Corp as security.” It wasn’t exactly the whole truth, but I hoped he’d buy it. “He was under our protection.”

The field director simply raised an eyebrow. He knew what he was about.

“...And I felt responsible. His bodyguard took a hit for him. If she hadn’t been distracted, maybe she would’ve gotten the baggage handler.”

He nodded absently.

“Mind if I ask a question?”

“Will you trust my answer?” he asked, again leaning against the table.

“That depends. Was the dolly-bot carrying anything valuable? Or is that S2 part of your operation?”

He thought for a few seconds before answering, “Well, the cargo is valuable, and it is part of the
Kalavar
’s scheduled cargo. Security Supervisor Gaverall is an expert marksman as well. He took out four to your one.”

“Marksmanship isn’t everything,” I said. “Proper training. Brown was a poor choice. And an S2 in charge of local security that has five plants on his team?”

“Six,” Simms corrected. “Specialist Dribbs winged one. And the Representative insisted upon Agent Brown.”

He was using names around me. He either planned on letting me go, figuring I would look into it anyhow. Or he was up to something else?

“Speaking of poor choice,” said Simms, “why would you arm yourself with a single-action revolver?”

“I didn’t exactly expect to be in a crossfire.” Talking irritated my split lip, but I ignored it. “Normally, I’d have my shotgun when on duty or in a high-risk area. But carrying without cause tends to upset civilian travelers. You know, shotguns are mainly used in penal colonies. I’m new to Negral. Didn’t want to make an unfavorable impression.”

He nodded. “That didn’t exactly answer my question. With available equipment, why even carry a thumb-buster?”

He used the old-time reference for my revolver. He had some knowledge of archaic firearms. A little confused, I continued, “A few reasons.” This didn’t seem like a logical line of interrogation, but I went on anyway. “First, if my sidearm were taken, how many I-Techs would know to cock the hammer? While they’re fiddling with the trigger or even looking for a safety, I might have a chance to go for my backup, hit him, run, whatever. Second, a .357 has some knockdown without being too cumbersome. A variety of rounds are available. Plus, it’s an antique, handed down by my great grandfather.”