Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

The ensign’s head snapped up and she looked at me sharply. What I’d said hadn’t occurred to her. Had it occurred to the captain? I stared into the surveillance camera. “Something that maybe oughta be looked into, Captain?”

  Ensign Ciriegio escorted me to the wardroom. She politely refused to answer my questions. Her lack of eye contact and mannerisms suggested she wasn’t fully onboard with refusing, and maybe even with my being isolated from everyone. Everyone being Tahgs and McAllister, even the Reef Shark’s crew. Meeting the captain in her wardroom as opposed to the captain’s office didn’t fit. Destroyer layouts from the Silicate War showed the wardroom as being little more than an antechamber off the captain’s quarters. Whatever the reason for tight lips and isolation, I’d find out soon enough.

  The limited scope of reading material to which I’d been granted access consisted of twenty year-old journals and predictable romance novels filled with smut. Many historical articles were listed, but my account didn’t have access. Needless to say I found absolutely nothing about what happened to the task force after it reached the Andromeda Galaxy. At least Heartwell and the CGIG loyalists had a reason to imprison me. I wasn’t in shackles, but restricted to quarters and not seeing or being allowed to communicate with McAllister or Tahgs, or even Guymin, who was my direct supervisor.

  The old destroyer’s corridors were well maintained. Many hatches clearly had replaced bolts and there were spots where the grays and light blue repainted over the years didn’t match. Faded in places like the fleet uniform I wore, drab blue and gray, and without any identification or insignias. Pulled out of some disposal bin to replace my acquired prison guard attire, with a hole and blood stains where I’d stabbed the previous owner.

  One thing they managed was to eliminate any vermin. Not unheard of in a destroyer, but it said positive things. No signs of cockroaches or rodents, normally brought aboard with foodstuffs and supplies. If there was a trick or secret, maybe they could patent it.

  When we reached the wardroom, the ensign signaled for me to wait. Through a com system she asked for permission to enter, saluted while standing in the doorway and then announced she’d brought me as ordered.

  “Thank you, Ensign,” the captain replied. Her confident voice held a hint of weariness. “Show him in, close the door, and wait outside.”

  Ensign Ciriegio stepped back out, her smile gone and no emotion on her face. “The captain will see you,” she said and gestured for me to enter the wardroom. After I had, she pulled the hatch closed behind me.

  Not surprisingly, the wardroom was cramped. Its centerpiece was a table inset with four computer screens that could be combined into one. Probably for individual and group games, as well as reading and research. It didn’t appear to have holographic capability. The room was painted in light blues and dark grays, with padded chairs set around the table. Along one wall was a food and drink dispenser. Next to it a cupboard, probably for dishes, and below that a door that slid up, probably a conveyer belt that carried away dirty dishes and other waste.

  The captain sat on one of the padded chairs, facing the door instead of the game table. Her forearm rested against the edge of the table, allowing her to casually hold a steaming cup of coffee.

  She set the cup on the table and stood, offering her right hand. “I’m Captain Jaiden Fitzgerald. Good to finally meet you, Specialist Keesay.”

  The captain’s grip was firm but her hand’s skin was rough and dry, and her face looked haggard. Her blue uniform was neatly pressed and precisely fitted. I’d studied a little about the Silicate War. Humanity had sent sixteen ships as part of the combined task force, including supply and support vessels. I didn’t recall a Captain Fitzgerald being mentioned. Twenty years was a long time. A lot of things could’ve happened. The Reef Shark’s original captain may have died. May have gotten promoted, to a larger ship in the task force. Maybe he—or she—governed a colony established in the Andromeda Galaxy.

  “Special Agent Keesay,” I corrected her. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “I stand corrected,” she said. With a gesture she continued, saying, “Please, have a seat. Would you like anything to drink?”

  We were the only ones in the room. Asking the captain to serve me a drink, probably not a good idea. “No, thank you for the offer.” I waited for her to sit and then took a seat, angling it to face hers. While I did this, she pushed her cup of coffee away, toward the center of the table.

  “Your time is valuable, Captain, so I’ll get straight to it.” I leaned forward, my fist resting on the table. “While I fought hard for liberation from Capital Galactic imprisonment, many people—human, Chicher, and Felgan—sacrificed.” My voice’s intensity had risen, so I took a breath. “Sacrificed, for many, of which only a few survived. And in truth, my liberation was ancillary to the main effort. Yet, after all that, I sit, locked away in one of the vessels that played a part securing my ultimate escape.”

  The captain nodded. “You have been confined, for your own protection. Word of the bounty offered on your head had already spread. You’re assertion that there may be Capital Galactic sympathizers played a part in my decision, Specialist.”

  I raised an eyebrow for several reasons, including her insistence in naming me a specialist. “Did it, Commander?”

  It was her turn to raise a graying eyebrow, then a narrowing of her eyes. “I’d been informed you were a combative individual. A Security Specialist by training.”

  Too bad if she was insulted. “Weren’t you trained to be a commander before being promoted to captain? So referring to you as Commander is in order.”

  “Your cover, from my understanding is as a Security Specialist. A personal guard.”

  I glanced around, spotting at least one of the recesses that likely held a fiber optic camera and miniaturized microphones. Gear from when I was a youth. “Is your ship so insecure that untrustworthy individuals would be able to listen in on our conversation?”

  She shifted in her seat, then reached for her cup of coffee. “What exactly is it you desire?”

  That she left off my title wasn’t lost on me. “I want to know what’s happening. I want freedom of movement and freedom to communicate.”

  She took a long sip of synthesized coffee, or that’s what I guessed it to be. “There are roughly nine thousand what you would call Loyalists on the surviving freighters and docks. Your associates are assisting elements of my crew with interviews and interrogations, segregating and separating, determining who should be placed in cold sleep, who can be locked up, and who might be docile enough to be kept under light guard during our return trip to Earth.”

  “They’re traitors,” I said. “Execution. Mass execution is a viable option. It’s what they have envisioned, what they support for their fellow man.”

  “We’ve sent message rockets and await a response,” she said, “In the meantime, the main dock is being stripped of all communication gear, and ways to construct it. All machinery not necessary for survival is being removed to another dock, jettisoned, or destroyed in place. My prediction is that Earth Gov will send appropriately trained personnel, equipment, and tugs to uncouple the docks and transport them elsewhere. The surviving armed freighters, they’ll send pilots and engineers to fly them wherever they’re needed. Freighter drives and systems aren’t very complex or specialized, so the personnel should be available.”

  I shook my head. “You may be overestimating the resources Fleet has available.”

  “We may be waiting here a while.” She might’ve suppressed a smile. “During that time we’ll keep busy.”

  “One destroyer,” I said. “Crew scattered. What if some Crax appear?”

  She held up a finger to forestall more questioning. “Our Umbelgarri allies deployed two mines. Radio signal detonation.”

  “Destroying the docks,” I finished.

  She nodded. “Freedom of movement,” she said. After taking another sip she continued. “Once we depart, you’ll be granted freedom of movem
ent equal to any other civilian. It’s been a conscious decision to keep you out of sight, for your own safety.”

  I leaned forward ready to tell her what I thought about that, but she held up a hand to forestall my objection. “Not necessarily immediate,” she said. “But the fewer that can verify that you indeed survived imprisonment and the…prison break, the better your chances to avoid being sought by bounty hunters.”

  “Only takes one,” I said and shrugged. “And there is more than one you’ve left alive. Awake and alive. Far more than one.”

  She looked up as if in momentary thought, and changed the subject. “As for communication, unless you attempted to communicate something deemed inappropriate for the general network, you have had, and continue to enjoy, access to the general network. If you attempted to send via electronic message or voice message, something deemed inappropriate, Ensign Ciriegio would have notified me.”

  “I have received no messages,” I said. “No replies to my messages.” I’d only sent one to McAllister, two to Tahgs, one to Vingee and three to Guymin. Not a lot, but in each I’d requested return communication.

  The captain finished her cup of coffee before curling both hands around it. “Your Intelligence associates are quite busy as you might imagine. They may not have had ample opportunity. The Senior Engineer is assisting my crew in retrieving data from the docks’ systems and advising my crew in preparing the docks for our departure. The Administrative Specialist is organizing files and also undergoing medical tests to determine the extent of genetic manipulation and damage inflicted upon her. The CEO has just undergone reconstructive surgery to return her nose and face to their former proportions.”

  Marguerite was a CEO? I wondered from what corporation. Being imprisoned, probably a serious Capital Galactic competitor, or maybe wealthy and held for ransom.

  “I can’t believe that at minimum one of them couldn’t find a spare moment to reply to at least one of my electronic messages,” I said, knowing I merited at least thirty seconds between the lot of them. Maybe we weren’t friends, but colleague fit. McAllister would enjoy making some snide remark.

  The captain stood and I followed suit. “I have much to attend to,” she said. “Ensign Ciriegio will escort you back to your quarters.”

  “May I petition Ensign Ciriegio to look into the routing of my communications and possible return messages?”

  “You may, as long as it’s performed on her personal time.”

  Personal time? Under the circumstances, what would the ensign get? Six hours a day, counting sleep? The captain wasn’t doing me any favors. Comforting to know that some things in the universe remain constant.

  I’d ask the ensign anyway. What else did I have to lose?

  I considered thanking Captain Fitzgerald for the action her ship took on our behalf but, in truth, it was the Umbelgarri that took immediate, decisive action. Sure, we contacted them first, but McAllister had been right. The Phibs were the senior partner. The only ones with the firepower to emerge both victorious and unscathed.

  I offered my hand. “Thank you for your time, Captain.”

  She stiffly shook my hand and said, “You’re welcome.” Her voice was as equally reserved as her handshake, and that she hadn’t named me with any title again said volumes.

  I asked Ensign Ciriegio to look into my communications and access complaint, telling her of the captain’s restrictions, and that if it might cause her grief, not to worry. I’d get by. Two days later, she entered my isolation room with a look of consternation on her face. The first words out of her mouth were: “I’ve heard it said, Special Agent Keesay, that you have to pay closer attention to your friends than your enemies, because it’s easier to defend against an enemy than to defend against someone on your own side.” Her voice lacked its usual upbeat tone, and continued so through our conversation. “This appears to be a prime example.”

  A chief petty officer had been rerouting my electronic messages directly to the computer system’s trash, leaving me to believe they’d been sent and received. The messages directed to me had been blocked, with the sender receiving notification that each had been opened and deleted.

  I was pretty sure McAllister and Guymin could’ve uncovered the chief petty officer’s intervention without assistance or unusual system access, but they were extremely busy, and not looking to uncover ‘friendly’ deception. It disturbed me that they hadn’t tried harder to contact me…or maybe they had.

  The chief petty officer had invested all of his stocks in Capital Galactic prior to departure and eventual rendezvous with the wormhole during the Silicate War. Over the years he eagerly anticipated his accumulating wealth, planning to live lavishly upon returning from Andromeda to the Milky Way. The Ensign Ciriegio determined the petty officer’s motivation: He blamed me for destroying his wealth.

  He added new meaning to ‘petty’ in chief petty officer. He was up for disciplinary action and the ensign’s immediate superior encouraged me to send new messages, which I did, explaining what had happened. I also petitioned for assignment to one of the captured armed freighters, as a gunner.

  Captain Fitzgerald initially rejected the notion, until I pointed out my experience and, with the lack of crew able to support such a function, it would benefit the mission should any Capital Galactic vessels or those of their Crax allies appear while we waited for Fleet to relieve us. Plus, I wouldn’t have any potential interaction with captured Capital Galactic loyalists, and would be functioning essentially alone, except for whatever small number of crewmen was serving aboard the armed freighter. All that said, Guymin’s support for the move made it happen.

  With Guymin’s support and little reason to deny my request, the captain assigned me to the Ashkelon. Not as a pulse laser gunner, but a tri-beam laser gunner. She provided me access to training files and simulations. The controls were like a pulse laser system’s on steroids, slower with more computing long-range tracking power and a vastly slower rate of fire. Extensive computer interface was necessary. After two weeks of practice, and numerous simulated scenarios, the computer rated my competence as ‘substandard,’ but at least I was on the scale and above ‘ineffective.’ If anyone gave me grief, I’d argue that I was acting alone, whereas most tri-beam laser turrets were manned by two individuals. Normally a warrant officer for sensors and communication, and a lieutenant JG for targeting and firing.

  In my down time, when I wasn’t working out to recover my strength, I watched interview videos Agent Guymin sent me. He wanted me to form an opinion of various Capital Galactic loyalists. I wrote reports based upon my observations of their nonverbal cues, assessing the reliability of their answers, and divulged information. Guymin admitted that I was jaded, but my experience as a Security Specialist and someone outside normal agency training might offer alternative insight.

  What else did I have to do? Every armed freighter was manned by less than a crew of six and running almost entirely on automated systems.

  Agent Vingee was assisting Guymin, as was Deputy Director Simms, who was still recovering. Janice Tahgs had undergone testing, and what Capital Galactic’s genetic experimentation had done to her appeared permanent. She’d live a normal life span, but would forever appear decades beyond her actual age. It was a particularly sadistic thing they did. The induced mutation even overrode attempted cosmetic surgery. Janice put on a happy face during our brief video communications, talking about how busy she was assisting in medical aboard the dock we’d escaped from. I commended Janice for her willingness to go back aboard the dock where she’d been imprisoned.

  She also shared that none of the prison guards had survived the fight.

  Querying Guymin, I learned that some of the genetic manipulation research had originated in the 70 Virginis system, stolen from the Celestial Unicorn Palace. Colossra, or Yeong, and Gerard likely had a shared root in their manipulated DNA.

  Marguerite had undergone reconstructive and cosmetic surgery with success, as opposed to Tahgs. She even
retained a measure of her enhanced olfactory senses. Of all our group, she appeared the happiest, despite being assigned to resource management, overseeing energy needs and predicted output and consumption of the docks and freighters. Something she said she had little knowledge or aptitude for. In one of our video chats, I told her that she probably rated better than ‘substandard’ in her assigned duty, outdoing me. That bit of truth earned a long laugh.

  So, between laser gunnery training, video observation, workouts, sporadic communication exchanges, and sleep, the twenty-seven days I served aboard the Ashkelon passed quickly, with a measure of tranquility.

  When the small relief flotilla arrived, that was all upended.

  Chapter 52

  “Warrant Officer Tron,” I called into my com-set’s mic, “my turret’s sensors just picked up six ships exiting condensed space travel.”

  The commander of the vessel was a warrant officer. That said a lot about our situation, especially should it come to combat. In addition, my call came during his off time, interrupting his earned five hours of shuteye after serving nineteen on duty.

  I watched the sensors’ data. They were designed and calibrated for basic identification and tracking. They reported two destroyers, a medium class civil transport, a patrol gunboat, a military tug, all human, and a sleek ship with a boxy midsection. Sensors couldn’t pin it down. Based upon the optical files, I tried to identify a match while waiting for the warrant officer’s reply.

  “Acknowledged, Keesay,” he said in his calm, bass voice. “The Reef Shark notified me seconds after you did. Good work. Stand by.”

  The targeting system identified the comparatively sleek ship as Umbelgarri, with an eighty-three percent probability it was a utility transport. After examining the system’s profiles, I agreed. When they closed the distance, it’d be verified.

  A sense of relief washed over me. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been. A combination of two destroyers and an Umbelgarri vessel ruled out Capital Galactic ships.