The Noise Revealed (2 page)

The dome had lifted most of the way now, the side closest to her sliding back until it presented a half-dome, which in turn provided a backdrop to one of the most astonishing things Joss had ever seen.

"Holy mother of God," Wicks murmured from beside her.

She knew what he meant. Joss never had been a believer in much beyond her own capabilities, but this was enough to have a person invoking any deity they'd ever heard of. It was a ship all right, and a derelict one, an ancient wreck, just as their initial readings had suggested; but now that she actually saw the thing, Joss could understand why those readings had been so confused. What stood framed within this half-dome, like some giant hatchling breaking free of its egg, was jarringly different from any ship Joss had heard of. Not just cosmetically different, but conceptually, philosophically so. She saw thrusting bulks that looked more organic, or perhaps geological, than anything shaped by intelligence - huge splinters of rock fused together by a flow of lava; yet clearly they weren't, and somehow these bizarre formations combined to form the hull of a ship, or perhaps multiple hulls congealed into one. Broken, with what she took to be the front section shattered against the moon's surface while the aft pointed skyward like a handful of clutching fingers, or the frozen tendrils of some grounded cephalopod reaching for the stars. The structure was impressive, if shockingly different.

One thing was certain: nothing human had built this ship.

"Captain Brennan," a voice said smoothly. No surprise that their comms had been compromised, though the quality and speed of the newcomers' intelligence was a little unnerving. No one ever called her 'Captain Brennan' over the comms. The foremost of the three figures raised an arm, presumably to identify himself as the speaker. "My name is Hawkins. One of my men is going to board your ship and bring her into the dome. I presume we all realise the futility of resistance?"

No argument there, and they were all still alive, which she took as a good sign. "Crane, do as he says."

"No kidding," the familiar voice came back. "You really think I
wasn't
going to?"

She ignored him. Who were these people? ULAW, had to be; some secret government installation set up to glean all they could from the derelict alien ship. How long had they been here? What the hell had she got herself and her crew into?

The men on the ridge were still there, but at least the guns weren't pointing in their direction any more. She started forward again. "Come on, Wicksy, no point in standing around out here until our air runs out."

The closer they came to the dome and the unlikely structure it housed, the more awed Joss felt. There was something beautiful about the strange ship, for all that it wasn't whole. Trelliswork, looking like rusted filigree from this distance, jutted from the hull at irregular intervals, though whether this was part of the original design or some form of scaffolding erected since the craft's demise, Joss wasn't sure, although she suspected the latter.

They'd reached the dome's perimeter, where Hawkins and his two goons waited, and her attention switched reluctantly from the derelict. She refused to kowtow by acting either guilty or apologetic, but instead marched straight up to the man.

"Thank you for co-operating," he said as she stopped before him. As if he'd left her with any choice.

"So, what happens to me and my crew now?"

"That rather depends. Let's go inside."

She and Wicks followed as he walked the short distance back into the dome, the two guards bringing up the rear. If anyone there
wasn't
thinking about the alien craft, then it was someone other than her.

"What... what is that thing?"

Joss would have happily kicked Wicks all around the perimeter and back for that. She'd been determined not to ask; didn't want to give this Hawkins the satisfaction.

"Ah, yes... the reason we're here, obviously." He stopped walking. They all did. "Spectacular, isn't she?"

She
. Why were ships always 'she'? Joss would have been hard pressed to think of anything more phallicly masculine than the thrusting hull components of the derelict, yet still it was referred to as a 'she.'

"This single ship has yielded more insights and revelations than... well, more of that later." Which struck her as a good sign - the fact that there was going to
be
a 'later.'

They resumed walking, Joss deep in thought. She realised they'd stumbled on a secret. She wasn't entirely sure
whose
secret, but it didn't take a genius to realise that this was a big one. A universal truth about secrets in general and big ones in particular was that people tended to want to keep them. If she followed the logic too much further it was going to lead to some very depressing conclusions. Her only comfort, the thing she clung to, was the fact that none of them were dead yet.

"You were unlucky," Hawkins explained. "Normally this place is so tightly shielded you could have passed directly overhead without the faintest notion we were here. But we suffered a systems glitch just as you were approaching. As I say, bad luck."

"Funnily enough, that's exactly what I've been thinking of renaming the ship of late."

Hawkins didn't comment.

They entered an airlock built into the dome's inner skin. Big enough to take the five of them and more without crowding, she noted. Presumably built that way to accommodate work crews and equipment.

On the far side, Joss got to see Hawkins's face clearly for the first time as he removed his helmet. Older than her, but not by much; ten years at the most. Although several shades darker, his hair was as close-cropped as hers - a habit common among those who frequently wore space suits - and he wasn't unhandsome in a clean-cut sort of way, but incredibly pale-skinned, as if sunlight was something he'd vaguely heard about but never experienced.

One thing she'd grown increasingly convinced of. "You're not ULAW, are you?"

He chuckled, "No, we're definitely not ULAW. We're the habitat."

The
habitat
? Who the hell were they when they were at home?

He was still smiling. "Welcome to Far Flung, Captain Brennan."

Chapter Two

Manny Ousaka had a nose for trouble, a keen sense which he'd developed as a survival mechanism over many years of dealing with the unsavoury and the downright vicious. He clocked the woman as soon as she came in. Tall, slim, but looking as if she worked out, with a narrow waist and an insignificant chest but well defined arms and legs, a body that looked equally capable of delivering pleasure or pain. As for the face, it was slightly too angular to be called pretty, boasting high cheek bones and pleasant enough features, but with eyes a little too close together and a slightly darker brown than her fashionably close-cropped hair.
Handsome
was the word that sprung to mind. Manny was not in the least surprised when the screen built into his side of the counter - out of the customers' line of sight - flashed up a negative, indicating that the state of the art facial recognition programme he'd installed at great expense had drawn a blank. This didn't strike him as the sort of woman whose face appeared on any database. While studiously rearranging the bric-a-brac on the counter before him, he watched her from the corner of his eye as she sauntered around the shop, picking up a piece of ethnic pottery here and a colourful knickknack there, with interest so feigned that it was almost insulting in its shallowness. What was she waiting for? The shop to be empty, he guessed.

There were only two other customers at that time: a Mr and Mrs Loudon Kerchenko from Sigma III. Their profiles were nowhere near as elusive as the woman's. Mr Kerchenko had grown prosperous as part-owner of a mining concern, before going on to become extremely wealthy via some shrewd dealings in tangential futures. Slightly overweight and well past the first flush of youth, there was still a keen intelligence behind his eyes and an aura of success and power about the man which explained why women found him attractive. He was currently rumoured to be having affairs with both his wife's sister and, a more recent development, the sister's daughter. For her part, Mrs Kerchenko had been a minor celebrity in her youth, a star turn in a long-running holo-drama. She remained glamorous despite having put on a few extra pounds, and liked to think of herself as an altruist. She was a vocal supporter of the underprivileged and in recent years had become patron to several humanitarian charities. Perfect, just the sort of individual Manny loved to welcome to his little emporium.

He didn't want to leave the counter untended, not with Ms Anonymous prowling the aisles, so he signalled for one of the twins to take over. The girl dutifully shuffled out from the backroom, disturbing the fly curtain in the process so that its beads clicked together like the chirping of irritated insects. He had no idea which one this was - never had bothered learning to tell them apart. Lanky, languid, painfully thin, with an androgynous figure and a face that might have qualified as pretty had it been more animated, she had sandy blonde hair which fell long and straight past the shoulders, with enough split ends to have any hairdresser twitching and reaching for the cutters and conditioner.

The twin sisters provided perfect accompaniment to the downbeat ambience of the charity store. So emaciated were their frames that they could easily have appeared in one of the displays occupying half the front window, featuring a revolving parade of images to pull at even the tautest of heartstrings. Orphaned children, tattered clothes that hung from wasted limbs, arid landscape and poverty, skeletal ribcages, tears and forlorn expressions, all tailored to persuade the observer how essential it was that they should give freely of their own abundance to help these less-privileged souls.

There was nothing in the twins' appearance to hint at their augmented nature; nothing to suggest the speed with which they could move or the lethal strength they could bring to bear in a single punch should the need arise. No, the upgrades were all hidden beneath very ordinary seeming, if somewhat listless, skin - the alloy-sheathed bones and powered joints that made his girls so deceptively deadly. They'd have one hell of a time passing spaceport security checks should they ever choose to travel off world, but that was hardly Manny's problem.

Satisfied that the counter and its sophisticated equipment were well guarded, he moved across to where Mr and Mrs Kerchenko were currently pawing at a woollen garment mass-produced in the sweat shops of Kaitu City. Manny considered the item - a hooded top with wooden peg-buttons stitched on - to be one of the ugliest things he had ever seen, but its bold designs had exactly the right ethnic feel: stylised crosses, walking birds and bow-legged stick-figure men, all depicted in chocolate brown against a pale tan background.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said as he joined the couple. "Hand knitted by the children of Saratoga from wool gathered off the backs of their own sheep. These clothes are the only source of income for the entire region since the ilenium mine collapse which killed so many of their menfolk."

"How awful," Mrs Kerchenko said on cue.

"A great tragedy," Manny agreed, making it up as he went along and enjoying himself immensely. "If our sourcing agents hadn't found them and established routes and systems through which they can export and sell these exquisite handmade clothes, I shudder to think what would have become of them by now."

"How many of these do you have?" Mrs Kerchenko asked, batting her long, spidery eyelashes.

"Only what you see here," he replied, indicating the stack of half a dozen neatly folded and identical garments from which she'd taken the top one. "There's a limit to how many the children can actually produce."

"Of course, I understand. We'll take the lot, won't we, Lou?"

"Hmm? Sure. Whatever you say, my love."

Impulsively, she reached out to grip Manny's hand. "I want to thank you for all you're doing to help these poor children."

Was it his imagination or did her hand linger a fraction longer than it needed to? No, not his imagination; he felt her well-manicured thumbnail very deliberately caress his palm as she let go. A little startled, he glanced up and caught her fleeting smile. It was enough to make him wonder exactly how much she knew or suspected about her husband's playing around, and what she did to compensate. Manny had no illusion about being god's gift to women, but he knew that his dark features and twinkling eyes leant him a certain rakish charm. Trouble wasn't the only thing he had a nose for - albeit a slightly crooked one, the result of a long-ago fist fight which he'd failed to correct in his youth, misguidedly retaining the defect as if it were some badge of honour. He sensed that this glamorous if slightly plastic-looking woman, with her arm draped so casually through that of her husband's, was his for the taking.

"I just wish there was more we could do to help," she said.

"Well, if you'll trust me with your wric details, I could always put you in touch with our agent who handles the Saratoga account, see if there's anything that could be sorted out."

"Really?" she gushed. "Oh, that would be so wonderful."

Wonderful indeed, if he could screw her both physically and financially. "How much longer are you going to be in town for?"

"Another week or so. That's right, isn't it, Lou?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"My husband has a little business to attend to while we're here."

Leaving her alone for long periods, no doubt. An invitation if ever he'd heard one. Manny realised he hadn't even bothered checking her first name. A fine looking woman, no question. Her forehead might be as immobile as her elegantly curled golden hair, but he bet those full, plump lips could suck life back into the dead.

Moments later the couple breezed out of the shop, secure in the knowledge that the precious garments would be delivered to their hotel later that day, while Manny's credit account had swollen a fraction and his WRist Information Centre pulsed with a little green envelope signifying the arrival of Mrs Loudon Kerchenko's contact details, squirted across from her own wric. Maybe now he'd get to learn her first name.