“No, I arrived two days later, with two other technicians, aboard one of the cargo ships that was closely following the first group. You know we're arriving in waves?”
“Yeah, true. So, you weren't here in the first days when the station was being assembled?”
“No, but this area was closer and there are no unauthorized entry records, until I arrived and started the equipment.”
“I know you have some containers that were bringing spare parts for this section in your inventory and that those were delivered to you two weeks ago. I particularly want to see those registered under number 31400 and 87888; there should be three containers with each of those registration numbers.”
“Let me see,” said the technician somewhat confused. He headed to the back of the consoles and walked over the other containers before calling aloud to Puntshó, who could no longer see him behind the dozens of stacked boxes. “Here! 31400... Three containers, but I don't see any with number 87... Sorry, what was the number?”
“87888,” said Puntshó, carefully approaching the area where the technician was.
“No, I'm sorry. We don't have any with that number.”
“However the station records place it in your inventory.”
"Let me check,” said the technician, again walking to the terminal and leaving Puntshó with the containers he had found.
Puntshó then examined the plastic surfaces and rounded shapes of the containers, looking for signs of fighting or blood. But he found nothing more than dust. He tried to lift one of the one and a half cubic meter boxes, but it was impossible. Without giving up, he tried with the next and had more luck, loudly turning it over and managing to prevent it from falling on one of its sides just as the technician returned.
“What are you doing? Please, don't treat the containers like that,” said Stingray angrily, “this is very delicate material and if the components are damaged we'd have to wait months for new parts to arrive.”
"I'm sorry," said Puntshó like a child caught red-handed. “I needed to check the bottom.”
“Let me help you... Slowly. Like that...”
Once the container was on its side, Puntshó took out a small spray canister he'd had in his pocket since he left the hospital hours before and in which he'd asked the doctor to prepare a basic chemical mixture, similar to luminol, which would highlight any blood traces with precision.
He thoroughly sprayed the container's four sturdy plastic legs and three of them glowed in a fluorescent blue. No doubt those were the containers he was looking for.
“Have you found anything useful?” asked Stingray innocently.
“Yes, these are the containers I was looking for, but there's only three here and six where registered in the bay I'm interested in.”
“According to my records,” said the technician very seriously and formally. “These containers were delivered by the 'Milwokee' a week ago and were received by crewman Adams...”
“Who's Adams? Is he part of your team?”
“No idea, chief; so far I'm the only one in my team. It could be one of the bridge technicians; they've been moving containers since we arrived.”
“That expands my search to the whole station... And you say they arrived in the 'Milwokee' ship?”
“That's what the record says...”
Puntshó checked his palmtop and shook his head soberly.
“The 'Milwaukee' is still a month and a half away from the station. I'm afraid the records have been thoroughly falsified.”
“It must be a mistake in the delivery note, chief. The important thing is that the equipment is here and in perfect condition.”
“What do the boxes contain?”
Stingray looked down and read the delivery note on the tablet he was holding in his left hand.
“These two containers are filled with fibre optic cables, connectors and microcircuits for the workstations. This other one only contains structural parts for future radio telescopes, that's why it's so heavy.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. What about the other containers?”
"We didn't get anything else besides from what you see here, chief. They could be in any of the station's cargo bays and if the records were misplaced you won't see them until someone finds them accidentally.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Puntshó's communicator began glowing insistently as it vibrated on his wrist. He had two messages.
The first was from the doctor, who'd received a report from Earth and who asked him to go to the hospital when he could. The second was from Farman, aboard the 'San Francisco' who said he had news that couldn't wait. He read both messages quickly and understood that there could be more important clues waiting, so he decided to finish his review of the containers. He'd find the other boxes when he had time.
“Okay, Mr Stingray, I'll send someone to collect samples of these legs as soon as I can, please don't touch these containers and don't let them be moved. I may have new questions for you later.”
“You know where to find me, Chief.”
With a slight head gesture, he said good-bye and reluctantly left the communications room. He didn't like wasting time on superfluous verifications, and yet he was glad that Farman and the doctor finally had something to report.
Secret agent
Puntshó left the communications area and walked down the hallway to the central part of the station, where the hospital was located. A few meters before he arrived, he found an empty corner inside a cleaning cabinet and connected his palmtop for a coded call with the 'San Francisco' ship, he wanted to speak with Farman as secretly as possible. He waited almost for a minute until he managed to establish communication, and Farman's face appeared on the small screen.
“Where are you, chief?”
“I locked myself in a cleaning room; I don't want anyone to hear our conversation. Do you have news for me?”
“Yes, well...” he struggled not to be amused by Puntshó's situation. “I've been sending messages to several of my contacts in the American security agencies and the station's construction company security agency, asking for reports on people gone missing during orbital construction. And a few minutes ago I received a very revealing message. I can't reveal my source, not even to you; but I think I have a name for our victim.”
“I wasn't expecting it so fast. Who is he?”
"I'm pretty sure your victim was called Douglas McAffie and his agency has been looking for him for six months.”
“What agency is that?”
“The... F.B.I.”
“F.B.I.? You mean the Pan American Research Agency.”
“No, Puntshó; I mean the old F.B.I. They still have an office in Washington DC. Although it mostly deals with administration frauds.”
“And you're saying that one of their investigators disappeared six months ago... What makes you think he's our victim?”
“His bosses commissioned him to follow some funds destined for research and new technologies development, assigned to a company in Texas, in North America.”
“I know where Texas is...”
"Well, apparently shortly afterwards he reported that he was following the purchase of a certain experimental chemical compound that that city's laboratory had sent in large quantities to the New Mexico spaceport. Agent McAffie had to track the shipment and visit the spaceport. That's where his bosses lost him.”
“That's not a very solid lead, Daves.”
“Wait, there's more. My friend at the agency says that days later he received a voicemail of uncertain origin in which the same agent McAffie assured him he'd tracked the compound to the orbiting construction station and that he had news on its possible use as a weapon of mass destruction. He was about to get proof before returning to Washington and denouncing the issue.”
“And they never saw him again.”
“Exactly. My friend thinks he boarded one of the many shuttles with company employees, with a false employee pass, and was looking for evid
ence at the orbital construction site. I've given him a description of our victim and apparently he matches McAffie's physiognomy perfectly.”
“I fear, Daves that you're confirming a conclusion Engineer Campbell arrived to this morning.”
“Your main suspect?”
“I have dismissed him as the murderer and now he's helping me with some technical aspects.”
“At least you have someone on your side there. What type of apparatus could they make using that compound?”
“According to my 'adviser', the compound was used in a quasi-secret experiment in Moscow fifteen years ago, where they tried to build a... I don't remember the technical term but...” Farman didn't let him finish his sentence.
"A wormhole!"
“Exactly, Daves. And how do you know about that project?”
“Oh, Puntshó! This is serious, and it could have really grave implications, about which I can't tell you much right now.”
"Are you saying they're planning to attack the station? Kill us all?”
“I don't think they're planning to attack the station, they're trying to create a 'gate' to another sector in space. It's very difficult and I can't talk about it now. You need to prevent them from using that device. Puntshó, pay attention, this is vital for Earth's safety as a whole.”
“Daves, you're scaring me. What is this all about?”
"I'll be there in a few hours and I'll explain this as best as I can. But, I repeat, you need to stop that experiment or the consequences can be catastrophic for the human race.”
"I'll try, you know there's a lot of trust between us, but what you're telling me sounds a bit like a psychotic breakdown.”
“I'm in perfect state of mind, chief. What worries me is that they'll succeed this time and achieve that form of transportation.”
“So they want to achieve instant transportation.”
“Yes, they're behind the creation of a controlled singularity that will allow them to join... Well, join two powerful artefacts that should remain separate... Trust me please. This can't happen. Understood?”
“No I don't understand it, but I'll trust you. I haven't seen any strange movements around the station, and I think we'll have time until you arrive so we can act together. You've worried me more than I was before.”
“If it's what I think it is, you should be. Keep me informed. I need to contact certain people on Earth to inform them of this new situation.”
“I thought you were working for me...”
“And I do, but there are certain people who can help us stop this before it starts. Fuck, Puntshó! Trust me! And don't play hero until I get there.”
“Okay, I'll try. Now I need to go talk to the doctor who I assume has some new reports on the autopsy and if there's any other information I'll send it to you.”
“I'll see you in a few hours.”
“I hope so. Goodbye.” He cut off communication and an inexplicable anguish got stuck in his gut as he repeated to himself: "I hope so..."
Forensic key
Puntshó slid open the cleaning room door where he'd hidden, and stepped into the hall with some apprehension, wondering if anyone had seen his suspicious behaviour.
Once he was calmer, after seeing the empty hallway, he walked the few steps that separated him from the transparent door that had the acid-etched "Aesculapius Staff" symbol, through which he could access the station's hospital.
As with the rest of the station, the hospital was almost empty, waiting for the permanent crew to arrive with the next ships. He only found the doctor sitting at his desk in a locked cubicle at the back of the large room where the beds and automatic health care modules were. On one of them, he'd performed the autopsy of who was now known as Agent McAffie, but now his body was in one of the lower-level refrigerators that served as a morgue.
The doctor looked up and saw Puntshó standing in the middle of the room. Once he went into his office, he made a vehement signal with his hand so he'd come over and didn't wait for him to seat down before he started talking.
“I'm glad you came so fast, chief. I received a report from Earth a few minutes ago, with a detail I'd overlooked and which may be of interest for your investigation.”
“I need answers, Doctor. I've received a possible ID for our victim and I'm almost sure that someone, or maybe a small group of people on board, is preparing a dangerous experiment.”
“Who do you think the victim is?”
“A federal agent, called McAffie; he was investigating a cargo that had been presumably diverted to this station”, Puntshó didn't want to reveal all the details to the doctor too soon, since he first wanted to know and value the information the doctor was about to give him.
"Does that cargo have to do with the possible chemical element that burned the face of Mr…?”
“McAffie... Yes, how did you know?”
“As you know, yesterday I sent my autopsy information to a trusted coroner in Mexico federal district; and he made me notice a detail we'd overlooked.”
“Something important?”
“It may be, yes. My coroner friend suggested that the attacker may have used some type of suit to avoid chemical burns, as he wanted to transfer those substances but not be burned by the effect of the liquid when he used the supposed container as a weapon against our victim.”
"So you're saying that our killer could have no marks or burns? That makes things even more complicated.”
“There's one more detail I believe may help us identify our killer. This type of substance vaporizes quickly and in the appropriate concentration can be absorbed through one's airways. Leading to very serious problems if left untreated.”
“That could give us a name, Doctor.”
“Yes, I've been studying that, but I haven't prescribed that type of medication to anyone in these months.”
“Is it possible that this person could self-medicate in some way?”
“If you access one of the transit ship pharmacies, and if it's well equipped... it has to be prescribed, but he could get assistance from afar, and could get information on what therapy to follow.”
“I need to access the pharmacy registry for every ship that has arrived at the station. Check if anyone has been treated for these types of conditions.”
“Give me a minute...” The doctor entered those keywords into the computer to search in every database, using his privileged access as station doctor. “Here... The pharmacy aboard the 'Dead Parrot' has given those medications to a crew member. This treatment resembles what would be prescribed for a chronic bronchospasm and it wouldn't be suspicious if we didn't have this information.”
“You said he's a crewman?”
“No, but I'll do a search to check if any of these medications have been used independently at the station. Some of the aerosol medications may need refills; especially the inhalers as they run out quickly. Three crew members have requested inhalers for asthma or bronchial problems.”
“Who?”
“Robertson who works at the bar... Samuel Whitaby who's a communications technician and...”
"Oh no, Stingray?"
“Yeah, I think that's his pilot name. Why?”
“He's our man.”
“I don't understand chief. Why do you think it's him?”
“Remember the equipment that had to travel in the bay in which we found the body?”
“Yes, of course. But you said that the records had been altered and you couldn't find out who moved them.”
“True, but half of the equipment is in communications and Stingray arrived at the station two days after the first group...”
“On board the Dead Parrot!” Said the doctor, connecting the dots. "It's true, these circumstances are very suspicious, but think about it a little before you act, Chief. What we have is nothing more than assumptions based on what may be coincidences. Before we make an accusation we need to find more solid evidence...”
The doctor couldn't finish his sentence. A loud
alarm began to ring in the hallways, accompanied by a peremptory voice message: "Decompression danger in zone A five. Remain in the security zones. Keep calm. The crew is currently working on repairs. If you're in any of the hallways, go to the nearest security zone immediately."
“There's your answer, doctor! It's him, I'm sure. I need to stop him before he tries to escape or does anything to endanger the station.”
“I'm going with you.”
“No, doctor. Contact the commander and inform him of our suspicions.”
“What will you do?”
“I'm going to rush to communications. That's where he's going to act. Prepare, doctor; if they manage to activate their plan there could be several injuries to attend to.”
The doctor looked at him in surprise and immediately called the bridge to contact the station commander, while Puntshó disappeared through the door. He needed to get to communications before the technician tried whatever he had planned.
Puntshó tapped the communicator on his wrist as he hurried down the hallway and called Pachacuti on the bridge:
“Oscar, it's Blade. Can you hear me? What's going on?”
“Yes, chief, I can hear you. One of the power generators for the long range communication antenna has overloaded. We're isolating the affected areas in case there's a rupture in the station's hull, to avoid complete decompression. It's a technical problem that we'll solve as soon as possible. Go to the nearest security zone and I'll keep you posted.”
“I think you may have found our killer. It's Stingray. And he's at communications right now!”
“This situation could be worse than we thought...”
“This emergency has to do with our on-board problem. I'm going to the communications area right now. I have to stop him before he does any real damage!”
“I'll send reinforcements as soon as I can, keep the channel open, chief. You'll find emergency suits in entrance corridor A5. You need to get into one as soon as possible! Did you hear me? There's a risk of decompression. Be careful!”
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