Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  I smirked.

  “My team. Guymin knows?”

  O’Vorley nodded once. “They’ve been questioned by dock authorities. They’re being watched. Not just by Security.”

  I looked around the cramped area. “You being watched too?”

  “Not especially. Not yet, at least.” He started to descend the ladder. “Hey. Nemo me impune lacessit?”

  I grinned, remembering I’d mentioned it to him earlier. “Latin for: No one injures me with impunity.”

  O’Vorley shook his head. “That figures. Just stay hidden with impunity.”

  Chapter 17

  Long hours of warehouse duty on Pluto helped me endure waiting in the maintenance crawl area. Waiting, silent and inactive while my trail went cold, seemed wise. That didn’t mean it was easy. I wanted to be after Falshire Hawks. Thinking about how close he was to me and I didn’t get him left my blood boiling. I missed my chance. He was gone, and out of reach. Stewing on it wouldn’t change anything.

  I managed a few hours of sleep before deciding to read the novel O’Vorley left with me. It was a short one, very old and obviously written before humanity had an inkling of the nature of alien races, especially those populating the Orion Arm of the Milky Way galaxy. H.G. Wells did, however, have an understanding that humanity would be at a technological disadvantage, but that our immune system would be a great advantage.

  One small aspect in The War of the Worlds that especially piqued my curiosity was the Thunder Child, a steam-driven naval warship. It battled the Martian alien walkers by ramming them.

  Two patrol boats, Calling Thunder and Thunder Child, played a key role in the Kalavar’s survival and escape. After Calling Thunder was destroyed, the Thunder Child managed to ram the damaged Primus Crax frigate. Unlike in the novel, our Thunder Child didn’t limp away from the confrontation.

  Although tradition held that all patrol gunboats have ‘Thunder’ incorporated into their name, I wondered if the captain of the Thunder Child knew of H.G. Wells’ novel, and the part the fictional ship played. That question lingered for only a few seconds. Without a doubt, the captain had.

  My thoughts remained on the captains and crews of the Thunder Child and Calling Thunder, lost defending the Kalavar and the Zeta Aquarius Dock. The dock survived the first Crax wave, losing all but a few escort ships and defending fighters. Thousands of Colonial Marines died fending off the boarding attempt. A Chicher battlewagon and Umbelgarri frigate fell too, as did all but a handful of the Kalavar’s crew.

  I switched off the LED lamp and leaned back against the foam-coated wall, thinking on all those people lost. And were still being lost. Dying in the war. Concern for my own troubles receded. Whispering a prayer, I allowed my eyes to slip closed. My hand fell to my holstered revolver.

  Unexpected, rest and slumber found me.

  The secondary entry door clicking open jolted me awake. A sliver of light sliced through the darkness. My hand automatically pulled my revolver, but then I thought better of it, and grabbed the laser carbine from the floor next to me. Other than that, I didn’t move from lying on my back, feet nearest the entryway.

  Someone slid a sizeable red toolbox across the metal floor. A male voice followed, saying, “I’ve got a pair of brass knuckles wrapped in a shop rag.”

  I recognized the voice, or thought I did—a dead man’s voice. I didn’t move, or respond.

  A hand reached in and placed a bundled rag on top of the metal tool box. “You shoot me, I’m gonna be pissed. It’s not like I’m Gudkov or something.”

  “Step in,” I said. “Slowly, and tell me who you are.”

  A dark-haired, mustached man entered, hands held away from his sides. “Segreti. I’m still a maintenance tech.”

  “The Maintenance Tech, Segreti, I knew is dead,” I said. Just about everyone aboard the Kalavar died fending off the boarding Crax and Stegmars. Neither Colonist Potts nor Admin Specialist Tahgs listed Class 2 Maintenance Tech Segreti among the few survivors.

  “I should be but I’m not, happy to say.” He slowly reached back. “Mind if I close the door?”

  “Close it,” I said.

  The enclosure returned to inky darkness. “I thought you were dead too, Keesay.”

  Switching on my penlight, I trained it on the man’s face. “I should be, but I’m not.” The man looked like Segreti, wavy dark hair, skin tone marking him as someone from the Mediterranean region—if he hailed from Earth. Not taking my eyes from him, I sat up. “As reported to me by two reliable sources, the Gar Crax got you.”

  He chuckled. “Actually, it was the Stegmars. Pumped me full of needles and nearly tore my right arm from its socket. The neural toxin antidote kept me alive, but left me in a coma. I survived the cold sleep process, and well, here I am.”

  “Cold sleep? How’d that go?”

  “Having two of those three-foot mantises playing tug of war with my limbs was more pleasant than waking up from cold sleep.”

  “I hear you there,” I said, flicking on the LED lamp. “Glad you’re alive. Now, what’re you doing out here, and specifically in here with me?”

  He knelt down to open his tool box. I kept my laser carbine trained on him. “I’m not convinced I should trust you yet. There’s a lot of credits on my head.”

  Segreti chuckled, but didn’t move his hands any closer to the box’s latches. “Don’t I know it, Keesay. Got a lot of the dock here in an uproar. Most think you’ve been captured and secretly whisked away. Some think you were wounded, crawled into some vent shaft to die. A few don’t believe you were ever here. More theories than I have fingers and toes.” He paused. “I heard about you taking down Crax and Stegmars on the Kalavar. A lot of them. That told me these few bodies attributed to you here meant you weren’t even trying.”

  I ignored his flattery. “And?”

  “And, I knew Engineer McAllister was on the dock here. If you really were here, she’d know.” When I raised a skeptical eye, he responded, “She knew pretty much everything that happened on the Kalavar. Why wouldn’t she know what’s happening here too?”

  Segreti was one of only a handful of trusted friends I had while serving aboard the Kalavar. But it seemed all too convenient. “So, how’d you get here?”

  “Here, on the dock?”

  “That’ll do for a start,” I replied.

  “Was on a hospital ship. Negral was in disarray, facing a hostile takeover. Me, work for Capital Galactic? They’re a bunch of assholes. The first corporate recruiter that offered anything, I jumped at. Here I am.”

  I refrained from shaking my head. While his story could be true, could be just that simple, I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t with Intelligence. He’d have said so.

  Segreti glanced down at the tool box. “I’m here to do some work on your behalf.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “So you went to McAllister and she told you where I was?”

  “Not directly.” He removed the bundled rag from the top of his tool box, unwrapped it, revealing the copper-colored brass knuckles. Sliding them out of the way, he continued. “And she contacted me. Arranged a drop. I didn’t talk to her, nor that young guy I’ve seen with her.”

  “She did?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “Surprised the hell out of me, Keesay. Thought she hated your guts.” He flicked the latches and lifted the lid of his box.

  “She does,” I said with a shrug, deciding to tip my hand a bit. “She just hates the Crax more.”

  “She knew you and me were friends on the Kalavar. Knew you might not shoot me on sight.”

  “Who do you work for, Segreti?”

  He pointed to the brown and purple, octagonal logo on the left shoulder of his tan coveralls. “Rift Valley Consolidated Services, a subcontractor for this colony.”

  “Really?”

  He smirked and eyed my shoulder patch. “And you work for Mayfair Mining and Industrials?”

  I didn’t want to lie so I shifted the conversation’s direction. “Remember
Agricultural Laborer Potts?”

  “Yeah, one of those colonists Negral hired who turned out to be not much more than a thug.” He sighed. “Fought pretty hard against the aliens. He was one of the few that survived.”

  “He turned out to be okay,” I said, frowning. “Died fighting in the trench line against the Crax. On Tallavaster. They overran our position. Hand to hand, he took more than a few down before a Stegmar tore out his throat.”

  Segreti pulled a few shrink-wrapped packages from his toolbox and sat them on the floor before grabbing a fist-sized metallic box with a number of wires emerging from both ends. “You made it, Keesay. You’re s survivor. Heard a little how you killed more than your share of Crax and Stegmars before escaping the Kalavar on that exploration shuttle. Before the Stegmars took me down.” His voice held no malice.

  “Potts told me what happened on the Kalavar,” I said. “Crossed paths with Janice Tahgs too, on Tallavaster.” I met Segreti’s eyes. “I was ordered to leave the Kalavar.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. Orders are orders. I considered you a friend. Still do. Would’ve preferred you there helping us exterminate the boarders.” He shrugged. “That Capital Galactic put a price on you before they were dismantled tells me you’ve done more than your share.”

  “Glad you survived, Segreti.”

  A crooked smile emerged under his thick mustache. “I’m going to do what I can to help you survive, at least a little while longer.” He held up the box. “I’m going to splice this into one of the power cables. You can use it to re-charge that shield generator.”

  It took a conscious effort to keep my hand from sliding to the nearly drained A-Tech device attached to my belt.

  He pointed to the packages. “There’s a bodysuit, jacket, tie and tie-tack. If nobody looks at your boots, you’ll be mistaken for business rep. Junior rank, not even midlevel.” He tossed me a smaller package. “This has a pair of contacts. They’ll fool the dock’s facial recognition software—if you don’t give them reason to look too close. Also, a chit with some credits and a temporary ID.” His mustache twitched with a smile.” You’re a Mr. Virgil Deering.” He scratched behind his ear. “That ID won’t stand up to scrutiny so, if you can manage, maybe don’t draw too much attention.”

  I knew about the type of contacts he’d given me. They distorted what the cameras picked up, measurement between the eyes. That said the Bonnisbin Orbital Colony’s security systems were somewhat antiquated. It also meant I couldn’t look anyone eye-to-eye for long or they’d notice the contact-induced distortion, especially anyone from Security.

  “Understood,” I said. “Where’d you come across these…items?”

  Segreti shrugged. “Let’s just say I have interesting friends.” He’d begun attaching the recharging device to one of the cables running along the wall.

  “Would you list me among them?”

  “Yeah, Keesay, you’re on that list.”

  I laughed. “I’m not on many friend lists.”

  Maintenance Tech Segreti must’ve been working for Military Intelligence. I didn’t know much about them, other than their primary focus was to watch and ensure corporations weren’t breaking laws, like using prohibited military grade equipment. I always figured they did more than that. Much more. No reason the military would trust Intelligence to provide them with everything they needed. Knowledge, even if it only verified what was shared, was important.

  Yes, I thought. A competent, unassuming maintenance tech who paid attention to detail would fit that need. He’d never verify my suspicion, just as I’d never verify that I’d been recruited by Intelligence, something he certainly suspected.

  Segreti pulled a long tool from his belt. It looked like a screwdriver, but I knew that it fused wires. “Me neither,” he said, referring to friend lists. “There’s also a masking device you can affix to your revolver. You’ll have to leave the carbine and any other weapons behind. I’ll come by in a few days to pick the carbine up, and anything else you leave, and this.” He pointed his fusing tool at my belt and then to the charger. “It draws slowly so electrical grid monitors won’t notice. Probably take twenty hours. Might want to be on the move by then.”

  He started closing up his toolbox. “I’ll pass through my next shift. Drop off some cleansing wipes and deodorant.”

  “You know where I’m going?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Thanks, Segreti.” I stood in the cramped area and offered him my hand. “I was saddened when Potts said you weren’t one of the Kalavar crewmen that survived. Seeing you here made my day—no, made my month.”

  He laughed as we shook hands. “Considering your past few days…” His grin faded. “Keep taking it to them, Keesay.”

  “As long as I’m drawing breath, my friend.”

  “Me too,” he said, and quietly departed.

  Chapter 18

  I was cleaned up and ready to go. The charcoal black I-Tech bodysuit felt uncomfortable, but not as bad as the red tie filled mostly with black geometric shapes. That garment around my neck felt constricting, like a noose. I knew how to wear a tie, owing to my days as a youth when my mother held dinner parties. The narrow cut black jacket with flecks of red was comfortable by comparison.

  I’d thought about stashing my revolver in the large satchel, along with my tightly wrapped uniform and bayonet, but figured it’d hide well enough beneath my jacket and the satchel riding on my hip. The scrambling chip affixed to the frame below the cylinder should defeat cursory electronic scans, especially those performed with older equipment and software.

  Leaving my old set of brass knuckles behind for Segreti, I pocketed my new set on the satchel’s side as a decoy if the scans turned up something, such as large bits of metal. My bayonet in the satchel was of Umbelgarri alloy and might not trigger concern.

  The shielding device clipped opposite my revolver would render my handgun ineffective anyway, once activated. I did have my medium duty stun baton. By removing the internal battery it should appear to be an inert object, not worth a second glance. It’d also be useless unless I had twenty seconds to disassemble, insert the battery and reassemble it. If it did get a second glance, I could discharge the battery, if necessary. But, again, a potentially useful distraction should I be called aside.

  The contacts designed to foil facial recognition software left my vision a little blurry, especially close up. Even so, with a determined effort I could bring into focus my purple octagonal tie tack identifying me as working for Rift Valley Consolidated Services. Because of the contact lenses, I wanted to avoid eye contact with anyone for more than a few seconds. Fortunately, being a low level business associate, avoiding eye contact was the norm.

  The trip to the Celestial Unicorn Palace proved a long one, especially since the best route was indirect, requiring extensive foot travel and only a few elevators.

  The Palace was one of the oldest structures comprising the orbital dock, attached to the initial main hub section. The shine reflecting off the walls, floors, railings—everything—bespoke of extraordinary maintenance efforts. Vines bearing blooming pink and purple morning glories climbed the pillars leading to the Palace. A nearby restaurant whose high-ceilinged dining area held various colorful, free-flight songbirds caught my attention. The posted guard at the elaborate triple door entrance ensured none of the exotic avian creatures escaped from the marble-tabled courtyard. Several authentic trees offered an expansive leaf-filled canopy and supported semi-transparent netting.

  Only a few customers dined in the fancy Wellington’s Roost. Business executives and high-powered attorneys, all with very little black in their orange and yellow ties or scarves. I wondered how they dealt with bird droppings plopping in their soup. Expensive exclusivity had its price.

  Needless to say, nobody paid me much attention, even as I approached several old-style neon signs outlining shapely women and even a muscular man. Just beyond them stood a screening area manned by several corporate secu
rity guards wearing a shoulder patch depicting a rearing white unicorn in front of a stylized split rail gate resting half open.

  I fell in line behind a pair of tall businessmen, both from Cardinal One Intrasolar Corporation. They ignored each other, eyes focused on their computer clips. Lacking a computer clip made my disguise less effective.

  I pondered the chit encased in a plastic card from Segreti. It’d have to suffice. Any financial transaction accessing my account would send up a red flag for anyone monitoring it. Even a small purchase, such as a meal or cocktail. I didn’t have any idea how many credits the chit contained—at the time I didn’t think to ask Segreti. But it’d have to hold a substantial amount if I hoped to gain access as a patron at the Palace. By all accounts, it was an exclusive, expensive establishment.

  Some visiting executives and government officials might not want their accounts attached to the Unicorn Palace, so chits probably wouldn’t draw attention. But would there be enough on the chit to get by?

  Placing a hand in my pocket, making sure the plastic card was still there, my fallback would be to count on my contact, Colossra. Trust O’Vorley and Segreti? Taking a deep breath while the two business men in front of me were questioned, I realized that I trusted O’Vorley and Segreti more than just about anyone else from my past. They wouldn’t steer me wrong.

  Both executives ahead of me went through the scanning arch, then answered a question about intent, each saying, “An evening of personal entertainment.”

  As I walked up to the arch, I noted that it was hooked to a very simple screen, a type that had minimal memory and processing capacity. I didn’t recognize the scanning arch’s model. While it could provide superior sensing ability, I didn’t think it had any directed EMP ability. Not modulating and focusing an electromagnetic pulse when coupled with computer hardware available. There were other possibilities, but they didn’t concern me, much. Besides, there weren’t a lot of options. Moving forward and keeping alert was all I could reasonably do.