Port Casper (Cladespace Book 1)

by Corey Ostman

  “All clear,” Raj said, standing in the open patio doorway. “No listeners, tappers, blurpers, or whistlers. It’s clean.”

  A chime sounded through the audio system, and the common room display turned on. The screen showed a view of the hallway outside Grace’s apartment. Three delivery men with several cases were in the hall. Behind them was Randgarten.

  “Come in?” Grace said. Tim retreated, darting into a spare bedroom. The front door clicked and slid open. The men entered. Raj directed them to place the cases in the common room.

  “Ms. Donner,” Randgarten said, hesitating outside, “do you like the place? Is there anything you need?”

  “Yes, the place is wonderful, thank you, and no, I don’t need anything.” Grace motioned for him to enter, but Randgarten held up a hand.

  “Thank you, Ms. Donner, but I’m not going to bother you while you unpack. I’m going to the office to finish paperwork. Talk to the apartment for any tutorials you need. Call me if you need anything.”

  He disappeared down the hall. The workers followed after him and the door closed.

  Raj opened the cases and removed gadgets and components of all kinds. Most were black plastic or metal, some with wires and fibers dangling like spilled entrails. He opened his safecase and revealed a cadre of tools and sensors that would make any engineer giddy. Tim trotted back out of the bedroom and stood near Raj.

  Grace knew better than to interrupt Raj at work. She wouldn’t get anything out of him until he finished assembling whatever it was.

  She went further into the apartment and found the master bedroom. It was spacious, nearly the size of the living room, with a huge bed in the center. One wall was entirely glass, giving her nearly as grand a view as her balcony. Another wall offered floor-to-ceiling storage.

  She dumped the contents of her duffel on the bed: a spare jumper, stockings, socks, underwear, a manual reload kit, accelerants and various other chemicals in plastic containers, a pair of hot-knuckles, a Bowie knife in a sheath, an EMP multi-device kit, and a half-eaten bag of trail rations.

  In the bathroom, toiletry products stood in a row behind the sink, compliments of the Frawley. After checking on Raj again, she shrugged and decided to try the shower.

  Grace let the hot water from the nozzle batter her head and neck for a full fifteen minutes. Every detail of her journey ran through her mind: from student to outcast to well-heeled, gainfully employed, and well-armed protector in a matter of days. She felt lucky, though she knew it took more than blind chance to graduate from Cloister Eleven a year early.

  Out of the shower, she noticed an antechamber to the bathroom housing a small sauna and heated pool.

  “This is too much,” Grace said quietly, shaking her head. She didn’t see the point of sitting in a room to sweat. If she wanted to sweat, she’d go make muscle.

  She slipped into a clean yellow jumper and headed back to the common room.

  “How goes it, boys?”

  “Did you ever study in school about apartments specifically designed for your clade?” Raj had a puzzled look.

  “No. Why?” she said.

  “I think this apartment was retrofitted for that reason.”

  “Why?” Grace said. “What would I need that has to do with my clade? Do they have mimic cattle for me to rope?”

  “This whole room,” Raj motioned at the common area, “is a panic room. Top to bottom.” He pointed to the ceiling. “See the seams? And it’s loaded with countermeasures and a powerful computer.”

  “That doesn’t sound like rancher standard.”

  “Protector standard.”

  “Ah. Right.” Her clade had changed. Grace wondered how long that would take to sink in.

  “Did you fully read your contract, Ms. Donner?” Tim hopped up on the couch.

  “I read the part about getting hired and the stipend and the apartment and when to start.”

  “Can I look at your ptenda?” Tim asked.

  Grace complied. Tim tilted his head as the data streamed. She wondered if the PodPooch chassis helped him interpret data faster.

  “Ms. Donner did you know you have to purchase your own uniform?” Tim said. “There’s a certified ITB outfitter on this block. I’ve sent a size estimate for an armored mimic ITB jumper to be sent to you. It will be delivered this evening.”

  “Hold on,” Grace said. She had a new uniform on the way. The apartment was more than met the eye. What else was in the contract? She’d have to read it through tonight.

  “You can disconnect from the hotel grid and set up a standalone port and control system,” Raj continued.

  “That any of us can monitor and control,” Tim added.

  “I’ve put a list of the countermeasures in the CM file on your ptenda,” said Raj.

  “And one more thing, Ms. Donner. Reset your door password and set a lockdown trigger for perimeter security,” said Tim.

  “Anything else? Gah.” Grace flopped on the couch next to Raj and stretched her head far back over the couch. “Things are moving too fast. I’m not focused and I’m going to make a mistake if I don’t start living these moments.”

  Raj laid his head back over the couch in the same manner, looking up at the blue ceiling, slung with flashes of gold representing stars.

  “Things move fast in Port Casper. Faster than cloister. Faster than I care for, sometimes. But that’s the way it is.”

  Grace lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Fast was what she had wanted, she reminded herself. It would take adjustment, but she knew it was the right pace for her. She considered the stars on the ceiling. Like people, flashing by so quickly that only the shine remained.

  If life was going to be fast, she was going to learn to herd it in her direction.

  “Computer,” Grace said, “or whatever you call yourself. Have Chinese food sent here for two. And a pack of beer.”

  “Confirmation. Kow Woo Special times two with beverage. Delivery. Confirm. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting…”

  “Say ‘confirm’ Grace,” Raj said.

  “Confirm.”

  By the time Grace and Raj were gorging themselves on chicken lo mein, kowloon pork, and sweet and sour beef, the uniform arrived.

  The ITB uniform was at least familiar. It was just a kicked up version of the armored jumper she wore at the academy. The armor was stronger in places where a shot from a slug or a phasewave would do grave harm. The boots ran up to calf and were reinforced, lighter and more comfortable.

  The fabric, to her surprise, was mimic. It could be whatever I want, she thought. She supposed that was useful for covert missions. Right now it was a dark, nearly black, patent leather.

  Raj reached out and Grace handed him the uniform. He inspected the suit.

  “See? It’s got an antenna array on the back. You can pair it with your ptenda,” Raj slurred over his fourth beer.

  “Why would I want to?” she said.

  “So you can run the signal from your mimic uniform through your ptenda. It’ll act like a cleanser. When a scan hits the fabric, your ptenda will play a tune at zero volume. They’ll assume they’re picking up the send from a ghost device nearby and not you.”

  She glanced at her ptenda. “So I can send misleading intel through my clothes?”

  “Yes. But the cleanser is experimental and not entirely field-tested. Avoid putting yourself into situations where you’d need it until we have time to work out any problems.”

  “I could have used this at cloister, Raj,” Grace said, frowning. She wondered what Flora was doing right now. Probably worrying about a mini grinder and then coming through just fine. She missed Flora.

  “But you wouldn’t have the opportunity to live in this castle,” Raj said.

  Grace yawned. “True.”

  Raj took the hint. “All right, that’s all. Now, are you sure you won’t kill yourself with your apartment?” he asked with a loopy grin. She’d need to call him a cab.

  • • •

  Al
one in her apartment, Grace watched the sun burn its last for another day. Only it was a cruiser that was ablaze—it was too late for the sun. The large ship sent wave after wave of red and blue energy toward the launch pad as it lifted off.

  Grace took another sip of beer and breathed in deeply.

  Chapter 12

  The following morning, Grace walked onto her patio. She looked out over Port Casper. There was a clear blue sky with slender white clouds near the distant hills. If she mentally removed the city, it didn’t look that different from the ranch back home.

  Grace looked across the sometimes Cartesian, sometimes twisted layout of the city. Port Casper united a bizarre amalgam of ancient city planning wrapped with modern infrastructure. The Frawley stood three kilometers from the spaceport. Some day she would climb aboard a cruiser and visit the Belt. On the other side of the port, about the same distance, sat ITB Headquarters.

  Grace finished her morning cup of red rooibos tea and went inside.

  She made one more pass in front of the mirror in her bedroom. All in its proper place, including her discrete dermal dot. The crossed tactical holster was standard ITB issue, but Ronnie and Jonnie’s hardwood grips added a touch of individuality to the uniform. Grace wondered if it would make her stick out amongst her co-workers, then decided she didn’t give a damn.

  “Siegel-null-null-eins-sechs,” she said.

  The front door to the apartment opened and the lights dimmed. Somewhere within the walls, countermeasures activated. She had five seconds to walk out the door before the apartment would become uninviting, armed to LEMP whatever moved.

  Grace left and followed the hallway toward the lift.

  “Well, good morning, Ms. Donner.” Martin Randgarten stood in the lift, his hands folded behind his back. “Pardon, me. I mean Protector Donner.” He bowed his head in respect.

  Grace put on a smile in return. She appreciated the remark, and thought it kind. She entered the lift and turned to face the closing doors, an obsolete custom which surely marked her as cloister-bred. She’d have to learn. The lift readout displayed EXPRESS as it descended.

  “I’m heading to the carport myself,” Martin continued. “A little building business, you know.”

  “Can I catch a transport at Parking Level One?” Grace asked. She knew full well she could, but it was the only thing she dredged up by way of chit-chat.

  “Correct,” said Martin. “Anywhere you need to go. First day at ITB, right?”

  Grace shifted uneasily at the question. “Yes. Meeting the boss today.”

  When the doors opened, Martin gestured for Grace to exit first. Parking Level One was cavernous, echoing with the hum of lifts and transports. It was pleasantly cool this far below ground, and the earthy, stone smell reminded Grace of the cave she and Flora had once explored.

  “Tell Protector Van Decker I said hello. Have a great first day!” Martin darted to another lift bank that took residents deeper into the parking levels.

  Grace just smiled and nodded. She wondered if Martin’s position afforded him access to personal data because of the number of ITB employees housed at the Frawley. She regretted not quizzing him further.

  She followed the signs for transports. She knew that somewhere nearby, six-seat autonomous transports arrived, scanned her destination broadcast, and allowed her to board if the route didn’t cause the arrival times of other passengers to deviate too much. A couple of dozen commuters from the Frawley piled out of other lifts and joined her. She wondered if any might work at ITB. She followed the crowd.

  Her uniform afforded her at least a meter of space, which was more than other commuters got as they bumped and cut each other off for transports. Grace walked diagonally, and the personal bubble moved with her. From a handful, but not all, there were mumbles of, “Good morning, protector,” in subdued, respectful voices.

  “Citizen,” Grace said to each, feeling embarrassed.

  An empty six-seater lingered, and Grace claimed one of its hard resin seats. Her ptenda signaled her destination, and she tapped to confirm. Five others flopped onto the double benches and the transport began to move.

  “Would you like to open an account, Ms. Donner?” The computer vocalized through her dermal dot, listing options on her ptenda.

  “Single use, please,” said the woman sitting next to Grace. She sported a mechflesh hand, colored pearl white. The thin scaly skin rippled as she tapped her fingers on the screen.

  The transport entered a tunnel.

  Grace created an account. “Your all-media pass is confirmed, Ms. Donner. Do you need assistance accessing your fact agent?”

  “No. Audio only,” Grace said. “Auto queue.” The display went blank and the agent asked what to gather. Grace felt a moment of bliss. She had been reprimanded more than once at the academy for subverting fact agents to gain news from outside Cloister Eleven.

  “Search, ITB, last three months, key patent, key Port Casper. Fact cluster count.”

  “Twenty seven specific, one hundred and forty seven, secondary, six hundred fifty seven, four hundred sixty five match.”

  “Begin specific,” Grace said.

  Reports of new inventions and business practices flooded from the fact agent. Grace read that ITB typically tried to acquire their competitors, and when they couldn’t, they used their vast portfolio to strangle smaller firms under legal weight. This didn’t seem too unusual to Grace. What did seem strange was that ITB’s new technologies of late had all been acquired. Nothing home grown.

  A steelback, small in stature and covered with a large coat, hopped off of the transport six hundred meters into the trip. Another man boarded and took the empty seat, and the transport lurched ahead again, picking up speed. They headed toward ITB, no stops. Grace wondered if everyone else worked there.

  The fact agent reported on ITB’s progress in long-distance space travel. They had investors lined up, but lacked key technologies necessary for success. One of the more esoteric discussions sounded like something Raj would be interested in, so she filed it away for later retrieval.

  The transport rushed, gradually rising until it broke into the sunlight and continued down the busy surface street. The avenue bustled with morning commuters. Grace saw the ITB building, four blocks ahead.

  Grace surveyed her fellow passengers and tried to decide their professions. The last man on, after the steelback left, wore a dark blue suit. He appeared athletic, had brown hair and eyes, and a light copper tan. He kept adjusting the folds of his clothing, like a preening bird. Grace theorized marketing or sales.

  Two younger women, seated directly across from Grace, talked enthusiastically about software the entire ride. They wore casual clothes. Grace overheard the word ‘behavior’ again and again from the pair. Computer intelligence.

  The woman next to Grace had dark brown skin and hair, with mechflesh aqua eyes. She wore a simple business suit with threadbare cuffs and elbows. Her posture curved atrociously and her facial expression puckered a constant squint. Desk job doing micro assembly, Grace guessed.

  A teenager sat next to the salesman. His pale green skin reminded her of Bod Town. He didn’t look mechflesh, though his yellow one-piece uniform only allowed close inspection of his head and hands. She noticed the small blue insignia on his chest, a circle with a dot attached and a cloud of spots surrounding it. She’d seen it before in an advertisement on her hike to Port Casper. One of the space firms. He’d go on to the spaceport, not ITB.

  The transport halted and Grace got out, nearly running over a young couple with two bulky cases who climbed aboard. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled: everybody but the teenager made a quick exit into ITB. The transport sped away toward its next destination.

  The ITB building at street level was a wall of glass stretching skyward. No ornate edifice nor hint of curve, just an imposing monolith. Grace moved to get inside, out of the din of the street, when several shouts came from her right. She snapped to attention and did a quick count-and-a
ssess. Five steelbacks were protesting ITB’s expanded use of mining robots. Their powerful metarm exoskeletons clicked and whirred, audible above the sound of traffic. Three yelled they worked better than the bots, and one was brandishing a severed robotic arm to prove the point. The other two lamented they spent heavily on upgrades that became outmoded. She tried to understand their plight, but cloisters existed so that obsolescence would itself be obsolete.

  A large, private transport pulled up just as she was turning to go. Several steelbacks got in the way. Grace moved closer, sensing trouble. There was an old man in the transport, looking up at the steelbacks from an open door.

  “Let this gentleman through,” she said loudly.

  A steelback made a guttural laugh and reached for the man, who squirmed back against his seat. Grace interposed her body. She was about to draw Ronnie when two other protectors arrived, pushing the steelbacks away with silent, calculated menace. Grace approved.

  The man got out of his car and regarded Grace. He was tall and thin, with a well-groomed black beard. His brown eyes sparkled as he looked at her.

  “Thank you, umm, protector?” he asked.

  “Protector Donner, sir. My pleasure.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, and the other protectors escorted him into ITB. Grace turned toward the subdued steelbacks, keeping a respectful distance.

  “I don’t have an issue with your protest, but you can’t push around innocent workers,” she said.

  “Innocent!” roared the steelback. “Varghese is hardly innocent.” His friends loudly agreed, moving closer.

  A fight with five steelbacks was not how she wanted to start her first day of work. “You’ve been warned,” she said as she pivoted toward the building. Derision hurled at her from behind. She wondered, belatedly, if she had handled that well. The other protectors hadn’t said a word.

  Grace shrugged and stepped through the revolving door into a vast atrium lobby. At the concierge desk was a young, attractive woman. She smiled and spoke as Grace approached.

  “Welcome to ITB. How may I help you?”

  “Protector Donner, reporting to Protector Van Decker.”