by Simon Haynes
"Complying. Connection enabled."
"Bernie, this callout … it might be a red herring." She remembered the robot's literal mind, and elaborated. "A fake call, I mean. Smith might be trying to get me out of the office."
"Unless Smith were to remove me from the office as well, such a plan would be pointless."
"Yeah, I guess." Harriet eyed a derelict warehouse. "How's your charge at the moment?"
"She's still working on her presentation."
"Not Alice. Your battery charge."
"It's at forty percent."
"Can you stay out of the charger until I get back? I just … I'm not sure about this call."
"Be careful, Trainee Harriet. Alice is learning fast, but she's not ready to replace you just yet."
"Nice to be wanted, I guess."
"I will hold off charging until you return. Bernie out."
— ♦ —
Tyron Smith strode down the lower deck passageway, heading for his cabin. The ship was sitting on a landing pad at the Dismolle Spaceport, and, like most spacers, Tyron hated being on dry land. Apart from the constant irritant of being planetside, the day had not gone to plan, and the crew were wisely staying out of his way. Not that there were many of them: the Rigel-class freighter had a complement of four, including Smith, and there were plenty of hiding places. Some, like the tiny kitchen, were there by design. Others, much harder to find, had been added later.
The door opened smartly at Smith's approach, revealing a generous cabin with a bunk, a desk and a comfortable armchair. Behind the desk there was a locker with a keypad, but there was almost nothing in the way of personal effects.
Tyron threw his leather coat over the bunk and crossed to the locker. He punched in a code, opened the door and took out a slim metal case. It was about twelve by six inches, maybe two inches deep, and his face was grim as he set it on the desk. It was two years since he'd learned of the box's existence, after a solicitor contacted him out of the blue to enquire about Rebecca Smith. He hadn't heard that name for years, not since his showdown with her uncle, but he knew instinctively what the box contained. After all these years, Tyron knew it was a chance to get his cargo back. A cargo he thought lost forever.
He brushed the square, grey pad on the lid with a fingertip, scowling as the pad glowed with a faint red light. Tyron's lips thinned as he studied the box. Everyone knew Rebecca's uncle Sandon had stolen his goods, stashing them away until the heat died down. Well, Sandon had been the one to die, when he refused to reveal the cargo's location. Tyron was certain the box held directions to his goods: a map or coordinates, he didn't care which. Sandon, the wily old fox, must have thought he was setting up his niece for life. Instead, he'd landed her in a world of trouble.
Tyron put his feet on the desk, leaned back in the easy chair and linked his fingers behind his head. Then, as he recalled Sandon's final moments, his face twisted into a nasty grin.
Chapter 7
Deep space freighter Sparrow, Dorset quadrant. Seven years earlier.
"Will there be animals?"
"Of course, Rebbie. Great big ones, with fur."
Rebecca looked concerned. "And big teeth?"
"It's quite safe, my dear. They can't hurt you."
"So they're not real animals, then? Are they … holograms?"
Sandon smiled at his niece. Sometimes she acted and spoke far beyond her eight short years. "Yes, holograms."
"Are the ice creams real?"
And there was the eight-year-old. "Sure. Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry."
"All at once?"
"If you finish that essay in time."
"I hate writing essays." Rebecca sighed. "One day, when I'm bigger, I'm going to become a cop and make them illegal."
"You want to join the Peace Force?" Sandon was startled. Who'd been filling her head with that kind of nonsense? "Rebbie, the cops … they're not our friends."
"But they catch crooks, and—"
"You can have two ice creams."
"I still want to be a cop," said Rebecca stubbornly.
"Three ice creams, but you're going to be sick."
"Maybe I won't be a cop. Maybe I'll be a space pirate instead."
Sandon ruffled her hair. "That's more like it."
"But I want a real parrot, not a hologram."
Rebecca turned to the screen and continued typing her essay. As Sandon watched her, he realised he'd have his work cut out in years to come. At eight she was already running rings about him. By the time she was fifteen she'd probably be running his ship. Then he frowned. He had to do something about her education, and quickly. He'd been putting it off for a year or two now, but she was bright, and a quick learner, and she deserved more than life aboard a creaky old ship with only her creaky old uncle for company. Leaving her on some planet in the care of strangers would be a wrench for both of them, but they'd just have to get over it.
"Finished," said Rebecca.
"Let me see." As he leant forward, the terminal flickered out.
"Oh dear, I forgot to save it. It was really good, too."
"Take your foot off the power socket."
Rebecca pulled a face as she obeyed. Then, as Sandon scanned the 'essay', she piped up again.
"Two ice creams will be enough."
"Rebbie, you've just written 'I hate essays' over and over again."
"One ice cream?"
Sandon gave her a mock frown. "I'll feed you to the great big hologram animals, you little—"
"Contact bearing delta three-nine-eight."
Instantly, Sandon switched gears. He slid his chair up to the console and scanned the small display screens set into the surface. The vessel was another freighter, larger than his, and it was masking its ID. "Boost engines to eighty percent."
"Complying."
"Change course, vector two-niner."
"Change initiated." There was a pause. "Course change complete."
Sandon studied the screen, then cursed. The other ship was following them.
"Bad language, uncle."
"Not now, Rebbie." Sandon eyed the screen, then set up a comms burst on a secondary screen. Once it was ready, he spoke into the mic. "Sparrow to all family, I repeat, this is the Sparrow. Situation developing, possible assistance required. Please note my location and coordinates." After he was done, he reviewed the message on the screen, and hit send. Then he turned to face Rebecca, taking her hands in his. "I need you to hide for a bit. Let's say … number three, okay?"
She nodded. "Yes sir."
Sandon opened a locker and took out a small metal box, which he pressed into her hands. "I've told you about this, haven't I?"
Rebecca sighed. "Yes, uncle."
"Okay. Hide it inside your jacket, go on."
She obeyed, zipping the box under her faded hoodie.
"It's important Rebbie. Don't tell anyone about it."
"I won't."
"Right. Do you remember where hiding spot three is?"
"Of course!" she said scornfully. "It's in the hold. The hatch behind the jump drive."
"Off you go, then. And make sure you close the panel properly. No peeking."
Instead of running to the access tube, Rebecca eyed the screens on the console. "Are they bad people?"
"I don't know. Best be safe, eh? Off you go now, and … you can have two ice creams if you're extra quiet. Okay?"
"Thanks, uncle."
Rebecca paused long enough to throw her arms around his neck, then ran to the back of the flight deck. Sandon winced as she took a flying leap towards the ladder, catching the metal support with one hand and swinging herself round the opposite side like a gymnast. Then, with a squeak of her palms on the painted metal, Rebecca slid all the way down the ladder and vanished below decks.
"Contact is hailing us. Orders?"
Sandon turned back to the console. "Very well. Put them on main. And … computer?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Please ensure my last will and testament
has been filed."
"Complying. Latest verifed will is dated yesterday."
"Good enough. Now let's hear what these people want."
There was a brief delay, and then Tyron Smith's face filled the screen. "This is your last chance, Sandon. Tell me where the cargo is, and I swear I'll spare your life."
Sandon's heart sank. He suspected it was Tyron chasing him, but he'd been harbouring the tiniest hope that it was someone else. "I told you," he said wearily. "Your goods were destroyed when my hatch failed. I've got camera footage, for heaven's sake!"
Tyron shook his head. "We've all got computers, Sandon. They do whatever we tell them to. Now heave to, I'm coming aboard."
"No you're not."
"Heave to, or I'll crack your ship's hull like an egg."
Sandon closed his eyes. Tyron wasn't bluffing, and with Rebbie on board … "Computer, cut the engines," he said, resigned to the inevitable.
"Complying."
The distant roar faded, and there was a deep, unearthly silence.
"Is that good enough," said Sandon, "or does your pilot need me to come to a complete stop?"
"We'll match your speed. Don't pull any tricks, or—"
"Tyron, come aboard, look around, do whatever you want. I have absolutely nothing to hide."
Moments later the bigger ship came alongside, and Sandon went to open the outer airlock. Beyond, there was a pressurised tube connecting the two vessels, and he could see Tyron with three or four of his cronies, all wearing portable breathing kits. Sandon snorted at the sight. Tyron was big on giving his word, but he never accepted anyone else's.
He stood aside as the group entered the flight deck, which suddenly seemed cramped with so many full-grown adults. When it was just Rebbie and himself, the place looked like a cavern.
Tyron pulled the breather off, leaving it dangling against his chest. "You and you, go to the hold. Check it over."
"Aye sir."
Two men left, leaving another man and a woman. The man was short, nuggety, with a surly look on his face. The woman was taller, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. There was no expression on her face, but she held her gun with casual ease and Sandon had no doubt she'd shoot him down at a word from Tyron.
"Where's that neice of yours? Rebecca, wasn't it?"
"Planetside," said Sandon casually. "She's in school."
"How can you afford the fees?"
"It's a government school. There are no fees."
"I'm going to find out what you did with my cargo. You know that, don't you?"
Sandon glanced towards the console. "Computer, play the —"
"Belay that!" said Tyron sharply.
"Computer, cancel."
Tyron came closer, towering over the older man. He leaned forward until his face was level, his eyes narrowed. "Don't waste my time."
There was a crackle from the commset on his belt. "Sir, the hold is pretty much empty. Just a few cases of bottled water."
"Still doing the big cargo hauls, I see." Tyron straightened up. "Check the cabins. We're coming down."
"It's just water," said Sandon.
"Then you won't mind if we inspect it, will you?" With an elaborate gesture, Tyron waved him towards the access tube.
Sandon climbed down the ladder, wincing as his muscles protested. He always thought he'd trade up to a newer ship one day, a new model with an elevator from the flight deck to the hold … and maybe even a defensive gun turret or two. Now, it seemed, it was not to be. Despite Tyron's calm exterior, he knew the younger man was itching to gun him down, to make an example of him in front of his people. The tale would spread throughout the Family, and Tyron's reputation for violence would grow.
It wouldn't even matter if Sandon were to return the missing cargo … the end would still be the same.
Slowly, he led the way to the hold. As they walked along the narrow, poorly-lit passageway, he realised he should have directed Rebbie to a different hiding spot. If this ended the way he thought it would, she'd hear everything. Worse, she might run to his aid, and Tyron … no, he couldn't. Not a child.
They reached the inner door to the cargo hold, which stood open, and Sandon stepped over the sill to enter the hold proper. Behind him, Tyron ducked under the low entrance, almost braining himself on the heavy beam above the door.
"You should have upgraded this heap years ago," remarked Tyron.
"I was too busy trying to make an honest living."
"You did try to stay on the right side of the law, I'll give you that." Tyron gestured around the small hold. "And look where it got you."
Sandon said nothing. Instead, he led the way to the pallet of bottled water, which was the only job he'd managed to find in the sector. The pay was tiny, barely enough to cover fuel, but he'd get a few reputation points from it and they never hurt. Would have done, he amended, as he saw Tyron's fingers absent-mindedly curling around the grip of his blaster.
"Open them up," he said.
"Tyron, I've go to deliver those."
"Oh, so now you deliver cargo? I thought you only lost it … or stole it." He gestured, and two of his people moved to obey. The other two were still searching the rest of the ship, and Sandon could hear things breaking nearby as they tossed his belongings. Meanwhile, the man and the woman ripped away the plastic shrink-wrap binding the boxes to the pallet, before tearing into the cartons themselves, picking them up and emptying the contents on the deck. Plastic bottles of water bounced off the hard metal, rolling across the deck until the hold was littered with them. Finally, the last box was opened. "Nothing, sir," said the woman.
"I can see that." Tyron nudged a bottle with his toe. It rolled across the hold to the jump drive, vanishing into the darkness under the long, rounded cylinder. "One of you check with the others. See if there's anything."
"Yes sir."
After exchanging a glance with the woman, the man left the hold. She remained, her own hand hovering over the butt of her weapon, and Sandon's hopes fell at the sight. He was an old man, and although he might just have moved quick enough to surprise Tyron, who was standing nearby, this woman was another matter. He'd be gunned down before he took two steps.
"So, have you lost anyone's cargo recently?" asked Tyron conversationally, while they were waiting. When he didn't get a reaction, he laughed. "You know, you're taking this very calmly."
Tyron was right. He was taking it calmly, and he wondered whether it had anything to do with Rebbie. Once he'd made the decision to send her planetside, to a proper school, the weight of responsibility had lifted from his shoulders. He'd promised her parents, years earlier, that he'd bring the girl up should anything happen to them, and he'd taken his promise seriously. Now, though, it was time to let go. But that didn't mean giving up without some kind of a fight. "Computer," he said, raising his voice. "Is there any sign of that Family ship we're meeting?"
"I do not know of any such meeting."
"Nice try," murmured Tyron.
"They're on the way. I put out a call when you started following me."
"What are they going to do? Banish me? Half of them are convinced you stole my goods, and the others don't care either way."
"For the last time …"
Sandon's voice tailed off as Tyron's men returned to the hold.
"Nothing, sir. The ship is clean."
"Well, that's that." Tyron drew his gun and gestured with it. "Kneel. I'll make it quick"
"No," said Sandon firmly.
"As you wish." And with that, Tyron raised the gun and shot him three times in the chest.
Chapter 8
Tyron was jolted from his memories by the buzzing of his intercom. It took a moment before he could see past the flashes of gunfire, the sound of the blasts, the look in Sandon's eyes as he died, but then Tyron shook himself and addressed the mic. "Yes?"
"Outside call, sir. It's your agent."
"Put 'em on."
There was a click. "Tyron, Harriet Walsh just left the Peace F
orce building."
"Give her time to get clear, then make the second call."
"Will do." There was a pause. "We could go in and snatch the girl."
"Forget it. It's a Peace Force station. They'll have cameras, security … and guns."
"We don't need her alive."
"Can you guarantee that?" demanded Tyron. "What if I get the damned box open, and there's something in there only she can read? What if it leads me to a second box? You want to drag her corpse along on a treasure hunt?"
"It depends how valuable the treasure is."
"Just make the call. And stop questioning my orders."
"Orders, is it? What happened to cooperation?"
There was a click, and the speaker went dead.
Smith felt the empty holster at his side. Customs had gathered all their weapons on arrival, using portable scanners to ensure there were none hidden away. "I hate this planet," he muttered under his breath.
— ♦ —
"This is the Dismolle Peace Force," said Bernie. "How may I help you?"
"I can see a couple of kids smashing windows."
"Really. Can you describe these … children?"
"They're wearing jeans, and they've got hoodies."
Bernie glanced at Alice, who was slowly adding sentences to her speech. Fortunately, the young trainee couldn't hear the conversation, since Bernie was diverting her voice directly into her comms module. "We've already despatched an officer to the crime scene. Please await her arrival."
"Wait! What officer? This is the first time I've called."
"Are you in the commercial district off route nine?"
"Nowhere near. This is the office district on the way to the spaceport, at the intersection of routes two and twelve."
Bernie frowned as she checked a map. The caller was on the opposite side of the city from the original report, the one which Trainee Harriet had responded to. It was almost as though someone were trying to cause the Peace Force as much inconvenience as possible, spreading them out so much they would be unable to attend should any further crimes be reported. Still, the Peace Force was duty bound to protect the people of Dismolle, even if said people were a downright nuisance at times. "Very well, madam. I will despatch an officer to your location as soon as possible."
