“It won’t take long for that bounty hunter to convince someone in Security to back his claim,” Marvie said, speaking fast, waving animated hands. “And gain admittance to the Palace here.” His suspicious eyes shifted to me. “Especially if he offers a cut of the bounty—which he’ll do. Miggs-zel is like that.”
Miggs-zel, I gathered, was a bounty hunter.
The old man squinted at Yeong standing next to me. “Remember two years ago, when that lady embezzler was on the dock? He tracked her here when everyone else’d given up. Bribed Ms. Ambleer, manager of the Cluclow Hotel, and Roxort, that S2 Security Supervisor, to look the other way?
“Won’t get Mr. Grosstin or anyone here at the Palace to look the other way,” Marvie said, his squinting eyes shifting to me, “but Security wants to speak with ya in an urgent way, Bleys, err Keesay…or whoever.”
He pulled what appeared to be a form-fitting silk skull and face mask from a pocket. It shimmered with thousands of tiny facets. “Tell’em, Colossra. Tell’em to undress b’cause time’s running out. Miggs-zel’s got someone watching to see if Keesay leaves.”
I knew what the shimmering face and headdress was. A holo-mask, used at masquerade parties and theatrical events. Expensive but it wouldn’t fool security cameras, even outdated ones. “Any security camera that spots someone wearing that—it’ll red flag you. May not be able to penetrate the holographic disguise, but—”
Marvie cut me off. “So says you. This one’s got A-Tech projectors. Sucks energy like a black hole and feels like ants crawling all over your face an’ scalp. Uncomfortable as hell.” He pointed at me with his free hand. “Only has to work for a few minutes. Long enough for me to lose any that’s watching. I can do that, no problem, but it doesn’t do more than my face.” He looked at his pointing finger. “Well, I got gloves too.”
I’d seen a hologram image once fool security cameras and equipment, but it was Umbelgarri design. Marvie’s holo-mask appeared to be of human, or I-Tech design, supplemented by A-Tech hardware and software. Motion detectors and pattern tracking sonar would detect an anomaly with visual tracking sensors. The electronic signature emanating from such a device? That was an even greater vulnerability.
When I started to disrobe, Marvie offered me his brown jacket, saying, “Only need your jacket and body suit. Keep your boots.” His eyes widened. “And your gun.”
He looked up at Yeong. “Colossra, you must have something he can wear besides my jacket.” He pulled a set of faceted gloves from his jacket pocket, and an optical scanner. “Violet’s been alerted. Should be here any minute.”
After I was undressed and standing in my underwear, Marvie said, “Hold still,” and circled me, pointing the optical scanner at my face and head. Then he scanned my hands. While he was tapping at the optical scanner’s small icon screen, commanding it to download data to the mask and gloves, Yeong returned from the bedroom with a pair of white coveralls and a black shoulder bag.
“These should fit,” she said. The black shoulder bag wasn’t exactly a purse. She rolled her eyes at my expression. “Whatever you’ve got in your satchel should fit in this.”
I had my coveralls, wrapped up in my satchel, but something other than those colors might prove useful when trying to avoid getting picked out of a crowd. While I got dressed and belted on my gun, Marvie dressed too. He slid on the mask and gloves. With a voice command, the holographic disguise activated. “How’s it look?”
I thought it was a pretty good match. Yeong said, “Be sure to keep a straight face, or scowl, Marvie.”
Before I could say anything, movement in the bedroom caught my attention. My hand moved to my revolver.
“It’s okay,” Yeong said. “Violet used the back entrance.”
“Back entrance?” I asked.
“Fast as he went for his gun,” Marvie said, a look of concern on his—my face, “I’m gonna get going.” He deactivated the mask and gloves. “I hate this damn thing,” he said more to Yeong than me, especially as my attention was split between him and the woman walking through the doorway, into the exercise room.
She was tall, nearly as tall as Agent Vingee. She had long green hair, a deep jade color. That was less spectacular than her skin. No question where she got her name. Deep violet with occasional rippling flashes of what my mother would call lilac and plum surged along her smooth skin. That told me it wasn’t makeup, and it certainly wasn’t a body-covering version of a holo-mask. Violet’s eyes matched her hair and her lips were black, matching her finger nails.
So focused on her skin and hair, I didn’t notice her silky emerald dress right away. It reached mid-thigh and was very low cut, revealing a chest that made Hostess Bambi seem like Violet’s younger, undeveloped sister.
When I glanced back, Marvie was already out the door.
“As you might have guessed, Kra, this is Violet.”
“Adorable attire,” the purple beauty said, eyeing me from head to boot. Her voice flowed in a soft, relaxed cadence. It rubbed me the wrong way.
“Here.” I took off Marvie’s jacket and tossed it at her. “Use this to supplement your lacking.”
She ignored it, letting it strike her and drop to the floor.
“Violet,” Yeong interjected. “There’s a reason Capital Galactic wants him so badly.” The women’s eyes met, exchanging unvoiced communication.
Yeong turned to face me and bowed her head. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Kra. I wish you luck and…continued vengeance.”
Abrupt as the dismissal was, I picked up Marvie’s jacket and extended my hand, “I’m glad I met you as well, Yeong. I don’t know your future dreams and aspirations, but I hope you meet them.” As we shook, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Violet’s emerald eyes widen. Maybe at the use of Colossra’s real name.
While I’d wondered in the back of my mind about much of what Yeong had said, the purple entertainer’s reaction indicated Yeong had been truthful about her name. It gave me hope she’d been truthful about much more.
With Violet, I had far less confidence.
Other than a request to follow her, the purple entertainer didn’t say much, at least until we exited into a tight, cylindrical elevator that reminded me of a narrow closet. She’d entered first and turned to face me. The door closed as soon as I’d stepped in. Immediately I wished I hadn’t followed so quickly. It was too tight to turn around so I stood face to face with her ample cleavage, her breasts actually pressed against my shoulders.
I looked up and met her amused gaze. Assisting my escape or not, she was in need of an attitude adjustment. Even as I reached into my jacket pocket, Violet seemed to grow taller, elevating her breasts to frame my chin. Her shoes. Heels designed to elevate or depress as desired.
“You may find this entertaining,” I said, leaning back against the door as much as possible. “I find it annoying.” The snarl in my voice was evident.
“I am attempting to ascertain the sort of man you are, Security Specialist Keesay. May I address you as Kra?”
“I am the sort that gets angry when an elevator remains stationary when it should be moving. Address me however you want, especially after I discharge my stun baton into your thigh.”
Her shoes stopped elevating. “A normal heterosexual man would be experiencing arousal and prepared to, if I might be so crude, strike with a more organic baton.”
While there’d been some arousal, as she intended, my anger quashed any such desires. “I suspect that your genetically altered skin will react colorfully to an electric jolt. Any thoughts you might care to share on that?” Even as I spoke I prepared for any action that might threaten me or my health.
How had I gone from fighting Crax on Io and dodging capture and execution by bounty hunters, to exchanging threats in a cramped lift with a high expense, genetically enhanced prostitute?
Her shoes reversed their elevation. Even so, I depressed the button on my stun baton. A series of clicks sounded as it telescoped to its sixteen inch length
. Then I switched it on, the activation hum sounding like a fist full of angry bees.
“You realize, Specialist Keesay, our bodies are in substantial contact. You will receive forty percent of the discharge, at a minimum.”
That she knew the expected electrical transfer from body to body said something. “I’m betting your skin, supplemented with some form of chromatophores, will pulse like a purple rainbow as the electrical charge courses through it. I’ve witnessed Umbelgarri under fire. Colors, like ripples in a pond, flow from their wounds.”
An image of the alien, a lumbering quadruped with an energy beam generator strapped to its back, flashed in my mind. It exited a crippled main battle tank, surrounded by Bahklacks. Under heavy fire from advancing Crax and Stegmars, they never made it to our trench line. Our line which was overrun moments later.
Violet leaned back, as much as was possible. Staring down into my eyes, which I imagined were hard and uncaring, she said, “Now I perceive the sort of man you are.”
I switched off my stun baton, causing it to emit the fading deactivation hum. “And what sort of man is that?”
“Elevator, return,” she said before answering me. As it dropped, she continued. “The sort devoid of humor and passion for life.”
“Being hunted sort of saps one’s sense of humor. So I’ll grant you that. But passion for life? I’ve fought to live, harder and more often than you perceive.”
The purple entertainer noted the sarcasm at the end of my retort. “I suspect you shall need to retain that passion, if you hope to continue.” As the elevator slowed, she added, “Unsolicited, I advise you to smile more often, Specialist Keesay. Laughter, even fake laughter, will prove reinvigorating. More than you might expect.”
I was tempted to laugh at her advice, but refrained. What she’d said was laced with truth.
Violet’s private suite was roughly twice the size of a mid-level military officer’s quarters. Not surprisingly, pillows and padded furniture, primarily purple and white, filled her rooms. Her suite was located on the outer rim of one of the Palace’s spinning disks, as evidenced by the slowly passing stars viewed through a pair of oblong portholes set into the purple carpet. The floor’s almost imperceptible curve reinforced the room’s placement on the disk’s outer rim.
Watching as Violet stood at a wall-mounted computer console decoding an encrypted message, I had to admit she was quite alluring. The way subtle shifts in color ran along her skin provided an air of rarity, a touch of the exotic. There was little wonder why powerful men might pay a treasure in credits for the opportunity to spend time with her.
Whereas Yeong’s entertainer persona seemed to differ from her true personality, Violet’s arrogance? That dominant trait appeared to extend from her entertainer persona to the businesslike personality that emerged after we’d departed the elevator. I guessed the latter was a further glimpse of her true self.
“A moment longer,” Violet said. “There are seven levels of encryption.” She hiked up her short dress and pulled a thin palm-computer from a strap located high on her thigh. Tapping some icons, she observed the screen for a moment.
While she continued working, I inspected my surroundings. The room’s wall panel concealing the elevator was very effective. I’d have wagered a lot that the results from a standard structural scan would be interpreted as a wall section, identical to the adjacent wall panels. No obvious cameras or other surveillance devices. It was possible that hidden sonic sensors tracked movement within the suite, but I doubted it. Such sensors normally supplemented other surveillance methods. Besides, simple pressure detection through the floor plates would be less expensive and, in some ways, more reliable.
That was, of course, if the Troh-gots hadn’t provided some of their A-Tech equipment. I knew that V’Gun sensors could detect detailed facial features, even through a civil transport’s bulkheads. But didn’t see a reason why the Troh-gots, let alone the V’Gun—who were race a subjugated by the Crax—would install advanced sensors in the Palace.
While thinking on that, the patrolling Troh-got battle frigate came into view through the left-hand porthole. The warship’s horseshoe-shaped curves were spread with knobs that housed pulse ion cannons, backed by turret-mounted lasers. The Troh-got ion cannons were far superior to those mounted on Chicher battlewagons. More powerful and accurate, just like the quad-beam lasers mounted on the tips of their ships’ pointed spar. More lethal than any ship-mounted combat lasers humanity could muster.
I’d never seen a Troh-got ship in action. They fought alongside the Shiggs during the Silicate War, and there were few vids, let alone detailed combat reports. Most of what humanity knew had been gleaned from what the secretive Umbelgarri were willing to share.
The Troh-gots weren’t quite in the Umbelgarri or Primus Crax league, but close. They outclassed us humans.
“Those seven levels of encryption won’t mean anything if Troh-got software is employed against it,” I said to Violet as she walked toward me.
Glancing down, she spotted the alien battle frigate. “What interest could they possibly have in my electronic communications?”
I shrugged. “The same interest they’ll have in protecting this orbital dock when the Crax come looking to finish the job?”
“You believe that humanity is destined to lose the war?” Before I could answer, she continued, saying, “It is my understanding that we humans are losing. The Umbelgarri, as a cohesive military force, is no longer extant.”
While I found her phrasing odd, her assessment was accurate.
I thought about the success on Io, but decided against mentioning it. “That doesn’t address what will happen here, if we lose.”
A dark line of purple flowed from Violet’s eyes, down her cheeks and neck before fading away. “I am not among those who establish or enforce policy on the Bonnisbin Orbital Colony.”
“But your boss, Mr. Grosstin, has influence.”
She frowned, narrow waves of purplish gray emanating from her lips and fading before they reached her cheek bones. “Not sufficient to eradicate the residual presence of Capital Galactic remnants, as you have observed first hand.” A wide smile crossed her face, her gleaming white teeth standing out against her coal-black lips.
“So what is the plan?”
“The plan is to ensure your survival, based on the assumption that you’ll continue to unravel whatever remaining threads of CGIG fabric you discover.”
Verbally sparring about the war and local politics wouldn’t go anywhere. “They’ll get me eventually.”
She directed my attention to her computer clip with a quick hand gesture. “It’s doubtful, Specialist, that you’re going to be pleased with.” She paused for a breath. “The plan.”
I crossed my arms. Her voice and grim stare said that she was in earnest. I wouldn’t be pleased. “Let’s hear it.”
I stood, wearing a standard emergency evacuation space suit. Despite the ‘upgrade accessories’ as Entertainer Violet named them, reinforced elbow and knee areas, thicker, tear-resistant gloves and boots actually designed for contact in zero atmosphere, hardly gave me confidence. An emergency evacuation suit was just that. A suit an untrained civilian slips on before abandoning a ship, shuttle or space structure facing imminent destruction. Float in space and await rescue.
Such suits are designed for minimal contact with surfaces, especially those that might have points or right angles. They’re essentially a durable balloon roughly shaped like a human body. A broadcasting beacon and environmental support pack completed the kit. Normally such a suit administered a sedative strong enough to put the wearer into a deep sleep to conserve energy and life support supplies.
For an active wearer? Three and a half hours life support, maximum.
This suit was a dull metallic gray, lacking the reflective coating. It’d stand out less when viewed against the orbital dock’s outer hull sections, and might not trigger external camera surveillance.
Strapped to my sto
mach in a sealed bag was my equipment—stun baton, revolver, brass knuckles and everything else. Holstered on my hips were two hand-portable thrust jets. Really, they were little more than construction drill shaped devices powered by CO2 canisters. Crude devices, even by R-Tech standards. Point and depress the trigger and your body is propelled the opposite direction, for as long as the compressed CO2 lasts.
Two magnetic rollers, one for each hand, rounded out my zero space travel equipment. They reminded me of ski poles filled with batteries and tipped by a four inch diameter, magnetic wheel. They were designed to help me maintain contact with the orbital dock’s surface and propel me along it—for as long as the batteries lasted.
And the best part of it was, the Nuclear Pitchfork had already departed. According to Entertainer Violet, “Thoroughly searched by the orbital dock’s security, and ‘encouraged’ to leave, the business arranging for hydroponics installation and maintenance having been successfully negotiated.”
Three rah rah cheers for Agent Vingee’s successful negotiations, effectively reinforcing the crew of the Pitchfork’s cover. And possibly pointing to an alternate career, should Vingee tire of working for Intelligence.
My destination was Loki’s Lady, Kent O’Vorley and Senior Engineer Nova McAllister’s long range shuttle.
The purple entertainer circled around me, checking my gear. It disturbed me that my eyes wasted precious time roving over her curves and scintillating skin instead of focusing on my predicament.
When Violet finished her inspection, I asked, raising one of my magnetic rollers, “You have genetically enhanced skin, advanced holographic equipment. And this jumble rig of equipment comprises the best ‘plan’ available?”
I was having second thoughts. Maybe I could contact Segreti, or get to Loki’s Lady another way.
Violet must’ve seen it in my face. “This is the backup plan of a backup plan. Marvie reported Security is still looking for you.” She crossed her arms, pressing down her ample cleavage. “If they believe you’re still here and still drawing breath, you can rest assured any bounty hunters or Capital Galactic agents on the dock will be seeking you, and the substantial reward capturing or killing you will bring.” She stepped back. Her right hand gestured my direction. “At least those with any measure of competence and minimal connections.”
Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2) Page 21
