Dana Cartwright Mission 3: Kal-King (3 page)

Once up and into a robe, she hopped toward the doorway just in time to hear a mechanical voice repeat, “…See you at 1200 hours.” The amber lamp now blinked double-time.
 

Two messages
, Dana guessed. She tasted a piece of red fruit from the gift basket, smiled, and then ordered the machine, “Retrieve all.”

The device dutifully complied, repeating the first message. “Spaceport Commissioner Stevenson will see you at 0800 hours local. Store or delete?”

She frowned, seeing the time was already 1028. “Delete and continue.”

The second message — the same mechanical voice — said, “Spaceport Commissioner Stevenson will see you at 1200 hours local. Store or delete?”

Dana scowled. “Delete.”

The amber light winked out and the device fell silent.

After a second piece of the juicy red fruit, she hopped over to the duplicator, requesting a tall glass of filtered water. It barely quenched her thirst, so she ordered a second and only then began to think clearly.

“Get dressed. Check out of this place. Get to the spaceport.” It seemed a logical plan.

She inserted a few more subroutines like, use the facilities, braid hair, pack some of the goodies from the food basket into the backpack, along with the spare jumpsuit.
 

Wearing the other comfortable jumpsuit along with bath slippers on her feet, pocketing the room pass and transportation card, Dana headed down to the front desk, backpack slung over one shoulder.

A different orange-complexioned, young woman staffed the desk; this one was far more helpful. “You have 17,000 credits as a refund. Would you like it all on one card; or do you prefer some in local currency?”

“Some local would be good,” Dana responded, vaguely recalling the Ambassador mentioning that it might be needed.

Dana accepted one thousand in assorted denominations of bills, and a resort logo credit card, presumably with the remainder of the refund.

“Sorry you can’t stay for the entire week,” the clerk said.

Cartwright forced a smile. “I had a dip in the pool.”

“Wonderful.”

Dana turned away, secreting the currency and card into a compartment under the backpack flap, sealing it. As she returned the pack to her shoulder, her eyes lighted upon a shop just off the main lobby. She hopped that way, browsing a display of solar cloaks — from the ghastly dotted pink to a macabre jet black — all with price tags of ten thousand and up.

Rats! Have to do without.

Instead, she found a cheap pair of gray, thigh-high boots and asked to try them on. With a little assistance from the clerk, she found they fit and even helped relieve some of the pain in her left leg and were well-worth the two thousand credits.

“I’ll wear them,” Dana decided, offering the credit card to pay, returning it to the secret compartment after use.

The clerk accepted the declaration and went back to clerking as Dana hobbled across the lobby to the exit.

A robo-cab hovered just under the awning, in the shade. She fell in, got settled on the front seat, then used the original credit card the staffer at the medical center had given her.
 

Destination: Spaceport administration.

The protective solar screen came down and the cab zoomed away from the lavish resort, into the blinding rays of the blazing sun. The temperature inside the cab rose, easily twenty degrees before Dana had the presence of mind to manipulate the climate controls.

“Have to be careful,” she chided herself. “Feeling dull-minded…spacey.”

A landmark list scrolled by once again on the front map screen. She memorized it, without really caring why, just to pass the time until the cab deposited her underground at the spaceport transportation hub. It spit out the credit card as the solar shield opened for her to exit the cab.

After hobbling about, wasting time searching for a map of the facility, she stopped a uniformed female and asked for directions.
 

By the time she reached Stevenson’s offices at 1205, his mechanical droid assistant scolded, “You must now wait to see the Commissioner at 1400 hours.”

She sank down on an uncommonly comfortable sofa in the waiting area and dozed.

Dec poked Janz awake in time to feel the ship begin deceleration. “Get up!”

Macao obeyed, shakily standing, biting back sciatic nerve pain running down his right leg, as Dec motioned him to a privy, past some of the other guards and followed inside a stall.

Silently, Dec pointed to the latrine.

Macao was glad for the relief, but unprepared for the pounding on his back and let out several loud yelps.

Dec crowded him and whispered in his ear, “The others will think you are my slave now. Submit and I will protect you, friend of January.”

Macao got the picture all too clearly, gritted his teeth and nodded, leaning hard against the metal frame to give Dec room to relieve himself. He hung his head as they passed the other guards, while going back to the holding area, sat where Dec commanded, and cowered while silently mulling,
What have I gotten myself into?

His wife and life-mate whispered telepathically,
Be patient, Beloved.

Macao responded, nervously,
Stay with me, Shalee?

Always…My love.

Cartwright instantly disliked the fat man, from both an empathetic sensation and an emotional reaction.

Stevenson spread out in an oversized command chair — probably scavenged from one of the big, retired battleships — behind a grossly massive, black desk, wearing a shimmering, light-blue uniform two sizes too small for his volume. He had silver eyes, that looked like shiny coins with beady little black dots in the center, and scolded her with them, the way DOC Cartwright, her adoptive father, always had.

Empathetically, she detected a subversive message and knew,
I wasn’t supposed to survive.
Stevenson knew much more than a spaceport commissioner should about
Seraph
and Ambassador Taurian’s death.

Dana remained calm, face stoic, as she stared down T-III’s Spaceport Commissioner. Neither blinked.

“You skipped out before affixing a seal to the investigator’s report.” He indicated a padlet on her side of the desk with his misshapen, massive right hand that was missing the two middle digits.

Dana glanced at the report. “This is inaccurate. I will not certify it.”

“You lied to the investigator?”

“He lied to you. I told him
Seraph
did not crash upon landing,” Dana said, emphasizing
crash
.

“That’s your story?”

Dana’s spine stiffened. “
Seraph
did not crash, sir. Something in a storage compartment exploded.”

“Very well, I will amend the statement accordingly. A review board shall convene a hearing in two or three days. You must attend.”

Her heart sank. That meant no escape from T-III on the next flight out.

Fane!

She waited for more, since he obviously hadn’t dismissed her.

“Now then, about the concealed weapon,” he snapped, producing from somewhere in a desk drawer the Sterillian blade. He played with it, inspecting the blade tip and especially noted with a frown that a gemstone in the pommel was missing, making it far less valuable as a resale item.

“I claim diplomatic immunity as the Ambassador’s aide,” Cartwright responded firmly, worried that he wouldn’t return her property.

That caused the fat man’s face to warp into an unflattering frown. “Very well, so noted. Since that position no longer exists, the immunity is terminated, effective immediately.” He slid the blade back in the sheath and hid it back in the drawer. “Dismissed!”

He didn’t have to tell her twice.

Dana hobbled about the spaceport, wandering aimlessly for a time, desperately trying to calm her anger and soothe her disappointment. By that time, she’d returned to her starting point, having made the full circle. Glancing upward, she spotted a gadget shop on the level above. Since everything she owned was, presumably, destroyed with
Seraph
or in the Commissioner’s paws — and she had several days to kill — a new padlet seemed in order. She took the moving stairs up to the second level and hopped across the walkway to the shop.

The reptilian clerk, well over twice her height, lounged back behind an overloaded display case. A dark-green, scaled Rigelian, with dark eyes, he offered a friendly gesture with his four-clawed right appendage. “We have everything,” he said in both Earth standard and Uni.

Dana bet he did. “I need a new padlet.”

“New are one thousand credits. I have a recycled link-reader for twenty — unregistered.”
 

She wasn’t sure if he winked, or his eyes just naturally seemed to. “Recycled?” She suspected that meant stolen.

He immediately countered her thought. “Recycled means I took it back as a trade-in on a newer model.”

She still didn’t believe him.

He chuckled and with a throaty rasp admitted, “From someone who no longer needed it.”

Dana got the picture. “Show me?”

He did. It was in surprisingly good condition.
 

“I always liked link-readers better than the new padlets.”

“They are lighter…more versatile,” he added.

“Does it come with a charger?”

He produced a small, fist-sized box. “Solar recharger is separate, works on a variety of devices, also twenty credits. On T-III it works very quickly, otherwise, requires bright lights. Bring back if you don’t like it. Full credit always offered.”

“Sold.” Dana reached for some local currency in her backpack.

“We don’t take local. Cards only.” He shrugged his massive shoulders.

She pulled out both the resort card and the other. “Where can I get this transportation card recharged, do you know?”

He grinned. “We can do that here. Ten credits each trip. How many you need?”

She guessed, “Six.”

He nodded, reached for the card, and then whispered, “I have some other items, perhaps you would be interested?” He indicated a locked, flat case about the size of her backpack.

“Perhaps…”

He used an oddly shaped key to open the case and displayed a variety of knives.
 

“All metal?” Dana realized. Her eyes narrowed. “No Sterillian?”

“Sterillian very hard to get. Collectors keep.”

She shook her head, rejecting the array, though some of the Castellan blades certainly were impressive. “I prefer non-metal. They’re worth it.”

He shrugged, locked the case, and moved it back behind the counter.
 

“I need a bunk for a few nights,” Dana tested. “Is there anywhere secure, but inexpensive?”

He chuckled. “Spacer’s Haven…Triple locks, very secure. Weekly rates.”

“Do they take local?”

“Always…but never use the link-reader there. Easily traced. Better to visit pubs or cafés…Or the coffeehouse at the marketplace.”

She understood his meaning and felt he was being truthful — well, as truthful as a local mobster can be. “Thanks.” She handed over the resort card and the transportation card.

“One hundred total,” the Rigelian said, running both through a device on the countertop, and then returning them.
 

Dana took the link-reader and slipped it in the outer slot on the backpack, secured the cards and solar-charger inside, and then slung it over her shoulder. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you…”

His response shocked her. “Glad you survived.”
 

So am I…
she thought, giving him a smile, betting he knew more about the incident than the blasted Spaceport Commissioner and the Investigator combined.

“Commodore?”

Kieran Jai pulled his attention away from the stellar cartography maps tracking all ships in the sector. One small dot on the map was cause for concern. The panoramic view served as his control center aboard
SS Thresher
, though Captain McHale had offered him the run of the ship. He turned to make eye contact with his assistant. “Colonel?”

“Pardon my interruptions, sir,” Colonel Xalier purred from the doorway, “there’s been an incident reported. Ambassador Taurian’s ship crashed on landing at Tonner III.” The Felidae indicated he had the supporting details on a padlet in his furry paw and sadly blinked his feline eyes.

“Taurian! What a pity; he was an incredibly charming man,” Kieran mumbled. “Have you reviewed the report?”

“Yes, sir?” Colonel Xalier offered the padlet, ruminating, “The pilot survived. Claims it was no accident.”

“They all do,” Jai grumbled.

“Sir?” It came out as a nervous hiss.
 

Commodore Jai scowled with annoyance as Xalier continued, “With all due respect, sir, the pilot was Captain Cartwright, Dana January Cartwright.”

The Commodore’s scowl deepened while reaching for the padlet, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. Just reading Dana Cartwright’s name caused a gnawing in the pit of his stomach, and an ache in his heart, not to mention a pang of lust much lower.
 

He read on and made a snap decision. “I scheduled a five-day vacation at The Crossroads Station. Change that to Tonnertown on T-III.”

“As a civilian?”

“Yes. Do we have any assets there? Don’t alert them I’m coming, and not a word to anyone else about my location. I can be back in time for the pre-conference, security planning meetings if I take my private shuttle,
Kaiden
.”

Colonel Xalier purred as the Commodore perused the report.

“Obviously, Commissioner Stevenson blames the crash on pilot error.” Kieran Jai knew for a fact that Dana Cartwright didn’t make piloting errors. The timing couldn’t be worse. Then again…

Jai fingered the voice-badge on his uniform collar. “Have the flight deck ready my personal shuttle.”

“Aye, sir,” came in response from the
Thresher
communications officer.

Kieran turned to his assistant, offering in dismissal, “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Sir, there’s one more matter. I took the liberty of reviewing T-III’s recent arrivals.”