“Maybe not initially, but not many R-Techs advance to directorships, do they?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she stopped in front of one of the many sliding steel doors.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t care for file work much anyway.”
She ran the back of her hand across the scanner, allowing the subdermal microchip to be read. “What leads you to believe that special agents don’t complete file work?”
I answered as the door slid open. “I’m sure there’s routine file work, just as there is with security duty. But computer interface isn’t my strong suit and I don’t think Intel took me on to gather data, or compile it.”
Neither of us stepped through the doorway until I said, “Ladies first.” When she frowned I tried, “Superiors first?”
She rolled her eyes and strode through.
Agent Guymin sat in the dimly lit conference room behind a shiny metal table. His hair, which must have been blond in youth but had long since darkened, was cropped short. Other than the intense gaze of his blue eyes, his looks were as unremarkable as his gray uniform. On the rectangular table rested a pitcher of water with three glasses, and a dish of powdery-red synthesized fruit strips. Probably strawberry flavored. A metal box with a handle and latches, like a briefcase but larger, sat on the floor next to the table.
Agent Guymin tapped at a computer screen built into the tabletop and the door closed. He stood and offered us each a chair. “Is there a problem?”
I answered, “She’s a little uptight,” the same time Agent Vingee said, “None that I’m aware of.” I decided not to hold Agent Vingee’s chair for her. Instead, I selected the left seat and slung my shotgun across the back before sitting down.
“Ah,” said Caylar, while centering his chair across from us. “Time’s short, so let’s get down to business.” He stretched his fingers before tapping away at the table screen for a moment. “I’ve just sent files on our assignment to your accounts, but here it is in brief. We’re to locate and, if possible, recover Deputy Director Karlton Simms. It’s believed he is still held by operatives of Capital Galactic, but may be turned over to the Crax. Once with them, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to recover the director, even if they don’t ship him beyond the outer colonies.”
“So,” I said, “Director Simms didn’t die aboard the Pars Griffin.”
Agent Vingee took in a sharp breath but said nothing. Cay—Agent Guymin had been there with me, on the Pars Griffin, when Director Simms went down. I’d been on the luxury transport, slowly dying from my Crax-inflicted wounds. And Agent Vingee had probably read the reports. His capture occurred on the way to Io so I could be hooked up to the experimental Cranaltar IV.
My thoughts shifted back to that moment, me upon the medical bed, aboard the Pars Griffin…
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, a dark-skinned and gung-ho Colonial Marine, set a brisk pace down the well-lit corridor. I had difficulty seeing what was going on but Diplomat Silvre and Field Director Simms appeared alert. The sound of footfalls and the rhythmic breathing of my escorts around my self-propelled bed 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. The marine, carbine leveled, blocked my view. To my right, the Intelligence field director, a nondescript man with a square jaw and intense eyes, 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,” the Intelligence man said 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 magnetic pulse 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 MP rounds rocked the sec-bot, but only managed to make large pockmarks in what had to be a hardened armor casing. Simms’s old .22 caliber pistol at my side 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 that lawyer, Falshire 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 discarded Varney’s wrecked carbine 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!” Diplomat Silvre said 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 resem
bling 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,” Caylar said, firing several more shots down the hall. “Good thing your screen’s still up or you’d be dead.”
“No,” Agent Guymin said, snapping me back from mentally reliving that event. “Director Simms was critically injured. An emergency evac-shuttle, Fleet and Intel lost track of it shortly after it departed from the heavy transport. Director Simms is believed to have been on board.”
I pushed an image of Deputy Director Simms, his plain face covered in blood, sprawled out on the Pars Griffin’s deck from my mind. I didn’t see him fall, and figured him to be dead, just like Diplomat Silvre, killed aboard the Iron Armadillo. Ambushed by a Crax frigate hidden in the asteroid belt, lying in wait. She, Deputy Director Karlton Simms, Private Varney—the entire crew of the Armadillo had died, enabling me to reach Io for my encounter with the experimental Cranaltar IV.
Capital Galactic, at least those in charge of arranging the ambushes, were past due for payback. Some had been captured, but not nearly all. Destroyed records and obscured trails left the company in disarray. They crippled the war effort, threatening humanity’s existence—at least as a free people not under the yoke and chains of the Crax.
Agent Guymin poured everyone a glass of water and took a sip before continuing. “Working on a tip, a police cutter intercepted the Pars Griffin when she dropped out of condensed space beyond the Kuiper Belt. She was to rendezvous with a number of yachts carrying sought after Capital Galactic personnel. The cutter disabled the heavy transport when she tried to evade. The Pars Griffin’s captain refused to answer questions so, after interrogating a number of her officers and crew, we introduced the captain to the Cranaltar IV.”
I involuntarily flinched, recalling my experience. The thousands of needle-like probes sinking into my scalp, and dividing like needles on a pine branch, again and again. It was my turn to remain silent.
Agent Vingee asked, “The captain revealed Director Simms’s location?”
“Not exactly. He was less than cooperative, resulting in a less than accurate brain mapping. Without access to routing and location of key memories, the download was both jumbled and incomplete.” Agent Guymin directed his gaze at me. “The procedure proved fatal.”
“Dr. Goldsen went along with it?” I asked. “I know convicted death row criminals ended up as test subjects, but the captain was only a suspect.”
“We’re at war,” Agent Guymin said. “She knows the score.”
“Just asking,” I replied. “The captain denied a request to allow Marines from the Iron Armadillo to board his transport vessel after my pretrial. If they’d been allowed to escort me off, Simms wouldn’t have been wounded.” I didn’t mention Diplomat Silvre’s demise. I knew Caylar had sought after her, hoping against hope that she’d survived in one of the escape pods—ones the Crax frigate had targeted, even as it was being converged upon by police cutters, patrol gunboats and the Red Bison, a light cruiser.
I shook my head. “The Pars Griffin’s captain used a technicality to keep the Colonial Marines off his vessel, and I’ll bet a technicality enabled his connection to the Cranaltar.”
“I didn’t think you’d have any qualms about it,” Agent Guymin said after taking a sip of water. “From what we’ve been able to piece together with the Cranaltar and other collected data, the Celestial Unicorn Palace may be a place to pick up the trail.”
“Makes sense,” Agent Vingee said. “I read a news brief that stated the Unicorn Palace declared independence shortly after the war started.”
Agent Guymin nodded. “It did.” He smiled at me. “And due to a technicality in its financing and charter as one of the first colonies, it was legally able to withdraw from governmental jurisdiction.”
“It’s not like Earth has a lot of assets to send out to the 70 Virginis system,” I said, “but isn’t that like asking the Crax to move in?”
“They’ve contracted with the Troh-gots,” Agent Vingee said. “From the report I read.”
“The only direct encounter humanity ever had with the Troh-gots,” Agent Guymin added, “was during the botched Treaty Zone Negotiations. From that we gathered they prefer an atmosphere laced with methane. Not much else on them, other than they count in base 8.”
I leaned forward. “They weren’t much of a factor in the Silicate War. I’ve never read about them fighting in any major actions. They only scouted and provided intel.”
“No, you’re right there,” Agent Guymin agreed. “But they were a factor. They fought the Shards, but never in conjunction with any of our forces, human forces, at least not that Intel knows of. They hauled and set prefabricated foundation structures which the Umbelgarri, or more accurately the Bahklack—their thralls, completed.”
I’d read voraciously about the Silicate War. Not much to do when working warehouse duty on Pluto, especially during the off hours. “Nothing I’ve read or heard even hinted at that.”
“Neither had I,” Guymin said. “Not until I was granted access for our assignment. Still, beyond the negotiating diplomats, only two humans have actually seen one. Needless to say, we lack any firm biological data.” He wiped his hand across imaginary dust on the computer screen. “Even more secretive than the Umbelgarri.”
Agent Vingee asked, “Are the Troh-gots allied with the Crax?”
He shrugged. “No evidence indicates they are.”
“Are they A-Tech?” I asked. “Or I-Tech like us?”
“Advanced tech?” He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows before answering. “Estimates suggest they’re probably intermediate tech like us, but closer to the Selgum Crax than we are.”
“I interpret your information,” Agent Vingee said, wrapping her long fingers around her glass of water, “as an estimate based upon a number of incalculable variables. Is any of the source data Umbelgarri?”
“No reference was indicated. But that doesn’t mean anything. The Umbelgarri are less popular than humanity, so it’s unlikely they’ve had much contact with the Troh-gots, at least not since the Silicate War.”
“So the Troh-gots may or may not be hostile,” I said. “But if nothing else, opportunistic.”
“Back to the Celestial Unicorn Palace,” Guymin said. “Besides being an exclusive resort for wealthy executives, occasionally it was a layover for tugs hauling equipment to the outer-colony region.”
“Are the commercial advertisements accurate?” I asked.
Agent Vingee shot me a disgusted glance before sarcastically stating the Palace’s slogan. “Come be a stallion on our ranch.”
“Yes, Keesay,” Agent Guymin said, eyeing Agent Vingee with apparent curiosity. “To my understanding the seven-foot voluptuous blondes that chant the slogan are there, and then some. But more to the point, it’s believed that Capital Galactic executives are fleeing there, or more accurately to the Bonnisbin Space Dock to which the Palace is attached.” He paused. “At least as a temporary haven, before moving on. Identity alteration through surgery and DNA manipulation, V-ID manipulation. It makes them far more difficult to track down.”
Agent Guymin again looked at me. “That reminds me, Special Agent Keesay, you need to update your inoculations. I was told they’d not only add the inoculation information to your V-ID pattern, but alter it, should anybody gain access to the government files and try to use it to track you.”
“Understood,” I said, wondering how long it’d take me to get used to being called Special Agent instead of Security Specialist. I nodded once. “The CGIG bounty.”
“Special Agent Vingee informed me you refused to undergo cosmetic surgery or DNA modification.”
“Correct,” I said. “I am who I a
m, and will always be who I am.”
“Until you’re killed,” Agent Vingee said. “He insists on carrying his old equipment, which will ID him faster than a standard facial scan.”
I frowned and said to her, “The billions of humans, the number of colonies, the confusion of the war. Decent odds for me, I’d say.”
“All of the steps you’re resisting are elementary, Special Agent Keesay. Even if you believe the chances small, those steps would reduce the chances even further.”
Agent Vingee seemed a lot different back when I was injured and prepping for the Cranaltar. She’d gotten angry once when she thought I’d back out of undergoing the Cranaltar procedure. She’d acted without hesitation to keep me from being killed just after my recovery. Maybe she’d reflected upon what was revealed through the Documentary. I was flawed, like any human, anything but perfect—far, far from it. But most people get to hide their inner self, and project what they hope others will see—at least most of the time. The Cranaltar cut through all that.
“Special Agent Vingee,” I said. “Engineer McAllister and I managed, despite our history. You have the advantage, knowing me better than any Intel partner might know another. We can make a decent team.”
She started to say something, but settled for nodding once.
I turned to Agent Guymin. “Director Lidov said something about the Chicher and my DNA. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, I don’t Special Agent Keesay, but I’d say that you and Special Agent Vingee better work out your differences. If not, it’ll be harder on you.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked from Guymin to Vingee and back.
“We’re to take an upgraded second series exploration shuttle to the Unicorn Palace and pick up the trail.” He held up a finger before either Vingee or I could question him. “It’s been modified to look like a long range transport shuttle. Superficial scans will ID it as such.
“Agent Vingee’s cover is an executive from Mayfair Mining and Industrials, in their newly acquired hydroponics division. They outbid several corporations to obtain this portion of the seized Capital Galactic Investment Group. Vingee will be seeking to contract with the 70 Virginis system’s main space dock to upgrade and maintain their hydroponic systems. I’m her assistant. Keesay, you’re her bodyguard.” He winked at Agent Vingee. “In these days of war and corporate strife, bodyguards are coming into vogue.”
Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2) Page 3
