By Darkness Forged

by Nathan Lowell

  “What?” she looked up at me.

  I pointed at the HVAC unit. “That’s it.”

  She looked from me to the unit and back at me. “That makes no sense.”

  “Yeah. It does. What would the sensor see if it looked down here?”

  “Obviously just a slightly elevated radiation level. That’s what it saw.”

  “Right. And you’re measuring a slightly lower one when you’re close enough to the bomb. The shielding under it cancels out just enough radiation to mask it. To make it look like it’s just a fusactor here.”

  “Then why does the sensor measure more?”

  “It’s only a little more but the node is pulling the average radiation over the whole area it’s looking at. The shielding isn’t quite balanced to take out exactly the same amount as the bomb is adding in when the surface area of the whole deck is taken into account,” I said.

  Her eyes went round and she stared at the unit. “Crap.”

  Chapter 31

  Dark Knight Station: 2376, March 12

  My first instinct was to run. I only tamped it down because I knew running wouldn’t help. I couldn’t run fast enough to get away. “Any ideas about how to deal with this?” I asked.

  The chief glanced over at me. “Gimme a tick.”

  The initial shock began to wear off and I tried to work through the problem myself.

  “Faraday cage, I think.” the chief said. “Keep the remote from detonating it.”

  “How do we disarm it?” I asked.

  Her eyes squinted down to slits, as if by narrowing them she could see through the outer shell. “We can’t exactly evacuate the station.” She looked up. “I wonder what’s up there.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Cutting into it, even to see what’s under the casing is going to be risky,” she said. “There are no exposed pieces for us to get a handle on.”

  The blower behind us fired up with a roar, startling me so much I jumped right up against the bomb. Horrified, I peeled myself away and stared at the chief.

  “Well, we know a little jostling won’t hurt it,” she said. “As I was saying, if we can keep it from receiving a signal, then build a cofferdam up through the top of the station here, mount some grav plates under it ...” She shook her head. “Faraday cage, then bring in a couple of people I know.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Longer than we have, I suspect,” she said. “Let’s go see Captain Oscella and let her know what we’ve found.”

  Getting down the ladder went a lot smoother and it wasn’t until we were back in the security barracks that I realized why. I’d left the toolbox on the roof.

  Oscella took one look at our faces when we pushed through the doors and hustled us into a conference room. “It’s there,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah.” The chief sat in a chair and folded her arms on the table. “It’s there. It’s hidden in one of the atmosphere management units on the top of the building.”

  Oscella settled into the chair opposite the chief. I took a seat and let the professionals deal with the situation.

  “We’re thinking a Faraday cage to isolate it until we can lift it up through the top of the station,” the chief said.

  Oscella pursed her lips. “How did they get it up there?”

  “Grav crane, probably. When was the last upgrade on that structure?”

  Oscella shrugged. “At least three stanyers. I’d have to check with maintenance to be sure.”

  “How many people would have had to be involved with an operation like that?” I asked.

  They both looked at me. “Say more,” the chief said.

  “How many people would they have needed to install an HVAC unit like that on the top of the building? Theoretically? Somebody needed to approve it, I assume?”

  Oscella nodded. “Somebody would have had to propose it. Since it’s station property, the power people would have had to debate it to death with the infrastructure finance group. They’d have had to acquire the unit. Purchasing would need to buy it, bring it in, verify the shipment against the order.” Oscella shrugged. “That’s even before we get it up on the roof over there.”

  “I thought CPJCT was bad,” I said.

  “Maintenance records,” the chief said.

  “What about them?” Oscella asked.

  “Is there somewhere handy we can pull them up?”

  Oscella rose. “My office is just upstairs.”

  We left the conference room and followed Oscella up a ladder and down a passageway. Her office wasn’t exactly spartan but it held no personal memorabilia, no pictures on her desk, and no certificates on the bulkhead. She dropped into the chair behind her desk and started to tappity-tap on the keyboard. “Here,” she said, sliding away so we could see. “All the maintenance records for that building.”

  The chief reached in and started scrolling down the list, past all the records for routine fusactor service, lighting fixtures, resurfacing the deck inside. Eventually we found a record for the roof units.

  “Is there any detail on this heat exchanger coil?” the chief asked.

  Oscella pulled the supplemental record up for the chief to read.

  “Reinforced the decking, removed defective coil, installed new unit.” She ticked off the various bullets in the work order. “Tested sat.” She frowned. “Who tested that unit?”

  Oscella shrugged and scrolled to the top of the work order. “A. Norris.” She frowned. “Norris? I know that name. How do I know that name?”

  “This work was done about two stanyers ago,” the chief said.

  “I remember that. They had to block off part of Main Street for a day.”

  “Where’s Norris now?” the chief asked.

  Oscella sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “I need to double-check but I think he’s dead. That’s how I know the name. Electrocuted on the job one day.”

  “That’s not suspicious,” I said.

  She sighed. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t very long after this installation.”

  “Well, we know they’re willing to kill to cover their tracks,” the chief said. “That doesn’t make me feel any safer.”

  “They’re not going to blow the station on a whim,” I said. “It’s too valuable.”

  “Explain,” the chief said.

  “It’s been a reliable pipeline for stanyers. People, materials. They have some access to Telluride that’s going to be growing unless we step in, but Dark Knight is one of—what—four or five major destinations in the Toe-Holds?”

  “More like twenty depending on how you count them, but I take your point. Probably ten to fifteen percent of all traffic in the Toe-Holds comes through here,” Oscella said. “Minimum of exposure because their traffic blends in. Thousands of people in and out of here in a week. I don’t even know how much cargo.”

  I shared a glance with the chief. “What next?” I asked.

  The question hung there for a moment before Oscella’s tablet bipped a staccato, repeating pattern. She grabbed it off the desk and looked at the screen. “Your man Carstairs just walked off the small boat dock. A security team has him and they’re taking him to the aid station next to the chandlery.”

  For some reason the news didn’t even surprise me. “He’s hurt?”

  “Officer reports that he’s ranting about cargo. They’re taking him for evaluation.”

  “That’s odd,” the chief said.

  “What? That he’s ranting?” Oscella asked.

  “No, that’s normal. He’s always got a rant up his sleeve. Cargo isn’t one of his favorite topics,” the chief said.

  “We should probably go find out what we can,” Oscella said. “Want a ride?”

  Oscella grabbed a security cart and we zipped down Main Street to where it ran into the main docking bay. She parked beside a loading dock with a red cross painted on the roll-up doors. A personnel door let us into the back of the aid station where O
scella snagged one of the workers. “Carstairs? Just came in a few ticks ago?”

  “Family only,” the med-tech said.

  The chief stepped forward. “I’m his mother.”

  The tech gave her a long once-over and a sour smile. “Sure.” He looked at me. “And you’re his father?” he asked.

  “Son,” I said. “You gonna let us see Dad or does Captain Oscella here have to arrest you for obstruction of a criminal investigation?”

  “Room four. Just down the hall, hang a left. If you wind up in the bathroom, you went too far.” He shook his head and strode off in the other direction.

  “Think he bought it?” the chief asked.

  Oscella laughed. “Come on. He’ll have the net back here to scoop us all up in a few ticks.”

  The aid station looked like every aid station I’d ever visited, although it was the first one I’d ever entered from the loading dock. We found a medic poring over the readouts on an auto-doc. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

  “Carstairs?” I asked.

  “In the can,” the medic said. “We’re still running an evaluation. He’s got some drug residue, which we’re flushing. A bit dehydrated.”

  “He’s been missing for a couple of days now,” I said.

  “The more I talk, the longer it’ll be before you can ask him where he’s been,” the medic said.

  I took the hint and dropped back to the doorway.

  “I’m going to go find the officers who brought him in,” Oscella said. “They’re in the lobby.”

  The chief nodded and Oscella slipped out.

  The medic straightened up and stretched her back before turning to us. “All right. His badge record says Philip Carstairs and not much else. Who are you and why do you care?”

  “He’s my cargo master. He disappeared about two days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “You are?”

  “Captain Ishmael Wang of the Chernyakova.”

  She nodded and looked at the chief. “You?”

  “Engineering Chief Officer Margaret Stevens. Also of the Chernyakova.”

  “Well, your man here seems to have been to quite a party. His blood alcohol level is somewhere between ‘I can’t feel my nose’ and ‘Is that my foot.’ He’s been drugged. Not with something most people would take voluntarily, which makes me think somebody slipped it into him when he wasn’t looking. No evidence of sexual assault but he’s got some fresh bruises on his face. They’d be consistent with somebody smacking him with a stick or—more probable—he fell down and caught a handrail with his head.” She shrugged. “Other than that he’s in pretty decent shape for a man his age.”

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  She frowned. “How old do you think he is?”

  “Forty-ish,” I said.

  “Yeah. That’s how I read it, too.” She paused. “You know, I see people like this a lot. Drunk, dragged in barely able to stand. This guy’s innards don’t match the profile.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “By the time guys with a booze habit reach this age, I’m already seeing the result of carb poisoning, a little incipient cirrhosis. Lipids all over the place.” She shrugged. “The auto-doc can help mitigate it a bit, but he’s not showing anything like that. He drink much?”

  “Only when he’s awake and there’s beer within reach,” the chief said.

  The medic frowned at the chief. “That’s what I would have expected to hear.”

  “I hear a but coming,” I said.

  She shook her head. “But the auto-doc found nothing that would indicate that behavior. Not a teatotaler by any means but if this guy actually drinks more than a six pack a week, I’d be shocked.”

  I grinned.

  “You find that funny?” the medic asked.

  “In a way. Runty little bugger lies about everything. Apparently even his love of Clipper Ship Lager.”

  The chief folded her arms and frowned at the deck for a moment. “How long before he can come back to the ship?”

  The medic consulted the panel again. “He should be coming out of it any tick now. I’d like to keep him for at least a couple of stans, just to make sure there’s nothing else going on in there.”

  I nodded and stepped out into the passageway. I pulled out my tablet to notify Al.

  The chief stepped out a moment later. “Anything new on the ship?”

  “No messages,” I said. “I’m taking that as a good sign.”

  She chuckled. “He’s not a heavy drinker.”

  I leaned against the bulkhead and tilted my head back. “He’s never been what he seemed. Or claimed.”

  “I’ve known him since he was a toddler,” the chief said.

  “He acted like he didn’t know you back on Breakall.”

  “He didn’t know me. I know him. I know his whole family. You ever meet his sister, Rachel?”

  “No.” I tried to think back over the decades that I’d known him. “I know his father, Thomas. I met his mother. Tammy? . I know his Aunt P and Uncle Q. Cousin ... Roger?”

  “Yeah. Penny has a sharp nose for the business. Roger? Good-hearted lad, but if my back was against a bulkhead, I’d want Pip.” She grinned at me. “Rachel. Pure stainless steel. Mind as sharp as a razor and as curious as a bag of cats.”

  I glanced at her. “You match-making?”

  She laughed. “No. You and Rachel would make a terrible pair. You both have the same flaws.”

  I bit down on a wise-ass retort and thought about that. Before I could pursue it, I heard Pip’s voice from the other room.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. What do you think you’re doing?”

  I stepped into the med-bay with the chief on my heels. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I said.

  “Ishmael, do we have the can tied on yet?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “We need to get moving,” he said.

  The medic stepped up to him and stood in front of his face. “You need to stop thrashing or I’m going to knock you out and button you into this pod again. Copy?”

  He drew a big breath and blew it out, giving her the stink-eye. “Capisco.” He settled back.

  “Good. Now how do you feel?” she asked.

  “Like getting out of here.”

  “You’ll need to wait for us to grow you a new leg first,” she said.

  Pip’s eyes went totally round. “My leg?” He tried to look into the bottom half of the auto-doc. “My leg, there’s nothing wrong with my leg. It feels fine.” The monitors all went haywire with beeps and boops and warning tones.

  “I’m talking about the leg your argument would need to stand on before you can convince me to let you go,” the medic said.

  He stared at her for a very long time as the monitors started evening out and the last of the warnings stopped buzzing. “That was a terrible thing to do.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “But it worked.”

  “Sorry,” Pip said, looking around as if seeing the med-bay for the first time. “Where am I?”

  “Humor me for a few more ticks,” the medic said. “Where do you think you are?”

  He looked around again. “Auto-doc, of course. Med-bay, probably Dark Knight Station.”

  “What day is it?” she asked.

  “I have no idea. When security brought me in here it was Thursday, I think.”

  “What time should I pick you up for dinner?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a moment. “To be honest, I’m pretty hungry. What time do you get off work?”

  “You’re fine,” she said and turned to me. “I’ll be finishing up the paperwork in the office. Please don’t press any buttons or let him out of there.”

  “I have no plans for letting him out, believe me,” I said.

  She swept out of the med-bay and I heard her shoes skwiching down the passageway.

  “Damn,” Pip said.

  “Buck up,” the chief said
, stepping up to the auto-doc across from me. “She’ll be back to let you out. Maybe she’s just being coy.”

  He grinned. “One can hope.” He looked back and forth between the chief and me. “So, somebody tazed me when I left the ship. I’d just stepped off the docks and they got me from behind. I have no idea who it was or even how many. By the time I got my muscles under control, they’d already jabbed me with a needle.” He angled his head, displaying a red mark just under the jawline. “When I came to, they had me handcuffed to the bunk in one of the staterooms on an Unwin Eight.” He held up his right arm. The red abrasion showed clearly. “They tried to convince me the ship was underway. I played along. Either they didn’t know I’d lived on an Eight most of my life, or they thought anything that would fool them would fool me.”

  “Which Unwin Eight?” the chief asked.

  “Small ship dock twenty-one,” he said. “No idea what name it was but I made it a point to get that. I remember telling security before I got tossed into the thing.”

  “You were drunk and drugged, according to the med-tech,” I said.

  “Something in the beer,” he said. “They counted on it knocking me out.”

  “It didn’t?” the chief asked.

  “Made me loopy. That tipped me off. I pretended to be out of it for a bit and then woke up gagging and retching like I was going to puke.” He chuckled. “They had the handcuffs off and me face down in the head in less than a tick.”

  “How’d you get from there to the docks?” the chief asked.

  “I retched and pretended to hurl. It wasn’t hard. Whatever they gave me kicked me hard in the gut and made me dizzy as hell. After a while, they started arguing about who was going to stay with me. Eventually one of them slapped his buddy and pulled rank. I heard him stomp off to the bridge so I flopped over on my side, like I’d passed out. The guy watching me swore up a storm but made the mistake of leaning over to drag me out of the head.” He shrugged. “Kneed his groin, banged his head on the bowl, rolled him into a corner, and walked off the ship. When I came out of the small ship dock, two security types grabbed me, dragged me to an aid station—which I presume is this one—and they slapped me into an auto-doc.”