Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (3 page)

His gaze hardened. “That is correct.”

“Well, it seems you can’t lose.”

“Yes, we can,” Simms said. “We have to get you to Io and the research facilities there.”

“You think Capital Galactic has something to do with the whole thing?”

Simms gave a non-committal look. For a fraction of a second he locked gazes with Diplomat Silvre.

“Anything is within the realm of possibility,” she said.

“Some things appear more probable,” he said, looking from her to me. “Kra, the
Iron Armadillo
will be docking shortly.” He reached into his jacket and produced a small semi-automatic pistol. He checked the clip, chambered a round, uncocked it, and handed it to me.

My look must have betrayed my thoughts.

“Capital Galactic attempted to silence you once today already,” he explained.

I examined the gun. It was old but well maintained. Twenty-two caliber, blued steel, rosewood grips.

Simms continued, “Not exactly heavy duty. I checked your file. I know you prefer old-style revolvers, but it should do.”

The pistol was pretty light and would have little recoil. “In my condition, I think it’ll be manageable. How many rounds?”

“Seven. I use it mostly for sport, sometimes as a backup. It’s an antique. You’re lucky I had it with me.” He grinned. “I’ll be sure to ask for it back.”

“Thanks. It’s in excellent condition. I’ll try not to use it on Hawks should I see him in the next few minutes.”

“Much appreciated.”

I asked, “Do you really think they’ll try something?”

“If they believe you have sufficient knowledge,” said Silvre as she moved around the bed out of view. “Or information that could be damaging to their investors, or the investment group as a whole. We believe they’ll try to eliminate the source.”

“The captain of the
Pars Griffin
has denied personnel from the
Armadillo
boarding his ship, denied us escort off his vessel,” said Simms as he retrieved the computer clip from the table. “Even though we’re at war, military-corporate protocol dictates that under the circumstances, on this class vessel, it’s his prerogative.” He tapped a few spots, bringing up the
Pars Griffin
’s layout. “We’re here,” he pointed. “This is our route.”

A red line traced a path left, down the hall about eighty yards, past one cross hall and another thirty yards, a short turn to the right to an elevator. Eight decks down and out. A straight shot, about thirty yards to the docking hitch and the
Iron Armadillo
. A yellow line began to trace another path five decks below that led to the hangar bay.

“The red line is our primary route,” said Simms. “Keep that in mind if something happens. The yellow, don’t worry about. It’s our concern.” He looked past me to Silvre.

I heard her working, opening up something. “What’s she doing?”

“Preparing a little surprise for any would be assassins,” said Simms. He was busy erasing the memory from the computer clip. He removed the memory plate and snapped it into quarters. He smiled. “Mind if I use your cup?”

“No,” I said. “I’m finished.”

He dropped the broken plate and a small tablet into the remaining water. It fizzed.

Silvre came back into view carrying a small mechanical device covered with lenses and fiber optic equipment. It was a holographic image projector of some sort, but far smaller than any I’d ever seen. It was so small it had to be A-Tech. Umbelgarri.

She set it under the sheets next to my side. “Try not to disturb it,” she said almost reverently. Then she removed a small, faceted, rectangular box with a miniature power pack from one of her inner coat pockets. “It’s not military issue, but it may make a difference should someone have ill intentions.”

It was a defense screen. Advanced, A-Tech equipment as well. Doubtless her personal screen. “What about you?”

“CGIG, or your conspirators, won’t be targeting me.”

I watched Simms check and reholster his magnetic pulse pistol. Despite being R-Tech, I’d trained in the use of MP pistols. They can be quite effective, even one meant for concealed carrying like his. It held forty rounds about the size of BBs but with a phenomenal velocity compared to a .22 caliber round. I was willing to bet he had some of the chemically charged explosive rounds. Same size gun, about five times the firepower.

“So what does the diplomat bring to the occasion?” I asked.

“I plan on concealing myself behind you, and my screen if there’s any trouble.”

“She brought the marine outside.” Simms winked. “Other than him and your nurse, basically we don’t have a lot of friends on this vessel.”

Silvre added, “If you have evidence against Capital Galactic somewhere within your cranium.”

“Look, I really don’t recall anything about any of the accusations. Even showing me the evidence hasn’t rung a bell. Not even a jingle’s worth.” I looked at Simms. “You’ve seen my file. That’s not me. I signed on with the Negral Corp to jumpstart my career. I want to join the R-Army GASF. But I needed experience to get noticed and recruited. I couldn’t do that securing warehouses and storage depots. That was a dead end.” I looked at Silvre. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t undermine our alliance with the Umbelgarri, or turn traitor.

“Honest,” I said to them both. “Fondness for reptiles has never been strong in my family.”

I took a breath. Not too deep. “I’d like a drink. Alcoholic would be nice, but then it might deprive the Cranaltar of a few brain cells. Where’s your—-my trusty nurse?”

“Will water suffice?” Silvre asked. She offered me my cup and winked at Simms. “Freshly laced with?”

“Classified,” Simms chuckled.

I held up my hand for her to keep it, and winced. “Wish it was morphine.”

“Good,” said Simms. “You might’ve spilled it on her holographic projector.”

“That valuable huh? And I thought the screen was to ensure I didn’t come to any harm.”

Silvre smiled, then put her hand to her ear. She deactivated her cube. “The scout vessel just docked.” After another second of concentration she reactivated the cube. “Escort again denied.”

All emotion drained from Simms’s face. “Let’s be on our way.” He went to the door and summoned in the marine and nurse.

The marine private had dark skin and wore a combat vest, stitched with the name Varney. He carried a magnetic pulse carbine with a light-duty laser module mounted beneath the barrel. A holstered standard issue MP pistol rested on his right hip. The white-clad nurse carried a medical kit and a portable diagnostic support kit slung over his shoulder, and a sizeable power pack in his arms.

The nurse moved behind my bed, made some adjustments and hooked up the diagnostic support kit.

Silvre picked up the cube and adjusted it, nodding to the nurse.

He engaged the bed’s motor control. “Voice control override...on my voice.”

Simms followed, “On my voice.”

“On my voice,” said Silvre.

Louder than necessary the marine chimed in, “On my voice.”

It was either adrenaline or gung-ho. Good for him. I had neither at the moment. “On my voice,” I said.

“Voice override locked,” announced the nurse. The bed shifted as its wheels prepared to engage.

I said, “Bed, raise front to forty-five degrees, twenty-five percent normal speed.” I knew it would hurt, but I wanted a better view.

Silvre deactivated the cube and stayed on my left. I looked at her questioningly. She looked back knowingly and slid it into an inner pocket. Simms moved to the right side of the bed. Private Varney led the way out the door while the nurse, monitoring my life support and directing the bed’s path, brought up the rear.

Twelve years after the establishment of the ground colonies on Mars and Io, and orbital colonies around Europa, Triton, and Titan, the cooperation of the participating Earth governments proved disastrous. The colonies’ distance and isolation magnified the neglect, leading to increasingly critical shortages of supplies and equipment. Supply runs before the use of space-condensing engines were far slower and the colonies suffered greatly due to the delays.

In support with the then small colonial populations, several large corporations petitioned the involved Earth governments for control of the colonies. The governments granted control to the corporations after negotiating for reimbursement on expenditures.

The arrangement worked for the colonies. Many earthbound citizens began to demand similar representation. Several moderate-sized nations moved toward the model, meeting with unprecedented prosperity. More nations followed, some merging with others under corporate rule.

Unrest built between the non-corporate and corporate states until the appearance of the Umbelgarri and the onslaught of the Silicate War. During the crisis the corporate model merged with the parliamentary form of government into one entity, encompassing all citizens of Earth and established colonies. Within weeks new investments were made. Elections were held and appointments ratified. On this path mankind forged ahead into war and the future.

We entered the corridor and went left. The
Pars Griffin
was a luxury passenger transport mainly utilized for cruises and business travel. Although, like all interstellar vessels, space was allocated for interstellar freight. The corridor was eight feet wide and equally high. Unlike most interstellar ships, the usual exposed pipes and conduits weren’t visible. The passage was clean and empty.

Private Varney set a brisk pace down the well-lit corridor. I had difficulty seeing what was going on but Silvre and Simms appeared alert. The sound of footfalls and the rhythmic breathing of my escorts mingled with the faint humming of the transport’s engines preparing for departure. I set my hand on the pistol under the sheets. My heartbeat fell into cadence with the pace.

I heard the whirring noise of a supplemental security robot approach. Most are triangular in shape, squat, and maneuver on three wheels. Varney, carbine leveled, blocked my view. To my right Simms pulled what looked like a holo-display remote control from an inside pocket. It sported far more buttons and tiny screen icons than standard remotes. With his left-hand thumb he tapped in rapid succession. The whirring stopped.

“Deactivated,” said the intelligence man to the marine. “Check it out.”

Keeping his body between the robot and myself, Private Varney advanced. I scanned the walls, wondering if the nurse was watching our rear. I spotted a security camera recessed in a light casing. At the crack of MP gunfire I whipped my head to the front. Too fast. The pain rush brought on distorting, gray flashes.

After a few seconds my head cleared. Simms was pressing forward, calling the
Iron Armadillo
. “...terrorist robot, rally point red one! Yellow pass through!”

He didn’t wait for the response that crackled from the remote, “Understood.”

Varney was down. The sec-bot had deployed its stun net. Despite the electrical current coursing through the entangling mesh, the marine unsteadily maneuvered his carbine. Simms opened up on the sec-bot with his sidearm. The explosive rounds rocked the sec-bot, but only managed to make large pockmarks in what had to be a hardened armor casing. My old .22 caliber pistol wouldn’t help.

I didn’t know what the nurse was doing but Silvre was making hasty adjustments to a foot-long cylindrical object. In quick succession, two flashing blasts from Varney’s laser burned into the armored menace.

I looked back up at the surveillance camera near the ceiling. I knew Hawks was watching. With effort I raised my pistol and fired two quick shots at it. Both painfully jarred my arm. The semi-auto’s fire was considerably louder than the snapping crack of MP gunfire.

Varney’s laser blasts must have penetrated as the security robot sat smoking and silent. Simms was lifting the stunned private to his feet when the faltering machine emitted a metallic click followed by an explosion. The flash temporarily blinded me.

Simms was down with Varney laying on him. The marine and my defense screen took most of the blast. Several thumb-sized metal fragments lay harmlessly on my bed sheets.

My nurse didn’t wait to evaluate the situation. We rolled up to Simms, who pushed the dead marine aside. Blood flowed from the intel man’s face and forearm. He tossed his remote to the nurse, waving us past. The nurse tossed Varney’s wrecked carbine aside and snatched the dead marine’s sidearm. The stench of scorched metal and singed flesh hung in the air. Anger overcame my rising nausea.

Silvre said, “Caylar, you take point. I’ll bring Keesay. Simms, follow and watch our back.”

We had twenty yards to go before the cross-hall with the turn to the elevator in sight. My nurse, Caylar, picked up the pace. When a door ahead to the left slid open, Caylar dropped to one knee, sending several cracking shots. A gray-clad man fell into the hallway along with a scope mounted MP assault rifle. Another door immediately to my right slid open. Without hesitation I raised my pistol and fired blindly at what should have been chest level. Two quick shots. If he was an innocent passenger, he should’ve stayed in his room. And if he’d had any type of synthetic armor I wouldn’t have lived to confirm it. A brief, gurgling cry and thump said my second shot must’ve risen, or the target had been short.

“Good shot!” said Silvre from behind.

I couldn’t respond. I was too busy fighting the pain in my chest those good shots had inflicted.

Caylar stopped near the crossway. Several cracks of MP gunfire sounded from behind followed by a return volley. Then shots from multiple calibers intermingled.

Caylar pulled out an old fashioned circular mirror used by R-Tech practitioners to examine teeth. He knelt, holding the mirror close to the floor and peered around the corner. He spun back just as parts of the wall buckled and shattered under impacting automatic fire. Caylar signaled Silvre to move up. Holding his hand a yard off the floor, he said, “Two each side, twelve to fifteen meters back. Heavily armed.” Caylar produced a palm-grenade, winked at Silvre, and then tossed it around the corner. The fire abated. Nothing else happened.

Three clicks resembling marbles striking wet plexiglas, each followed by instantaneous cracks of MP fire, reverberated just behind my bed. Caylar rushed back and opened fire to my rear while Silvre made more adjustments to several washer-like disks at the base of her gray baton. In less than a second she finished. Only then I realized what she had. “Poor bastards,” I whispered.

“The director is down,” said Caylar, firing several more shots down the hall. “Good thing your screen’s still up or you’d be dead.”

“Feel free to use it for cover,” I offered.

I’d seen holos of the beam weapons the Umbelgarri mounted on their combat vessels. I’d also read about the handheld version Silvre was about to use. She knelt and simply activated the baton while reaching her hand around the corner. A swift side-to-side flick proceeded brief cries of surprised terror.

Silvre looked around the corner, winced, and fought to keep her lunch down. Weakly she said to Caylar, “I have only eighty-two thousandths of a second left.”

Caylar looked at the hand beam. “Keep it ready,” he said over his shoulder as he trotted ahead.

“And pointed away from us,” I added. Silvre forced a smile. She returned to the rear, commanding the bed forward.

I ventured a look down the cross hall and saw scarred walls and sliced, scattered bodies. I took as deep of a breath as I dared, and exhaled. “Where’s our help?” I asked. “Didn’t Simms contact them?”

Silvre had regained her composure. “They’ll be at the first rally point. Bottom of the elevator.”

That didn’t make sense to me. We needed them here. “Who planned this?”

“Director Simms,” said Caylar, slowing down. “It’ll work. We’ll make it as he planned.”

Caylar stopped and knelt. First, he looked around the corner toward the elevator. Then he took aim at a surveillance camera. After one shot he signaled okay. We followed him around the corner and backed into the elevator.

It was a tight fit. Caylar had disabled the obvious monitoring devices before working the buttons on Simms’s remote control device.

Silvre side-stepped up beside me. “Almost clear.” She brought out and activated the little cube and set it on my bed. A little blood dampened her hair above the temple. She carefully reached under the covers and retrieved the Umbelgarri holographic device and began making adjustments while the elevator started its descent.

“I’ve overridden the controls,” said Caylar. “Shouldn’t be any more surprises.”

“Does it have a warranty for manufacturer defects?” I said. “Or is there a security robot exclusionary clause?” I was nervous. A lot of bad things could happen in an elevator if somebody wanted them to. At the moment, that reality wasn’t one I cared to ignore. The other elevator occupants must’ve been too busy to respond.

Caylar looked at the lady diplomat. She nodded, deactivated the cube, then reached across the bed, handing it to Caylar. Silvre made a final inspection of the faceted alien mechanism before a few precision finger taps brought it to life. She raised the alien device above her head and spun slowly around. For a fraction of a second, I saw double.

Caylar gently put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t move. Stay silent.” He spoke into the remote, “We are preparing to exit the elevator. All clear?”

“Affirmative,” crackled the device. “Rally point red one secure.”

“Make way,” said Caylar. “Yellow pass-through in effect.”

“Acknowledged.”

Diplomat Silvre looked down at me, still holding the holo-device above her head. Caylar activated the cube.

“I hope you are indeed innocent of the charges,” she whispered.

The doors opened. With the holo-device held high, Silvre exited the elevator. Outside, lining the corridor, stood eight armed and ready marines.

Suddenly Diplomat Silvre flashed to a new position. She wasn’t holding the holographic device. Rather, she was escorting me out of the elevator. Or my eye saw it happening, with Caylar maneuvering the bed from behind. The real Caylar placed a calming hand on my shoulder. I watched the image of us continue down the hall, flanked by the marines. I spotted a saucer-sized bloodstain spread across the diplomat’s shoulder as the elevator door closed.

Caylar put his fingers to his lips, indicating silence, before activating the elevator with the remote. We descended further.

Caylar held Varney’s pistol ready and tapped the remote a few times. I held Simms’s pistol, knowing that if I discharged another round, I might not be able to endure the pain and remain conscious.

Caylar said, “You’re on voice control if there’s any trouble. Try to get to the yacht. The
Gilded Swan
. L-X-K, zero, zero, eight.” He stopped. “You’ll find it.”

This didn’t make sense. The
Iron Armadillo
was a sure thing. Whose yacht? Did he really think Silvre’s holo would fool the surveillance? They have infrared and motion sensors. And if the
Armadillo
’s marines shot out the sensors, then why the holo-image?

Caylar stood, awaiting my response. “Right,” I said. “
The yacht.”

“Let’s go,” Caylar said, opening the door with the remote. He stepped out, checking left and right. He signaled for me to follow.

“Bed, forward, one yard--damn, ummm, point nine meters per second, unless otherwise directed.” I’ve always hated I-Tech metrics. The bed moved forward. Caylar used his boot to nudge a security specialist lying prone next to a control station. No response so he moved on.

I followed. “Bed, thirty degrees left…thirty degrees more left.” I looked around, lowered my firearm. “Bed, thirty degrees left.” I was falling behind. “Increase to two meters per second.”

I followed Caylar past several shuttles and into a secondary hangar holding fewer than a dozen small vessels. Past a large corporate yacht, we came to a smaller one, maybe twenty yards long with at least two decks. The front ramp was down. The yacht’s smooth, tinted gold exterior and had ‘
Gilded Swan
’ scribed freehand in blood-red paint across its side. The vessel was even armed with a single-barreled pulse laser housed in a ventral ball turret. Impressive.

Caylar came around behind me while I scanned the deserted hangar, for what it was worth. Thankfully, Caylar guided me up the ramp and into the space-faring pleasure vessel.

The ramp retracted and the hatch slid closed. Lights switched on to reveal a spartan interior that included several fold down bunks, three padded reclining chairs, and a table. A storage area for cargo and supplies led back to a large door, probably to the engines and life support machinery.

“We’re in,” shouted Caylar as he maneuvered my bed to the port side and locked the wheel mechanism. “After I check your diagnostic support equipment, I’ll have to strap you down.” He looped the restraints to the wall. “You don’t look so good.”