by Daniel Gibbs
“’Ere! Watchoo want?” The man who approached had to be in his eighties, a stump of a fellow with white hair splayed in all directions. He glared at Dwyer and Sev through an implanted scan-band, the milky white ruins of his eyes barely visible through the gridwork.
“Now that? That’s illegal, even for therapeutic work.” Brant sounded disgusted through the signal. “Don’t stand too close—it’s leaking enough trace radiation you’ll have to get treated if your exposure runs longer than a minute. But he can scan through the bulkheads if he needs to.”
Dwyer shifted his stance so he was sidelong to the strange old man. Just because he didn’t have kids—or even a spouse—didn’t mean he’d ruled out the future possibility. “Hey there yourself, friend. Name’s Eddie Wyatt. Got the Novabird in the docks, and a passel of surly drones don’t much want to do their jobs.”
“Walp, you come to the right place, boyo.” The old man’s accent was a curious amalgamation of cockney British and old American West. “Gimme the specs.”
“That’s for my guy Severino.” Dwyer slapped him on the shoulder.
Sev glowered at him then the old man before thrusting a plastic-printed report into the latter’s hands. The old man flinched but immediately cleared a space on the nearest worktable.
“Hey, I met a pilot who recommended your shop, you know.” Dwyer leaned an elbow on the table. “Ava.”
The old man chuckled. “Ava? Sure, she’s a good sort o’ woman. Finest of pilots, me boy. What’s she hafta say about this rusty old feller?”
“Says you got the best people under Bellwether, but she’s singin’ praises of Gonzales.”
“Dunn. Yep. The boy knew his bots.”
“Knew?”
“Nobody’s seen the laddie for days. Maybe a week?” The old man shrugged. “Can’t keep track of ’em no more. He was in and out for a while, always in a hurry, he was. Finally up and—” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. Didn’t even clean up his tools.”
Dwyer turned in the direction the old man pointed. A workstation between a tall, heavyset man and a Saurian with purple slashes painted on his exposed scales sat empty. Well, its stool was—the surface itself was cluttered with tools.
“Adjust your wrist ninety-six degrees.” The LT sounded as excited as when the cap’n had told him they would upgrade all his tech before the next mission. “The scanner module’s having trouble picking up biological refuse on the workstation, but there are hints it’s there. Could be Garza or at least where he’s been.”
“Hey, you think he left you any credits on there? A chit or two?” Dwyer took a few steps and craned his neck. He whistled. “Kinda was a slob.”
“Do not mock.” The Saurian snarled his words. “Dunn Gonzales did fine work at a quick pace, and he was not a fool of a human, like some. He bore the soul of a warrior, which he would show to any who dared cross him.”
Dwyer held up his hands, aware Sev had flanked the Saurian and, presumably, would defend Dwyer if things came to a fight.
I’d rather stick my head into a live ion engine port than tussle with a Saurian. “No worries, there, big fella. I was just askin’.”
“Tell you what, boyo.” The old man waved the plastic printout. “I’ll get Toruk there to fix dis. Hunnert now. Two hunnert when we is done.”
“As fine a deal as any.” Dwyer straightened his jacket. “Pay the man, Severino.”
“Got the scans,” Brant murmured. “I was right—bio debris. A few epithelial scrapings. But also… dirt. Hmm. Not dust or grime that builds up inside machinery, I mean actual soil. Running comparisons through the station databases for ag-combines, parks, the works…”
Sev held out a pay chit to the old man. He used his tablet to complete the transaction.
“Thank ye kindly,” the old man crooned. “Bring us yer drone, and we’ll get ’er done.”
“Roger and wilco.” Dwyer nodded. “Y’all have a fine day, now, you hear?”
As soon as the door shut and blessed silence returned to the corridor, Dwyer worked his jaw, trying to pop his eardrums. “I’m just glad I can hear again,” he told Sev. “Got no desire for a cochlear rebuild, am I right?”
Sev shrugged. “Data?”
“Sounds like the LT’s working the line. You notice the intercom wired to each workstation?”
“Yes.”
Dwyer switched to a low whisper. “How’s that look, Echo Home?”
“Looks a lot like the signal piped through the modified drones originated at that workstation,” Brant said. “I’ve got new coordinates for you—Sector E Forty-Five. Ag-Combine Noche Azul. The soil your scanner picked up matches the mix unique to them. Fair warning—it covers a couple square kilometers.”
“No worries. Been nice getting exercise instead of being cooped up in the cockpit. C’mon, Severino, it’s a long haul back to the tram.”
Sev grumbled under his breath.
Dwyer cocked his head. His ears were still ringin’ from that nonsense inside. “You say somethin’?”
“Dumb name,” Sev said.
Dwyer laughed. “Next time, don’t let me pick.”
Kiel scrolled through the incoming data. So many blasted drones, so little time. It had been perfect to have Tactisar swap them in, replacing older, damaged units with the modified bots provided by ESS through a third-party supplier, but he had upward of thirty to keep track of. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. The headache lessened.
“I’ve managed to backtrace one signal in particular to Sector E. Several ag-combines are there—plenty of places to hide.” Ferenc could have been reading a dinner menu over the commlink, he sounded so disinterested.
When have I even seen the man eat? Kiel thought.
“I’m dispatching Drones Eighteen and Nineteen to look. I would go myself, but I’m due to meet with Ramsey to plan the final details. Boyd has provided the last bit of needed intel.”
“Worth every credit, given that’s all these wayward Terrans and neutrals worship.” Kiel scowled. The sooner the degenerate individualists were absorbed into the League’s socialist society and reeducated in the more morally pure ways to run a civilization, the better. The way they constantly put themselves first and everyone else second disgusted him. “Keep me apprised.”
“Nels’s partner. Your orders stand?”
“Of course. Bring him or her to me alive. Whatever they witnessed could be invaluable, especially if it implicates the good Detective Ramsey.” Kiel glanced at a nearby screen, across which Ramsey stormed down a busy avenue. “If his price becomes too steep, we have ways to negotiate the final bill.”
11
Ramsey’s Second Apartment
Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System
22 November 2464
* * *
Ramsey let Jackson into the apartment hidden away among thousands of others on the dozens of Sector C levels. The beige double hatch with tiny twin portholes, the half-height window to the left, the self-irrigated flowerbox mounted beneath the window, the cramped porch sporting two chairs and a table—everything was uniform, copied and pasted. Only the variety and number of flowers changed from apartment to apartment.
The inside was similarly spare—two chairs, one couch, a low table, all arrayed in the main living space. A kitchenette filled the space beyond. Two doors off to the left led into a bedroom and bathroom.
Jackson was pleased he’d taken the time to memorize the layout Brant had provided, even more pleased they knew it was listed under a payment ID versus a person’s name—one Brant linked to Rasmey’s accounts.
“If he was trying to hide it, he did a terrible job.” Brant sounded offended by the results of his investigation. “At least try to reroute the links so it bounces through a couple of fake accounts.”
Jackson leaned against the pillar of shelves separating the kitchenette from the living space. Not a single thing was on them except dust. “Who else is coming to this party?”
Sergeant Cho was
already in the kitchenette, helping himself to a bottled drink. He offered one to Jackson.
“Thanks.” The clear liquid changed colors as he sipped, turning a translucent, glowing blue. No alcoholic content, but the sugars would keep him buzzed for hours.
“Got a couple more on the way, Boyd and Fernand.”
“Oh, yeah? This Fernand…”
“A go-between for our benefactor, weird guy but keeps up his end of the bargain.” Ramsey sank into a chair and slugged from his bottle. He gave Cho a look that Jackson couldn’t read. “So far.”
The door chime sang. Jackson glanced at Ramsey and Cho. Neither made a move but stared at him instead. Lucky me. Jackson hit the hatch panel.
Ciara walked through, but if Jackson hadn’t known “Boyd” was coming to the meeting, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She wore ill-fitting, stained coveralls, a midnight-blue pair the same shade as the tunic underneath. A gray cap slouched low, shadowing her face—which was bereft of makeup. No jewelry either. He couldn’t see much of her hair, but what little peeked from underneath was jet-black.
“Look at you.” Ramsey chuckled. “Our ‘man’ Boyd, slummin’.”
“It certainly isn’t the neighborhood where I spend my nights.” Ciara’s smile was sharp. “The men are well below par.”
Cho snorted.
“All right, no need to get personal.” Ramsey slapped the chair beside him. “Have a seat, gorgeous.”
Ciara did—but it was across Ramsey’s lap. She lifted her hat’s brim, allowing enough room for her to give him a kiss, not a long, passionate one but enough of a kiss to confirm their status. Cho suddenly became interested in his shoes. Jackson looked away but made sure he could see enough of the interaction peripherally—and kept his wrist unit’s scanner trained on the room at large.
“Enough of that.” Cho walked past them, near enough to disrupt the happy couple’s reunion, and punched the window controls. The view outside faded, the glass having opaqued until the exterior showed only shadows of station life beyond. “Did you bring us all something?”
Ciara laughed. “Don’t be such a cold moon, Desmond. I have plenty to share if you have the map.”
Desmond sat on the couch. He set a tablet in the middle of the low table and inserted the datachip Ciara had planted on Jackson. The detailed schematics for Nosamo’s core facilities appeared in three-meter hologram, the pale-blue wireframe filling most of the room. Ciara rose from Ramsey’s lap and twisted the holo, putting the disk-shaped complex on an angle.
“Nosamo Aerothermic is a two-kilometer compound thirty-two stories tall, covering the bulk of Sectors A97 through A128,” Ciara explained. “I say this for your rookie officer’s benefit, in case he’s been too busy shaking down petty thieves to study the schematics.”
“Funny lady.” Jackson indicated the hatch with his thumb. “Aren’t we waiting for a fifth guest?”
“Fernand don’t need to sweat the operational details yet. He’s just got to concern himself with the exit plan.” Ramsey grinned. “Besides, we’re all early. Go on, babe.”
“As you can see, the private hangars for Nosamo encircle its corporate facilities. The lab occupies the very center of A113 through A128, fifteen stories devoted to advanced atmospheric regeneration research.”
“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “Our target’s right smack in the center.”
“Bingo,” Cho muttered. “Give the rookie a credit.”
“Enough with the rookie crap.” Jackson tapped his badge. “This one might be new, but I wore the Ranger’s tin for eleven years, so you can—”
“Both of you, shut up.” Ramsey guzzled from his bottle. “Okay, the lab’s only got four access points. Babe?”
Ciara marked four golden diamonds around the highlighted lab, at Sector A120. “Each one is blast-reinforced. Two Tactisar personnel—”
“Who we’ll get rerouted to an emergency in the Nosamo docks,” Ramsey noted.
“—And two Stalwart-Series Mark Four security bots posted at each.” Ciara added her own tablet, projecting the image of a broad-bodied robot on multidirectional treads.
It had a heavily armored body with a squat head. A long red optical strip glowed, and if a bot could have a bad attitude, Jackson guessed that one could.
“That is a serious piece of security hardware,” Brant murmured. “Four plasma weapons mounted in pairs. Two ballistic rifles stocked with stun rounds.”
Jackson shook his head. “Those aren’t going to be fun.”
“Hence the drones,” Ciara said.
“Right.” Cho clinked his empty bottle against the edge of the couch. “Each drone we’ve received—the upgraded ones from our benefactor—is equipped with an embedded, dormant override program beneath its subroutines. Once in proximity to the Stalwarts, I’ll activate that program, and the bots will ignore us. They’ll even self-wipe our presence from their scan records and memory banks.”
“Oh yeah?” Jackson smirked. “You guys got this all set up. I’ll ask the obvious—why’d you bring me in on it?”
“Because we need someone to go in and grab the data, someone who’s used to bluffing his way through any unforeseen circumstances with people hostile to his intent.” Ramsey saluted with the bottle. “Why’d you think I was so keen on getting an ex-Ranger aboard? Your record’s stuffed to the bulkheads with undercover work, never mind you had to up the ante and keep your extracurricular drug runs secret from your bosses.”
“It didn’t really work out for me.”
“So? You got caught. After years. This is only gonna be a few hours.” Ramsey shrugged. “Besides, Cho will be with you.”
“To help me get the job done?” Jackson directed a withering stare at Cho, pretending the man was Harry for the moment. It helped channel maximum disdain, though he had to take care not to tinge it with the genuine concern he harbored deep down for Harry’s condition. “Or make sure he’s got a fall guy to pin this on if we’re busted?”
“A little of both.”
Ciara put her hands on her hips. “You could exercise more tact, Ram.”
“I could, but I prefer blunt honesty.”
“Except when you lie.”
“Well, hell, babe, who doesn’t?” Ramsey pointed at each one of them in turn. “You three could be lying to me right now, in one way or another—or together. We all lie. It’s how we get through life with what we want and how we protect what we have.”
Cho sighed. “Great pep talk, boss.”
Ramsey chuckled. “Hey, ironically, that was me being honest. Jack? Don’t sweat it. Cho’s there for the bombs. You’re there to make sure you and he get out in one piece.”
“Speaking of which—” Jackson swung the holographic map around so he could get a closer look at the lab core. “Where are the exits? Same way we came?”
“No.” Ciara used her right hand to expand the image. “A cargo transfer corridor extends from the lab into the Nosamo South Hangar. Double airlocks, one at each end. It’s used to get prototype machinery into the ships when the engineers are ready for field tests.”
“Codes for those?”
“I’ll have them the day of.”
Jackson frowned. “Cutting it close, lady.”
“Hey.” Ramsey’s joviality iced over. “Mind the tone, Jack.”
“No offense to you or her, but I like all the details squared away.”
“Who doesn’t? Getting those airlock codes isn’t as simple as signing out a cargo skiff. It’s got to be last minute. The less notice drawn to that kind of activity, the better.” Ramsey aimed his bottle at the image. “Once through the airlock, get to Berth South Thirteen. That’s where we’ll be and where your way out is. Don’t be late.”
“Or what? Cho and I get to spend the rest of our stay on Bellwether trying out Tactisar’s solitary cells?”
Ramsey snorted.
“I’m afraid CEO Noor won’t bother with the normal legal channels,” Ciara said coolly. “You’ll be spaced.”
Jackson chuckled. He let the belly laugh fade as he took in everyone’s earnest, serious expressions. Pretending to be shocked wasn’t a stretch because he could let his real disgust at Ciara’s revelation bubble to the surface. “You’re serious? Damn. Okay, don’t worry about it, I’ll have us out with time to spare. But do I have to be the guy to ask? What’s the data we’re stealing?”
“It’s called Project Life Swarm, CEO Noor’s pet project—his dream, really. The irony is this new technology would mean taking three times as long to purify a planet’s atmosphere than the regulation towers for which Nosamo is known—and which have made him wealthy.”
“So…” Jackson rolled his hands, indicating Ciara should continue.
“The difference is, when the atmosphere is purified, the technology can be removed and relocated to a new world. It doesn’t need to stay in place like standard towers do.”
Cho whistled.
“Those towers, they’re permanent.” Ramsey tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve seen ’em out on Carrington Prime. They’re as ugly as sin, but without them, their atmospheric conditions would deteriorate.”
Ciara nodded. “Life Swarm is also nowhere near as bulky.”
Jackson gazed at the hologram, variables churning in his head.
“She’s right about a few things,” Brant said.
He’d been quiet for so long Jackson had almost forgotten he was listening to the exchange—and like many other missions, he’d found himself so deep in his role that his true self, Captain Jackson Adams, had faded into something akin to a faint memory. As if Captain Adams were the former role, and Jack Arno were the real him.
“Foremost,” Brant explained, “it’s not going to be a breeze until she gets those airlock codes. If you input the wrong one, the security measures are programmed to instantly seal the cargo corridor and purge the contents to space. But I’ve snooped around the drones—she can definitely override the Stalwart bots. It would be better if we get our hands on another drone and directly reprogram whatever their ‘benefactor’ has inside.”
