Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (16 page)

“Okay, Keesay,” Smith said, “here’s what you need to know. After we enter we’ll have ninety seconds to select bunker dimensions and special defenses. Our job is to hold out as long as we can. Assaults will come mainly from Stegmar Mantis.”

“I know a little about them and something about the Crax,” I interjected.

“Good. There’ll be few Gar-Crax and they’ll probably have defense screens of unknown strength. Hopefully, not too much. We’ll have to lay in concentrated fire. Also, there’ll be Bulldog Beetles.” My expression told him I needed an explanation. “They’re trained animals, kind of like military attack dogs but smaller. They fly and their pinchers inject a numbing toxin. Weak, but effective on humans.”

“They’d be taken with the shot gun,” I suggested. “Best range would be forty yards or less unless they’re hard to penetrate.”

“Right,” Smith said. “Now, the Stegmar fire high-speed needle projectiles with various toxins. From the computerized defense options, I recommend we select the antitoxin inoculation.”

“Doesn’t it detract from our score?”

“It does, Keesay, but if you’re hit early you’re out.”

“Stegmar. They’re R-Tech, correct?”

“Right,” said Smith.

“How are the needles fired, propelled?”

“Compressed gasses, CO
2
I believe.”

“Can I use riot gear in place of inoculations?”

“Sure,” said Smith, “but why?”

I turned to the attendant. “Can you get a riot control shield?”

He looked a little taken aback to be addressed. “Sure.”

“Get it fast!” I urged. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Fortunately, for his own reasons, the attendant took off running. I looked at the chronometer. “Simulation should be starting within fifteen seconds. I’m figuring they won’t last long.”

“We may not either, but it’s your game,” Smith said. “Anyhow, something else. You know anything about the Stegmar’s predatory sounding?”

Puzzled, I said, “No.”

Smith looked a little troubled. “It’s loud and can be unnerving.” He paused. “Best I can describe it would be an agitating, clicking sound. They use it to panic prey, flush them. And when there’s a group sounding, it’s worse.” He thought a second. “Penetrates right to the bone, like nails scratching a chalkboard to a factor of ten. You’d have to deaden all hearing to negate it.”

“Nice analogy with the chalk,” I said, hoping the sounding wouldn’t distract me too much. “Eliminating all verbal communication between us, correct?”

“When they get close enough,” he said. “That’ll be in the simulation. I bet Ringsar hopes it’ll unnerve you.”

“I’m pretty steady,” I said. “Let me warn you, I’m not a fast shot, but I’m accurate. You take the shotgun?”

“That’s what I figured,” Smith agreed. “Just wanted to prepare you. Trust me to make the bunker selections?”

“I trust your judgment. And I’m glad you’re willing to shoot with me.”

“Pillar, I think they call him,” Smith said, glancing over my shoulder. “You took my advice. He was spoiling for a fight and you avoided it.”

“He’d have made quick work of me. But maybe we can make quick work on terrain of my choosing.”

“You pushed him pretty hard. Shooting with you is one thing...”

“I know, but I needed an edge in negotiating terms of the match.”

“Here comes your friend, Keesay. So what’s your plan?”

The attendant hustled over. “Here. I checked it out for an hour.”

“Plenty of time, thanks.” I handed him two gum wraps. “Real cane sugar in them.”

Looking pleased, he said, “May as well go watch, what’s left. The lieutenant’s recording it.”

Interesting, I thought. Maybe the lieutenant doesn’t care for Ringsar. I unfolded the clear reinforced duro-plastic shield before adjusting the braces and arm sling. Smith watched. “This should protect me from the needles,” I said. “If scoring is similar to security scenarios, then using R-Tech equipment in lieu of I-Tech injections will decrease point deduction before the time factor.” I demonstrated by hunkering down with the tall convex shield over my left shoulder. “I can curl in behind this while reloading.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I select the defensive setup.” He pointed toward the range. “Must be over. Short like you expected. All we have to do is to last longer and kill a few more.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Infuriated, Ringsar emerged from the range. “Worthless piece of crap,” he yelled. “Here take it, Sec-Spec.”

O’Vorley cringed when Ringsar slammed the revolver into his hand. The young security specialist shifted his grip to a safer one and moved to the table with Yizardo who’d retrieved the shotgun. Ringsar stomped our way. His action was over, so there was no reason to rile him further.

“You little...” began the fuming marine, but he was too angry to finish, his hands balled into fists. “If I ever,” he started before lunging.

I wasn’t surprised and deflected his bulk with my shield. Still, he knocked me off balance. If he got a hold of me, the shield would be useless, so I discarded it before he came at me again.

I thought I was ready, but with near perfect execution he stopped, pivoted, and came around with a kick, striking my right leg. The blow hurt, but I kept my footing and came back with a punch to his kidney. Little effect. I backed off, blocking a blow to my head. Even that staggered me. If he got hold of me I was done for.

Seeing that I had no desire to engage him and probably recalling the lieutenant’s recommendation, two of Ringsar’s buddies tried to restrain him. He threw them off and charged again. That delay gave me time to retrieve a little relic technology to help my cause. I was going to lose, but he’d pay a price. This in mind, I slipped on my brass knuckles and made ready.

This time my foe directed his assault with more cunning than rage. I dodged and swung, but before I knew what was happening he knocked me to the ground. I sent two brass reinforced jabs to his face. He snared my jabbing arm in an iron grip. I tried to roll him off as he landed a crushing blow to my chest.

I gasped, trying to refill my lungs while his massive hand palmed my face. I pried at his grip with my free hand to no avail, then braced myself as he drew my head up and prepared to slam it against the floor. I bit at his palm before he thrust my skull downward.

My head never struck. Someone rammed into Ringsar and knocked him off of me. I rolled away, still gasping for air. More surprised than stunned, Ringsar rolled to his feet while O’Vorley scrambled to his, and backed away.

“Halt!” O’Vorley shouted in a shaky, adrenaline-charged voice. “Or you’ll be detained and charged with assault.”

I struggled for air, not expecting help from the any of the marines. They watched with interest as Ringsar grinned.

Wiping blood from a gash above his eye, he laughed. “Back off, kid, or you’re next.” He started toward me, but hesitated at O’Vorley’s next move.

With stun baton in hand, O’Vorley stated with a measure of authority, “Marine Private, I said stop!”

One of Ringsar’s buddies started to make a move, but Smith grabbed him and mumbled into his ear.

Ringsar turned on O’Vorley. “Then I’ll take you first!”

I reacted, but not fast enough.

O’Vorley stepped back and swung his baton. The marine easily blocked the strike and caught Kent across the chin with a right. He was even less of a match for the hulking marine than me. Before I could get there, O’Vorley was down. But I saw my chance.

Just as Ringsar turned to face me, I came in low and plowed my shoulder into his knee. It popped as we went down. Grabbing O’Vorley’s baton, I rolled away before the marine got hold of me again.

Ringsar bellowed, grabbing his knee, “Get him!”

Two of his fellow marines responded before a commanding voice behind me ordered, “Marines, halt!” Silence followed. Behind me stood the lieutenant and three Marine MPs. “What’s the matter, Private?” asked the lieutenant. “Pick a fight and lost this time?” He glared at me. “What caused this incident, Specialist?”

I knew it was all recorded. “I am not sure, sir. Private Ringsar came out of the range and charged me.”

“And what about him?” he asked, pointing at the unconscious O’Vorley.

“Specialist O’Vorley ordered Private Ringsar to restrain himself and threatened him with detainment if he didn’t.” I thought quickly. “Specialist O’Vorley was within his rights, even in Green Sector, as the altercation involved a fellow security specialist.”

“I know the regulations, Specialist. He was out of line.”

I wanted to keep O’Vorley and myself out of trouble. “Technically, sir, we are under the same authority through corporate agreement between Negral Corp and Quinn Mining.” I looked at Ringsar. “I would like to keep this incident off the record. Even if the situation would warrant it, I have no intention of filing any charges against anyone, sir. I can speak for Specialist O’Vorley. He doesn’t either.”

The lieutenant looked skeptical. “Corporal Smith, is what the specialist said occurred here, accurate?”

“Yes, it is, sir.”

“Could he file charges against Private Ringsar?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, sir,” Smith said, catching a glimpse of a surveillance camera.

While the lieutenant pondered the situation, two Quinn security personnel entered the range area. “Specialist Dribbs,” said the lieutenant, “you have a man down. Take him to the infirmary.”

“What happened here, Lieutenant, sir?” Dribbs asked.

“Specialist O’Vorley has declined to file charges, so it’s out of your jurisdiction.”

Dribbs looked around and took in the scene. “Yes, sir.”

I handed Dribbs the stun baton. “This is O’Vorley’s.”

He grunted, inspecting the welt rising under Kent’s left eye. Blood trickled from Kent’s mouth, down his cheek. “Wake up, kid.”

O’Vorley stirred and then awoke with a jolt. “It’s all right, kid.” The older Sec-Spec helped Kent to his feet and provided support.

As they went past, I winked. “Thanks, O’Vorley. Now you look like me.”

“Just what he needs,” Dribbs mumbled. Still unfocused, Kent grinned.

“Get moving,” said the lieutenant. “You, Keesay, get your gear. You are prohibited use of this range and associated facilities until further notice. Yizardo, assist him.”

I could live with that and moved to follow his directive fast as my aching body allowed.

Not looking happy, Yizardo said, “I’ll gather the spent casings for recycling and the unused shells.”

“Just toss them together,” I replied while inspecting my duty revolver. “I’ll sort it out later.” I heard the lieutenant speaking harshly, but in muffled tones, to Ringsar. “What do you think’ll happen to Private Ringsar?”

“He’ll go on report,” Yizardo said crossly. “Depends on how long he’s off duty.”

I didn’t feel guilty in the least. “If he didn’t have such a hot head.”

“If you hadn’t set him up.”

“I know you have to stick up for a fellow marine,” I said. “He wanted a fight and I tried to avoid it. He got what he wanted, just not what he expected.”

“That kid stuck up for you,” Yizardo said with measured respect. “Surprised the hell out of me.”

“We’re not as highly trained as you marines, but the same type of blood flows through our veins. Just a different vintage.” I put the shotgun in its sack. “If he’d had some training, he wouldn’t have been dropped so easily.”

“Give me those brass knuckles,” replied Yizardo, “and I’ll make sure he can shoot straight.”

I pulled them out of my pocket. “What’ll I do next time I run across an angry marine?”

“Get your ass kicked just like today.”

I reached into another pocket. “Tell you what. You give those to O’Vorley and I’ll give you this instead.” I handed him the beef jerky.

“Where’d you get this?”

I grinned. “Us R-Techs have our sources. Do we have a deal?”

“Sure thing,” he said. “Got everything?”

I placed my .38 in its ankle holster. “Yes.”

“You’d better get out of here before the lieutenant changes his mind.”

The lieutenant continued chewing out Ringsar and his pals even as they loaded the injured marine onto a stretcher. “Right. My transport comes in tomorrow, but maybe our paths will cross again.”

Yizardo smirked.

I made it back to my quarters, earning a few stares but without incident. I was too sore to go out and find a meal, so instead I scribbled a note to O’Vorley, personally thanking him. I cleaned my guns and sorted shells before making arrangements to be notified when the
Kalavar
made contact with the dock.

After that, I packed everything for travel and prepared for bed. As I relaxed my battered body, I thought back on the past day. The image of fallen Agent Brown brought a tear as I said a prayer for her, and for the soul of the gunman I’d killed that day. I didn’t have the strength that night to pray for the others.

An inner colony is defined as one established within the negotiated security zone. During the Silicate War the military, supported by corporations, established a number of outposts with con-gates inside the security zone. Immediately after the war, corporations forged their way further into the stars seeking planets, moons and asteroids to exploit and settle.

With few habitable planets discovered within the security zone, efforts focused on the relatively large number of planets, moons and asteroid belts offering mineral wealth, despite their otherwise inhospitable characteristics.

Exploiting the mineral wealth in the inner colonies, corporations, with military support, leapfrogged to establish border and even some outer colonies. It is a difficult and dangerous, yet profitable, enterprise.

I awoke to shrill beeps sounding off at two-second intervals. Using the illumination from the flashing wall screen, I activated the lights and tapped the red section of the screen.

“Patron computer request has monitored an incoming message from the civil transport
Kalavar
,” said a sharp, synthesized voice. “You have been notified per your request.” After a pause, it continued, “May I be of further assistance?”

Who authorized artificial intelligence programs to refer to themselves as ‘I’? “Yes, you can,” I said, being very concise. “When is the civil transport
Kalavar
scheduled to dock with this, the Mavinrom Space Dock?”

“The transport is scheduled to dock at 05:26 Earth standard time. One hour and twenty-nine minutes from now. Will that be all this morning, Specialist Keesay?”

Its syntax impressed me, but I didn’t care for the familiarity. Some I-Techs feel more at ease conversing with a computer than a person. Not me. “No. I have another question. At which docking bay is the civil transport
Kalavar
scheduled to be received?”

“The transport
Kalavar
is expected to dock at Bay Four. May I be of further assistance to you this morning?”

“That is all.”

“Thank you,” it replied before the computer screen flashed to the Quinn logo, a bold, blue ‘Q’ emblazoned upon a pitted asteroid.

I performed my morning regimen of stretches, sit-ups, and pushups. I did pretty well considering my battered condition. I hopped in the shower to take full advantage of water rights provided by Field Director Simms. My shoulder was tender but healing. My lip and eye needed some time, too. Using my straight razor, I shaved before brushing my teeth, running a comb through my hair, and placing ointment on my injuries.

Fortunately, the room had a cleaning chamber. Many I-Tech inventions are annoying, but this one is handy, despite the fact that Capital Galactic Investment holds the patent. The night before I’d placed my uniform in the rectangular wall panel and activated the chemical cleaning sequence. As usual, it did an excellent job.

Last, I dressed, including my new, pocketed duty vest before strapping on my duty sidearm and backup. I missed my brass knuckles. I had an hour before docking so I rechecked my cart and refilled my water bottles before hurrying to the central transport hub to take an internal shuttle.

I was correct in my assumption that the shuttle wouldn’t be crowded, nor was the bay area when I checked my cart. For breakfast I selected a double order of toast, synthetic eggs and orange juice along with a vitamin supplement. Bread was the only authentic item available in the standard processed food line.

After breakfast, I stopped at a patron service station to confirm my ordered equipment was scheduled for transfer to the
Kalavar
. I then commissioned a courier-bot to deliver my note to O’Vorley and transferred what was left on my chit to my personal account. I could’ve sent Kent’s note electronically, but those are impersonal.

I made my way to the lounge area and sat in one of their meagerly padded chairs. I spotted Smith and his squad heading for a meal before forming up. I also saw a Chicher, possibly the one from the day before, scamper to the gourmet line.

With nothing else to do but wait, I pulled down the overhead computer clip and set it to inform me when the
Kalavar
arrived. I spent the rest of my time reading the
InterStellar Times News Update
. Computer magazines, still called ezines by most, and made available compliments of space docks, are usually more advertisements and propaganda than hard news, but they’re better than nothing.

While skimming an article on an attempted hostile takeover of 14th Venture Travels by CGIG, the preset docking indicator flashed. I switched the screen over to watch the docking approach. The
Kalavar
wasn’t large by today’s standards, being about the size of a World War II era battleship. Today, anything built under a kilometer in length is considered, at best, medium class.

I’d researched the
Kalavar
. Originally her exterior had been sleek. But her modernization included a series of armor plates patched over most of the hull. It made the transport appear boxier than her designers ever intended. Since the vessel no longer served as a high-class transport catering to the wealthy, fashion was no longer a consideration. The patchwork reminded me of the
Iron Armadillo
’s exterior. A tingle of excitement ran down my spine.

I retrieved my cart and waited in the contract employee section along with a few technicians and their automated carts. I’d dined next to one tech planetside; she had nothing to say to me then. I knew better than trying to start a conversation then, and now. They felt the same about me. Still, I gathered from their whispers that they were new hires as well.

Shortly after the ship docked, a cross-looking class 2 Sec-Spec by the name of Club, sporting an Emigration Official patch, scanned our V-ID and checked us in. Upon closer observation, she appeared more exhausted than angry.

“Specialist Keesay,” she said, “report immediately to Security Chief Brold. Your possessions will be delivered to your quarters.” Before I could ask, she finished. “Deck Three, below aft-observation.”

The C2 didn’t appear open to questions. “Thank you, Specialist Club,” I said. I’d studied a basic layout of the old civil transports and modernization upgrades for interstellar travel. If there was an aft-observation located above the engines, then there must be some sort of weapons mount on Deck 1. Interesting, I thought, as I boarded.

The vessel retained much of its old design as evidenced by the low ceilings and numerous pipes and conduits. A few new lines had been added. As on freighters or military vessels, placing them out of sight wasn’t a priority. I moved from portside, aft and upward, observing that the
Kalavar
had received more than one round of upgrades. Medium transports normally have a minimum crew of 50 technicians and engineers, in addition to general maintenance, service, and support staff. I had no idea the complement of security personnel on board. I passed only one person, wearing soiled, tan coveralls. Apparently they kept maintenance techs busy.

Hesitating only once or twice to get my bearings, I thought about the name of the chief. Simms said his name was Corbin. Maybe a change in personnel or an unlikely error on Simms’s part.

I arrived just as a pilot in a flight suit exited the security chief’s office. No one was in the outer office. Before I announced myself to the monitor, the door opened. “Enter, Specialist Keesay,” ordered a deep, gruff voice.

Behind a broad desk sat a man with gray eyes and even grayer hair. His crew cut suggested a military background. Despite the gray, his build and attitude indicated anything but elderly. I took in all of this, including the nameplate, while coming to attention. It read ‘Security Chief Corbin Brold.’

He pulled a small reddish stick from the corner of his mouth before addressing me. “Specialist Keesay, it seems you had a little action before we arrived. Quite a shiner.” He smiled. “Do you know why you’re here, Specialist?”

His insignia identified him as a C1. “To serve aboard the
Kalavar
as a security specialist.”

“Do you know why they hired you?”

“My training and experience qualified me for the position.” He sat stone-faced. “And I understand that there is a shortage of security specialists currently available.” No response. “And that as a C4 I could do the same job for less, meaning more profit for Negral Corp.” I didn’t even think he was breathing. “Random luck, Chief?”

“Don’t know, do you, Keesay?” he said. “They didn’t exactly consult me either. Any or all of your reasons may be correct.” He leaned back. “Fact is, you’re here.” He quickly sat forward. “Damn. Step around here, Keesay.”

I did, and looked down at his desk and followed his finger. One of the multiple surveillance screens showed a man in uniform heading down a corridor.

“That’s the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Carlos Devans. A company man. Smart, but a pain in the ass.” With a tap he enlarged the screen. “See that weasel-eatin’ grin?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“That means he’s got an idea.” He switched screens as the lieutenant commander turned a corner. “And he’s heading this way.”

The chief slid the red toothpick back into the corner of his mouth. “Your first assignment is to stall him. Then, your second assignment is to familiarize yourself with the ship.” He finished with a business-like tone. “Report back here in three hours.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” I said, studying the screen.

“Turn right on your way out,” Chief Brold suggested. “You’ve got about ninety seconds.”

I turned and checked my watch. Three hours. Now to stall. I left the chief, turned right and strode down the corridor with a purpose.

This was a test to be sure. Of what? Ingenuity? The ability to respond? Maybe the chief wanted to finish a cup of coffee. I’d heard rumors that Negral supplied unusual fare, on occasion, to its crew.

I trotted down the corridor, refocusing on the task at hand. I didn’t want to foster a bad first impression with the XO, nor did I want to tinker with any of equipment in the halls, which might ultimately cause somebody grief. Ahead I saw an old man moving with a bow-legged shuffle, examining the walls, pipes and grating. He had thinning, gray hair and a well-manicured mustache.

The man had to be a centenarian, or older. He wore an aging leather tool belt carrying wrenches, pliers, and other old-style tools. A loose-fitting, faded black uniform draped his wiry frame. The color black didn’t conform to standard ID of a specific specialization.

As I approached, he smiled. “You look to be in a hurry there.” He eyed my healing cuts and bruises through a set of half glasses.

“I am just that...” There wasn’t an ID tag on his coveralls. “Maintenance Specialist?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not a part of any specialist conglomeration.”

“You’re right, I am in a hurry.” Viewing his tool belt, I asked, “Say, do you have anything that I can borrow to reach down through a floor grating access port?”

“Sure do,” he said, pulling out a flexible rod with a small claw-like tip. “Just grip it like this, and use your thumb on the plunger to open it.”

“Great! Exactly what I need. I’ll get it back to you in about ten minutes?”

“No need rushin’. I’ll be around.”

“Thank You, Mr...”

“Just Elmer, but my friends call me Mer.”

“Thanks, Mer. Just call me Kra. Love to chat, but I’ve got to go!”

He shuffled aside and chuckled. “No problem.”

I hustled down the corridor, scanning the floor for an access hole in the grating. I came across one along the wall. It had a five-inch diameter. I reached into my pocket and produced an ever-handy gum-wrap. Looking through the grate, I lowered the candy through the unused port, and flipped it toward the center of the floor. It landed just beyond some conduits about three feet away. They conveniently obstructed a floor level view of the candy. Perfect, just in time.

Around a corner strode the executive officer. He spotted me on the floor with my arm in the access hole. I looked up with a surprised expression before removing my arm and standing at attention. I saw more clearly what the chief meant by the XO’s smile. It was serious, whetted with a hint of wiliness.

He stopped and appraised me. “At ease, Specialist.” His voice wasn’t deep, but it resonated. A contrast to my initial assessment. He caught my eyes darting a glance through the grating as I relaxed.

Looking at my hand and then my ID patch, he continued, “What have you got there, Security Specialist Keesay?”

I didn’t know the term for the tool. “A tubular grasping device, sir.”

“And what are you attempting to do with your, grasping device?” He scrutinized my sleeve. “You’re not auxiliary maintenance.”

Reestablishing eye contact, I said, “I was just leaving Chief Brold’s office, and preparing for my ordered tour of the
Kalavar
.” I looked around and didn’t spot the old fellow. “I was considering celebrating my new assignment with a gum-wrap, authentic sugar. As you can see, it ended up under the grating. Out of reach.”

“Chief Brold’s office.” He nodded. “Where did you obtain the device?”