“I’ve overridden the controls,” said Caylar. “Shouldn’t be any more surprises.”
“Does it have a warranty for manufacturer defects?” I said. “Or is there a security robot exclusionary clause?” I was nervous. A lot of bad things could happen in an elevator if somebody wanted them to. At the moment, that reality wasn’t one I cared to ignore. The other elevator occupants must’ve been too busy to respond.
Caylar looked at the lady diplomat. She nodded, deactivated the cube, then reached across the bed, handing it to Caylar. Silvre made a final inspection of the faceted alien mechanism before a few precision finger taps brought it to life. She raised the alien device above her head and spun slowly around. For a fraction of a second, I saw double.
Caylar gently put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t move. Stay silent.” He spoke into the remote, “We are preparing to exit the elevator. All clear?”
“Affirmative,” crackled the device. “Rally point red one secure.”
“Make way,” said Caylar. “Yellow pass-through in effect.”
“Acknowledged.”
Diplomat Silvre looked down at me, still holding the holo-device above her head. Caylar activated the cube.
“I hope you are indeed innocent of the charges,” she whispered.
The doors opened. With the holo-device held high, Silvre exited the elevator. Outside, lining the corridor, stood eight armed and ready marines.
Suddenly Diplomat Silvre flashed to a new position. She wasn’t holding the holographic device. Rather, she was escorting me out of the elevator. Or my eye saw it happening, with Caylar maneuvering the bed from behind. The real Caylar placed a calming hand on my shoulder. I watched the image of us continue down the hall, flanked by the marines. I spotted a saucer-sized bloodstain spread across the diplomat’s shoulder as the elevator door closed.
Caylar put his fingers to his lips, indicating silence, before activating the elevator with the remote. We descended further.
Caylar held Varney’s pistol ready and tapped the remote a few times. I held Simms’s pistol, knowing that if I discharged another round, I might not be able to endure the pain and remain conscious.
Caylar said, “You’re on voice control if there’s any trouble. Try to get to the yacht. The Gilded Swan. L-X-K, zero, zero, eight.” He stopped. “You’ll find it.”
This didn’t make sense. The Iron Armadillo was a sure thing. Whose yacht? Did he really think Silvre’s holo would fool the surveillance? They have infrared and motion sensors. And if the Armadillo’s marines shot out the sensors, then why the holo-image?
Caylar stood, awaiting my response. “Right,” I said. “The yacht.”
“Let’s go,” Caylar said, opening the door with the remote. He stepped out, checking left and right. He signaled for me to follow.
“Bed, forward, one yard--damn, ummm, point nine meters per second, unless otherwise directed.” I’ve always hated I-Tech metrics. The bed moved forward. Caylar used his boot to nudge a security specialist lying prone next to a control station. No response so he moved on.
I followed. “Bed, thirty degrees left…thirty degrees more left.” I looked around, lowered my firearm. “Bed, thirty degrees left.” I was falling behind. “Increase to two meters per second.”
I followed Caylar past several shuttles and into a secondary hangar holding fewer than a dozen small vessels. Past a large corporate yacht, we came to a smaller one, maybe twenty yards long with at least two decks. The front ramp was down. The yacht’s smooth, tinted gold exterior and had ‘Gilded Swan’ scribed freehand in blood-red paint across its side. The vessel was even armed with a single-barreled pulse laser housed in a ventral ball turret. Impressive.
Caylar came around behind me while I scanned the deserted hangar, for what it was worth. Thankfully, Caylar guided me up the ramp and into the space-faring pleasure vessel.
The ramp retracted and the hatch slid closed. Lights switched on to reveal a spartan interior that included several fold down bunks, three padded reclining chairs, and a table. A storage area for cargo and supplies led back to a large door, probably to the engines and life support machinery.
“We’re in,” shouted Caylar as he maneuvered my bed to the port side and locked the wheel mechanism. “After I check your diagnostic support equipment, I’ll have to strap you down.” He looped the restraints to the wall. “You don’t look so good.”
He could have smiled while saying it. I took a breath and tried to ignore the splitting pain in my head, bad eye, and shoulder.
From above, near the starboard side lift came an announcement. “The Armadillo has just departed.”
I knew that voice! I fumbled for my pistol but Caylar placed a hand on it. “Not necessary,” he said.
From the lift, Hawks’s former assistant, Mr. Loams, looked down. He appeared friendlier without his yellow tie. “No arm restraints for this trip, I hope?” He looked to Caylar. “I’ll request departure momentarily.” Mr. Loams disappeared after Caylar nodded in agreement.
Caylar set the safety and placed the pistol back within reach. “Mr. Loams is, as you might say, our ace in the hold.”
I listened to my nurse hum a light tune as he manipulated my support equipment. “Hole,” I corrected. I felt more pain meds entering my system. A good thing as my adrenaline was played out. “What was Silvre’s holo all about?”
“Deception.”
“It might fool the infrared. What about motion sensors?”
“It’s A-Tech. I suspect it did, easily.”
“Simms?” I asked.
“He went down.” Any sign of mirth abandoned his voice. “Looked like he took a couple of shots to the legs, maybe one to the head.” He paused. “Might be dead. If not, might wish he were.”
“He’s high-up intel. A Director?”
Caylar came around and began adjusting my straps. “You saw what happened back there. They were darn serious.”
“They should’ve had us. Pretty disorganized.”
“I agree,” said Caylar. “Not professional.”
From above Mr. Loams added, “They didn’t have much time. Capital Galactic doesn’t have a lot of contacts around Mars.”
I asked Loams, “Did you take out the hanger security?”
“Yes,” he replied. “They should still be seeing him standing guard. A loop of a prerecorded surveillance.” He chuckled. “Even programmed in our departure. It should take them some time to find something amiss. Thirty minutes minimum.”
“Still, won’t they have to worry about Varney and Simms?”
“Director Simms radioed in indicating terrorist action,” said Caylar. “That allowed the Iron Armadillo’s marines to board.”
“And the captain of the Pars Griffin can use that to deflect any accusations against Capital Galactic?”
Caylar nodded while tightening a strap. “What’s this?” He pulled from under the covers a small wooden carving. A four inch bust of someone wearing a hat.
I held out my unsteady hand. “Let me see.” I examined carving. It looked like my work so I checked the bottom. “Read this.”
“It has the initials KRKY,” said Caylar. “Fancy script.”
“This is my work! Diplomat Silvre must’ve put it there. Right where the holo-mechanism was.”
Caylar looked at the small bust. “Not bad work. Authentic wood.”
“I learned to carve before I was ten. Do it for bartering, extra credits.” I looked at it closer. “I don’t recall carving this. Does it look familiar to you?”
Caylar held it a moment. “Someone R-Tech, a youth. Buttoned shirt, floppy-brimmed hat. Looks like a fishing hat. That must’ve been difficult to carve.”
“Hey! Is it that—you know—the one I was supposed to have abducted?”
“Maximar Drizdon Junior?” Caylar reappraised the bust. “Could be him.”
I didn’t bother questioning why my nurse knew the specifics of my supposed crimes. “What would Diplomat Silvre be doing with it? M
y carving?”
“Drizdon is married to her step sister, I think.” He paused. “Yes, Maximar Junior must be her nephew with Maximar Senior her brother in law.”
“What?” The pain meds made it increasingly difficult to think.
“I don’t know. I saw them only once, briefly. I’m simply her personal assistant. A bodyguard.” He scratched his head. “She didn’t say a lot. I was assigned to her less than four months ago.” He thought a moment. “Maybe your friend Mr. Loams knows more.”
From above echoed, “We have clearance.”
“No dawdling,” suggested Caylar. “Let’s put some distance between us.”
“Agreed.” After a moment Loams finished, “We’re on our way.”
I felt our acceleration before the yacht’s gravity plates kicked in. “Where are we heading?”
“I’m not sure,” said Caylar. “I think we’re to meet up with another vessel shortly.” He reviewed my vital signs. “Not good.”
I already knew. In addition to my head, a throbbing in my chest had been growing along with a dull pain in my abdomen.
After a few minutes of intense work Caylar looked me in the eye. “Your internal bleeding has increased. I’ve made adjustments.” He shook his head. “Your lungs are still in good condition, all things considered.”
“I know. I’m in pretty bad shape.”
He nodded sagely. “You should get some rest.”
“But...” I began to argue, but knew he was correct.
Caylar continued to tap at the numerous icons and turn an occasional dial. I looked again. Dials meant the medical equipment was military. Hardened against electronic interference.
“I’m going to have to insist.” He lowered the bed to fifteen degrees elevation. Then he went back to the engine room. With the door open the engine hum increased.
Five minutes passed. I examined the small carving more with my fingers than my eye. A woozy warmth crept over my thoughts and body. I was about to close my eye when the yacht surged and change direction.
Loams yelled down, “Mars tracking is on high alert! Planetary defense grid has been activated. There’s a Crax vessel in the area!”
I almost sat up, except for the restraints. Pain hammered back the cozy warmth. I fought to remain conscious.
Caylar ran to the lift and looked up. “Where?”
“Logical guess,” said Loams. “Opposite of where civilian traffic has been directed. Only slight alteration from our original course is required.” He paused. “Reaching maximum speed. All combat ships in the area have been alerted and are converging.”
This time I barely detected the buildup in speed. Fine workmanship in this vessel.
Caylar said, “Must have been hiding in the asteroid belt.”
I stared at the metallic-paneled ceiling.
“What military ships are in the vicinity?” asked Caylar.
“Besides the Armadillo, I think there’s a light cruiser, the Red Bison.” The lights dimmed. “Powering down all non-critical equipment. The Soul Scorcher is still in space dock. Being patched up. She won’t be any assistance.”
“Any Umbelgarri?” asked Caylar.
“None that I am aware of,” said Mr. Loams. “There are several police cutters, and three gunboats around Mars. Normally.”
“Any idea what type of Crax vessel?”
“Sorry, my frequency isn’t military. Sensors are picking up our ships. Not the enemy.”
“The Iron Armadillo?”
“She’s moving fast. Looks like she is trying to evade.”
Five minutes passed. I was having trouble keeping awake. “Caylar, undo the sleep meds.” He ignored me. “Caylar.”
He looked back from the bottom of the lift. “You need to rest.”
“Not until I know what happens.” My eye closed. I strained to keep awake, keep focused. I faded in and out.
Loams’s voice echoed. “The Iron Armadillo’s off the screen. Confirmed. The Iron Armadillo has been destroyed!”
That horrific statement carried over into troubled dreams.
Chapter 5
Contemporary theorists claim that if, on their own, humans ever managed to develop the ability to condense space with sufficient energy to maintain it, and the ability to provide energy for the necessary antigravity shell while generating adequate thrust to make the whole effort worthwhile, the current generation’s great grandchildren might have been the ones accomplish it.
I endured troubled dreams about my older cousin, Oliver. He’d helped me get picked up by the Negral Corporation and signed on with the Kalavar. Oliver was organized, meticulous, and a decent guy. My older brother called him Spiffy. He called my brother Uncouth. Both nicknames fit.
Oliver’s math aptitude and ability to interface with computers at a young age earned him notice. He was raised I-Tech. Scholarships and grants provided what his family couldn’t toward remedial advanced technical education.
Later, the military recruited and trained Oliver as a gunner where he served aboard the destroyer escort, Midnight Vigil. There, for ten years he manned the dual beam laser housed in the forward turret, before transferring to the Iron Armadillo. After only six months Negral lured him from the prestigious assignment with a substantial contract to serve as chief gunner aboard an armed freighter.
In my dream, however, Oliver wasn’t happily journeying to exotic outer colony ports. Rather, he was repeatedly dying along with the rest of the Iron Armadillo’s crew. Sometimes Oliver was trapped, burning alive while his shipmates struggled to reach him. Other times he was lost to the vacuum of space. In the last dream, his turret took a direct hit. The caustic bolt devoured the armored hull, only slowing when it reached my cousin’s flesh.
I awoke, sweating. The Iron Armadillo was gone. I tried to sort things out. I knew Oliver wasn’t on board when she went down.
I opened my eye. The pain had receded in my head, body and leg. That was good. The ceiling wasn’t the same—grating instead of paneling, and that wasn’t good. The hum of the engines was wrong. The sense of disconnection, of being slightly out of sync with my bed and everything around, added to the unfounded feeling of anticipation, told me I was no longer aboard the Gilded Swan. Space-faring yachts aren’t built with the cascading atomic engines needed to initiate the condensation of space. The Gilded Swan wasn’t large enough to harbor both condensing engines and the generation capacity to power an anti-gravity field. So, use of a con-gate was out.
I closed my eye again, and relaxed. No, the feeling was genuine and not drug induced. I felt to my left. The wooden carving was there. To my right Simms’s pistol was missing. I suddenly felt vulnerable. Where was it? And where was I?
As if on cue, footsteps preceded a confident, feminine voice. “Good evening, Specialist Keesay.”
I turned my head and looked toward the source. My mouth was dry. “Water, please.”
The tall woman disappeared from view and returned with a large syringe without a needle. “This may be easier than a cup.” She smiled and placed it in my mouth and slowly squirted a small amount of metallic-tasting water. “I was unsure whether using a straw would hurt.”
I looked up and noticed she was tall, even for an I-Tech, unless my bed had been lowered. She wore a gray quasi-military uniform. Her hair was braided and wrapped into a large, tight bun. “What vessel am I aboard now?” I asked. “Where is Caylar?” That was the only name I had for my nurse.
She smiled. “He is not here.”
“I guessed that, ma’am,” I said after receiving the useless answer.
“How are you feeling, Specialist Keesay?”
“Confused and angry.”
She frowned slightly. Her green eyes studied me.
“Ohh, you mean physically...Miss?” She looked young for an intel agent. But with I-Techs looks aren’t always an accurate gauge.
“Special Agent Vingee,” she said.
I was right. “Agent Vingee, you look like a bright girl. I should think astute obs
ervation on your part would lead you to the correct conclusion. That I happen to feel like I look. Like a chain saw, you know gas—fossil fuel powered, cuts down trees? Like one happened to dig into my intestines, maybe my spleen? After shaving my leg of course.”
She took the syringe and walked away. After a moment she returned. “Will you require anything else?”
I already regretted my remark. “Yes, if you cannot answer my questions, just say so.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry. I feel better than I did before my previous, medical provider put me to sleep.”
“Apology accepted,” she said curtly, then looked away. “I’ll see if there is someone available who’s authorized to answer at least some of your questions.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at the carving. “Excellent work. Done with a chain saw?”
I stared at her, unable to follow her last remark.
“At least,” she said with a smile, “you know where your lower half is.”
It hurt more to suppress laughter than to let it out. She turned away with a concerned look on her face before leaving.
I stared at the bust, wondering if I’d really carved it. I ran my fingers over the wood, sensing the cuts and the grain. I reexamined the signature mark. It didn’t appear counterfeit. Other questions came to mind. Where are my tools, knife and gouges? My guns and equipment? I had them in the surveillance holos Silvre had shown me.
I set the bust down and pondered the face. Was there any resemblance to Diplomat Silvre? My talent wasn’t that good. Did Silvre survive?
I thought about Simms and Private Varney. All dead. For what? Generals, admirals, directors, diplomats, high-powered lawyers at my pretrial. We’re at war with the Crax. Was there a connection? Caylar wouldn’t know but Loams might. And where were they?
All of this for a dying man. One demanding to have his brain scrambled to get at the truth, which he’ll never know. Ironic—depressing and ironic.
Sleep, even a troubled sleep seemed preferable. It was.
Someone placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Agent Vingee. “Are you awake?”
Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) Page 4
