Armstrong Station
Page 3
“I am accessing it. What do you wish to review?”
“Duh? How about you begin by telling me who is on the ship now?”
“You and Captain Chambers are the only registered crew aboard Requiem.”
“Really? Review the comings and goings of everyone for the last twenty-four hours. Are there any unidentified entrants?”
“No.”
“Fine. Expand the search window to include the time we’ve been in port.”
“There is no ingress by unauthorized personnel during that time period.”
“What? How about longshoremen?”
“They only have access to the cargo bay, and their entries and exits are all accounted for. None of them gained entry to the main body of the ship.”
Nothing makes any sense. Did one of the crew somehow mask his ID signature to steal drugs?
“Who was aboard at ten o’clock last night?”
“No crew members were present at that time.”
“Then who the fuck broke into the dispensary?”
“An unidentified individual entered the—”
“Shut up!”
I rub my aching eyes and try to think. The only conclusion I can arrive at is that a stowaway is on board.
I go to the adjoining office and move the chair away from the desk. Getting on my knees, I pull back the carpet, exposing the false deck panel. I pry it away to reveal a small door with a biometric lock. Pressing my hand against it prompts the latches to release, and the door springs open.
My more valuable contraband is present and accounted for, so with a sigh of relief, I close it up and replace the panel and carpet. I sit up and lean back against the desk.
“What other places on the ship were accessed last night?”
“There are no recorded unauthorized accesses besides the medical facility.”
The security system only monitors the comings and goings to the cargo bay and key areas, like the med-bay, the flight deck, and engineering. Chambers minimized the level of monitoring for the crew’s comfort; he doesn’t want us to feel like we are being monitored. I, for one, appreciate that, but right now the directive is not helpful.
The situation presents an interesting problem. Requiem could be a big place to search, but there are only so many places someone can hide without help. I don’t wish to accuse one of my shipmates of hiding someone, so I decide to disregard any of the crew quarters for the moment.
That only leaves the hold. It also makes some sense to imagine the intruder entered in one of the shipping containers.
Chambers is sleeping. The last thing I want is to wake him up with a cockamamie story about a stowaway. I decide I will confirm my theory before calling him. A little voice in the back of my aching skull tells me it is a dumb idea.
Chapter Six
After a stopover in Engineering to retrieve the biggest wrench I can find, I make my way to the hold, torch and makeshift cudgel in hand.
I start to key in my access code when something odd about the door catches my attention. The locking plates are covered with conductive tape. Pushing on it, the door slides open for me to peek inside. Taped to the inner side of the door is a small battery pack with wires crudely connected to the tape, rendering the door’s magnetic seal useless. The stowaway is no dummy, and I begin to reconsider my idea that a mere junkie is hiding within.
I grasp the edges of the door and slide it sideways into its pocket then shine my torchlight into the cargo bay. Realizing I have already made enough noise to alert him to my presence, I call out, putting as much authority into my quivering voice as I can. “Whoever you are, come out.”
I sound like one of those twentieth century movie detectives, but it is all I can think of.
Images of a drug-crazed lunatic hiding behind one of racks give me pause. I really should call Chambers, but the weight of the wrench in my hand gives me a sense of unjustifiable confidence. Besides, I want to show him I am no prissy, snowflake princess like he accused me of being yesterday. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I creep forward. My light darts about, searching out every alcove. My club rests on my shoulder, ready for anything that moves.
Methodically, I work my way deeper inside the cargo area, my fear building with every corner.
I near the last of the racks at the rear of the bay when a rustle of cloth behind me sends an electric jolt of terror through me.
I drop my torch.
Instinctively, I lash out at the darkness with the heavy wrench. Unseen, it makes contact, accompanied by the sickening thud of metal meeting flesh.
There is a high-pitched cry of pain, and something scurries into the shadows.
My shaking hand brandishes my weapon while I bend to recover the dropped light.
I shine it where I heard my quarry flee, and what I see freezes my blood.
Cowering on the deck, arm clutching at an injured shoulder, shivers a wild-eyed young woman.
I decide it is finally time to call Chambers.
The captain glares at the woman on my examining table, saying nothing while I tend to her injury. She, in turn, focuses her attention on the floor most of the time, with only an occasional furtive glance at one of us.
I guess her to be in her late twenties, but she’s not in good shape. Half starved, she wears unwashed, ragged clothing that would be too baggy on her, even if she wasn’t emaciated. Her long black hair, tied back in a ponytail, is greasy and dishevelled. A thin, pallid, oval face is inset with dark circles beneath dull brown eyes.
She shivers, despite the warmth of the med-bay and the blanket draped over her shoulders. The AI is still processing her blood sample, but I’ve seen drug withdrawal symptoms often enough.
Given her condition, it is a minor miracle my blow did not break her arm.
“Why didn’t you call me?” grumbles Chambers.
“I did.”
He raises a sardonic eyebrow but says nothing, choosing to redirect his ire toward my patient.
“How did you get aboard my ship?”
“I hid in one of the containers they were loading.”
“And what, exactly, was your plan?”
“I was just trying to escape.”
“From who?”
Her lips clamp shut, and she returns her gaze to the floor.
Shaking his head, Chambers ignores the woman and speaks to me. “We need to turn her in.”
“Yeah, but why are you so pissed off? She only stole a few drugs, hardly enough for a short high.”
“The paperwork the Morality Police will put us through will delay our departure for days.” He faces the girl. “Do you know how lucky you are she found you before our launch?” He jerked his thumb toward me. “If we were in transit, I would be within my rights to space you.”
“Roy!”
He turns to me, anger flashing in his eyes. “Well, I would be.”
“You wouldn’t do anything of the sort. You’re frightening her.”
“Good. Maybe she won’t pull a stupid stunt like this again.”
I grasp his elbow and take him aside. “Do you really think spending time in a morality readjustment clinic will make any difference? She’s obviously on something.”
“So is half the population of Armstrong. How is that my concern?”
“Look at her.”
He regards the woman for a few seconds before facing me again. “What about her?”
“I’m familiar with the effects of most of the narcotics floating around Luna. The results of her blood work aren’t back yet, but she is not suffering from the same withdrawal symptoms as a typical junkie.”
“So?”
“So, we can’t turn her over to the MP. All they will do is put her through a normal rehab treatment; pump her full of drugs that won’t address her addiction. Shit, Roy, if they don’t isolate what she’s hooked on, they might end up killing her.”
He glances for a moment at the woman. “Well, what do you want me to do about it? She can’t stay here.”
“We don’t leave for a few more days, right? Give me some time to figure out what she’s hooked on. I might be able to synthesize a counteractive treatment. Then we can turn her in without her death on our consciences.”
His eyes narrow. “You were the kind of kid who brought stray kittens home, weren’t you?”
If only he knew how far he was from guessing about my childhood. In my neighbourhood, strays ended up in a stew.
Addressing my patient, I say, “What’s your name?”
“Chloe.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
She nods, tears running down her face. “I’m not a junkie. They did this to me.”
“Who did?”
She hesitates, checking us both out before answering. “I was on a passenger transport. We weren’t far out from Callisto when the ship was attacked.”
I turn to Chambers. “Pirates?”
He shrugs.
“We weren’t kept prisoner for very long. They separated us and passed me on to somebody else. Those guys injected me with something that made me sick; then they kept giving me pills that relieved the symptoms. They told me I would always need to take them; said it was so I wouldn’t run away. I was brought here and sold to some rich guy.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“No, I wasn’t with him for long before some men who spoke Russian came by, demanding money from him. He couldn’t pay, so they took me instead.”
“This all sounds fanciful,” says Chambers.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Russians? Are you sure?”
She nods. “The leader wanted me to work off what the man owed him.”
An old rage builds in my guts. “What kind of work?”
“He said I could become one of his prostitutes, or I could make myself useful in his compound. He had the pills I need, so there wasn’t much choice. I chose the manual labour.”
Chambers says, “How did you end up here?”
She looks toward me. “Her; she came and went, bringing medicine. On one of her visits I eavesdropped; learned which ship you are on. They didn’t watch me because of my dependency on those pills, so getting out wasn’t difficult. I made my escape and came here. I figured if you were selling drugs to the Russian, you might have what I need.”
“And what was your plan after?” asks Chambers, his voice softer now.
“I...I wasn’t sure. My shakes were so bad by the time I found you, I wasn’t thinking straight. All I could think of was to sneak aboard and find some medicine. I hoped to hide out until your next stop.”
“Then what? Go home?”
She shrugs. “I can’t. I told you, I didn’t have a plan.”
“Nothing you took from the infirmary will help with what you’re hooked on,” I say.
She lowers her eyes. “I know, but I was desperate. All it did was put me to sleep, though. Then you found me.”
Her shivering has increased substantially since we discovered her, and a sheen of perspiration covers her face.
“Well, the first thing I’m going to do is give you a full medical workup and figure out the drug you’re on.”
“Come talk to me when you know more.” Chambers takes a final look at Chloe. “And get her something to eat.”
With that, he storms out of the med-bay.
“Is he going to kick me off the ship?” she asks.
“No,” I say, “but I’m not so sure about me.”
Chapter Seven
Two hours later, I catch up with Chambers in his quarters. He’s at his desk and holds a holo-pic of a much younger version of him and a girl I assume is his sister.
He puts the frame down. “Well?”
“I examined Chloe and made some additional tests. She’s dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition and vitamin deficiency, so I left her on an IV regulator and gave her a meal. Aside from all that, the bruise on her shoulder where I whacked her is her only physical trauma.”
He invites me to take a seat on his bunk.
“Are you buying her story?”
“Human trafficking is common,” I say, “and I’m not surprised the pirates in the belt are actively involved in it.”
“Yeah, I suppose...but her claim about being a woman on a vacation who ends up being turned into a whore is hard for me to swallow. I mean, isn’t it more likely that she’s just a junkie who—?” He catches sight of my expression. “What?”
“Not every ‘whore’ enters the profession willingly,” I say in a measured tone, trying to keep a lid on my rising temper. I scowl at him and bite down on my tongue before I say something I might regret.
Seeming oblivious, he says, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Any idea what she’s hooked on?”
I shake my head, glad for the change of topic. “She’s come up negative for all the standard narcotics and has been off it long enough not to have sufficient trace molecules in her blood.”
“So, you’re saying she might be telling the truth about the drugs, at least?”
“Whatever she’s on isn’t a street drug. I need a sample of it.”
“Where are you going to get that?”
“From Vostok.”
“Shit!” He rises from the chair and begins to pace. “I was afraid of this when we started dealing with that gangster.”
“Afraid of what? We knew he deals in human trafficking.”
“Yeah, but I hoped it was only a small-time, local operation.”
“What else could it be?”
“Use of designer drugs to control people is the hallmark of the Jovian Collective.”
Chambers has a long and complicated history with the organization. Much of his smuggling business came from them until a falling-out a few months ago.
“Are you sure?”
He nods. “Few people leave them and live to tell about it. They assure loyalty by addicting operatives to a unique drug. If somebody becomes a liability, they simply withhold it and let them die.”
I swallow. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve dealt with them enough to know a lot about how they operate. Trust me, if I knew then what I do now, I would never have involved myself with them.”
“So, you think the pirates who captured her sold her to the Collective, who then passed her on to some guy on Luna through Vostok?”
“Yep,” he says, “the only way Vostok could supply what she needs to stay alive is if he’s involved with them. If you go to him for a sample, you’ll tip him off that she’s here. He’ll simply come to collect his property and put another black mark against us in the Collective’s ledger. I don’t need another one of those, and neither do you.”
“Well, we can’t send her back, and we can’t let her die.”
“I know.” He falls silent and continues to pace.
“From what you know about it, how long does withdrawal take to kill?”
He shrugs. “You’re the doctor.”
“Then I’ll just have to synthesize an alternative,” I say.
He stops and faces me. “You can do that?”
All the corporation-run hospitals on Luna recruit only the top medical graduates from Terra. Though I am as qualified as any, circumstances and bad timing prevented me from joining their ranks, and I ended up treating the poor bastards who didn’t benefit from corporate-sponsored care. Chambers hired me because he claimed my skills exceed what can be expected from any freelancer, but what he really needs is someone with the smarts to go into the business of dealing in black market supplies and medicine. During my time on Requiem, I’ve only stitched up a couple of minor wounds. The truth is, Chambers doesn’t realize what my full medical potential is.
“I graduated at the top of my class with degrees in medicine and nanotechnology. If anyone is qualified to do it, it’s me.”
He studies me as if for the first time. Maybe he
thinks I’ve exceeded my capacity to believably shovel on the bullshit. I must admit that my bravado doesn’t sound believable, even if it is justifiable.
“You’re taking a risk with her life,” he says.
“I know. I’ll ask her if it’s what she wants first, but I don’t think she’ll go back to Vostok.”
“Suicide?”
My thoughts go to my own temptation to use that solution when I wanted to escape the sex-gang my mother sold me to. “I believe she would choose that, yes.”
He returns to his desk to pick up and contemplate the picture. “Nan would be about the same age as Chloe.”
After a moment, he sniffs loudly and rubs his eye. “Do what you can for her. Let me know what you need, and I’ll make sure you get it.”
“You’re sure? This could delay our departure.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Chapter Eight
Carson Willis has hunted Oskar Vostok for five years. His extensive network of official informants was unable offer up a sniff of the man, nor even a confirmation of his existence. It seems ironic to him that he now has access to the mythical gangster when there is no chance to make an arrest.
Bentley’s instructions consist of the address code of an unregistered communication relay node. Wary of using his personal cortical implant to access it, Carson has gone to great expense to acquire a black-market virtual CI for the late Bentley Ferris.
It took time and some greased palms to locate the right person to contact, but eventually a meeting was set.
Beneath the opulence of the Upper Tens and the foundations of the protective dome lies the squalor of the old city. It is the original subterranean habitat for the first lunar colony on this site, now over two centuries old.
The decaying infrastructure houses Armstrong’s working poor and the freelance workers who contract to the corporations that dominate Luna’s economy. It is where Carson grew up, and he is determined he will never return.
Yet he now finds himself stalking the familiar passages, warily watching over his shoulder out of old habit as he walks to the designated meeting place. Though he’s discarded the black uniform of the much-hated Morality Police, he is still concerned for his safety. He’s been away from this place for so long that there is little chance he will be recognized, and strangers are not welcome here.