Chapter 4
Conway stepped through the maintenance airlock, taking a quick glance behind him to check that he wasn't being followed. His shuttle had landed at the main starport, just as intended, but he'd decided to make a quieter entrance, leaving Morgan and Angel to take the accolades of the crowd. As the hatch swung open he ducked inside, pulling off his respirator as the lock sealed behind him, air rushing into the room and water cascading from the ceiling, washing the oil from his hair and clothes. A blast of hot air dried him off, and the inner door opened to reveal Sheriff McCormack standing in the corridor, a smile on his face.
“That's the craziest airlock I've ever seen,” Conway said, glancing inside.
“Just a little bit of luxury,” he replied. “Keeps the place clean, and the first thing anyone wants to do when they get back inside is take a shower, anyway. After a while, you can't quite get it out of your system, anyway.” Extending his hand, he said, “McCormack. I'm the Sheriff of Sinaloa Colony.”
“Jack Conway, Strike Commander.”
Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “That's a title I haven't heard in a while.”
“It's a long story,” Conway replied. Looking around the airlock again, he said, “I'm surprised you haven't installed a landing dome.”
Shaking his head, the lawman said, “Too expensive. The showers are a lot cheaper, and we'd have to clean them constantly anyway. That gunge out in the air soaks into everything.” He grinned, and said, “There's a reason I try and stay indoors as often as I can. Just be grateful for the domes.” Turning down the corridor, he continued, “Back when the planet was first settled, it was just a collection of sealed modules, scattered all around the local area. Not even any connecting tunnels. They had the worst of it, I think.”
Following, Conway asked, “Where are we going?”
“My office, one level up. The Mayor's waiting for you there, as well as the local Union representative. Everyone else is out in the main concourse, back in the Commercial Dome, having a party, but that's for later. Right now, we've got work to do.” He turned to an elevator, stabbing at the control, waiting for the door to open. “This was supposed to be a nice, quiet job. I spent twenty years working street patrol at Port Lowell. Made it to Sergeant, and was informed that I wasn't going to rise any further.”
“Any reason?”
“I didn't want to play the same office games as the rest of them.” With a chime, the elevator arrived, and the two of them stepped inside. “Then my wife died, and I decided I needed to find a safer place to raise my kid. The pay was good, and until the last couple of months, the nearest thing we've had to a criminal element are the occasional drunk, a few wild kids. There hasn't been a serious crime on this colony since it was established.”
“Not uncommon on a pioneer world,” Conway replied, as the elevator doors opened again, depositing them on an upper level. He glanced out of the window, a view of the oily sea beyond, and McCormack paused to look at it.
“I know, it's not much to look at, but that's the future, right there. Enough petrochemicals to support all the nations of humanity for ten thousand years and more, and far more accessible than Titan could ever be. You should swing by the Advanced Projects group at some point while you are here. They've got plans for a space elevator, orbital refinery...”
“You're a long way from Sol,” Conway said, shaking his head. “I'd have thought the transport costs would have been prohibitive.”
“True, today, but the tankers get larger and larger, and the hendecaspace drive gets better and better. Besides, we're expanding again. In ten years, there will be colonies opening up all across this part of the galaxy, and all of them are going to need the products we can provide, right here. We're taking a gamble on the future, but I think it'll pay off.”
“Who pays the bills?”
“We're just about cost-neutral at the moment. At least we were, though all of this is going to wreak havoc on our projections for the next few years. As I said, we're playing a long game. For the moment we're supplying raw materials to military bases a couple of jumps away. It's faster and cheaper than going all the way back to Sol, and opened up a few nice government contracts.” He glanced at Conway again, and added, “We were rather hoping that a Triplanetary ship would turn up at some point.”
“That's a long story,” he replied.
“Having something to do with charges of murder, treason and mutiny, perhaps?” Shaking his head, McCormack said, “You're fortunate that I'm terrible when it comes to keeping up with the paperwork, or I'd have seen the all-station alert for your capture and arrest.”
“As I said, it's a long story.”
Gesturing at an open door, he said, “You can share it with the rest of the governing triumvirate, if you want. Or as much of it as you dare, anyway.” Conway followed McCormack into the office, another spectacular view of the outside dominating the room. Two women were sitting on a couch by the wall, one gray-haired, wearing a faded set of coveralls, the other a young red-head, dressed in an impeccable suit, beaming a smile as he entered.
“Our savior is here,” she said, rising and grabbing his hand. “On behalf of the Prospectors' Union, I'd like to thank you for everything that you've done for my comrades.”
“This firebrand is Anna Zharkova, and this is probably the first time the three of us have been in the same room without trying to tear strips off each other for more than a year.”
Glancing with a frown at McCormack, the older woman said, “My name is Moran, Mayor of Sinaloa Colony. Please, take a seat.” Nodding, Conway took the remaining chair, positioned in the middle of the room. “I'd like to ask you, quite frankly, what your intentions are. Unlike some around here, I want to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.”
Looking at the three of them, he said, “Understand that I'm not at liberty to divulge all the aspects of my mission. I'm working for Triplanetary Intelligence, and this was supposed to be a covert operation.”
“So your Ensign Morgan told me,” McCormack said. “How are your wounded crewmen?”
With a sigh, he replied, “Spaceman Mendez will be fine, but I'm afraid Spaceman Nakadai died about an hour ago. We'll be holding the ceremony tomorrow, if you want to attend.”
“I would,” he said. “I'm truly sorry, Captain.”
Nodding, Moran added, “As am I.”
Pulling out a datapad, Conway opened a file, and passed it to Moran. “I came to talk to this man. Andrei Petrov, an archaeologist who moved here about nine months ago.”
McCormack snorted, and said, “That charlatan?”
“Come on, Jimmy,” Moran said. “On the chance that he's right, it could be a very lucrative source of funds and grants.” Turning back to Conway, she continued, “I know he has some sort of a theory that an alien race visited this system a few thousand years ago, left some of its artifacts behind. He did some prospecting up in the rings, though I understand he was holding back most of his research in the expectation of a government grant.”
“Or a book deal,” McCormack added. “Last I heard, he was hawking the film rights. Not that it matters.” Gesturing at the ceiling, he continued, “The pirates have him.”
Conway's eyes widened, and he asked, “They've got prisoners up on their base?”
Nodding, Zharkova replied, “Including several union members. As soon as they arrived in orbit, the first thing they did was capture everyone who was working up there. Maybe twenty, twenty-five people. They've also taken four freighters, and as far as we can determine, they captured another dozen or so from those.”
“Most of their prisoners were just dumped down here,” McCormack added. “It wasn't as though they could escape.” He glanced around, and said, “We were so damned helpless. They never made any moves against us, not until the end, but they'd made it quite clear that we weren't to attempt any shuttle launches.” Shaking his head, he
continued, “Of course they didn't want to damage these facilities. They'd hope to take them over intact.”
“You think they want to conquer the planet?” Conway said. “That would take...”
“Nothing more than a sizable credit account,” Moran replied. “Most of the shareholders are right here, the original founders of the colony.” She smiled, and said, “During the war, we served on a couple of privateers, working out of Titan. We got together, sixty-three of us, and collected our prize money to make a start here.” She looked out of the window, and said, “A few others bought in, right at the start, took us up to a hundred and three. And we've given shares to employees, those who stay for long enough.”
“Creating a two-tiered system...” Zharkova began.
“Not now, for God's sake,” McCormack said. “I don't have any shares either, if it comes to that.” Turning to Conway, he added, “People are worried, Captain. Worried enough that they'd be willing to sell out, dump their shares and head home. I'm expecting TriEx to make an offer any time now.”
Moran nodded, and said, “This was their world, before the war, discovered by a United Nations Deep Scout Team. The Confederation were given the rights to the planet in the peace settlement, but I think the company expected to be able to buy it back on the cheap. We beat their offer.” Smiling with pride, she added, “And have done more in fifteen years than they did in thirty. When we arrived, there were just a few unmanned depots and a monitoring satellite. We've done the hard work, Captain...”
“With a little help,” Zharkova added, earning herself a glare from Moran.
“And we want to take full advantage of it. My guess is that someone in the General Assembly, maybe even the Security Council, is pulling some strings. They're using a lot of UN war-surplus equipment, and I can't see where else they might have got it from.”
McCormack looked at Conway, smiled, and said, “You've got a different idea, haven't you. I can see it in your eyes. You're figuring whether to let us continue to make the wrong guess, or whether to tell us the truth.”
Conway shook his head, and said, “Not bad.”
“I've been a cop for my whole life. You get to know people rather well after a while.” He gestured at the others, and said, “You can speak quite freely.”
Conway looked at the union activist, who shook her head, and said, “I spent three years in the Orbital Patrol, working out at Triton on shuttle maintenance. I know when to keep my mouth shut, and I've got security clearance. Higher than the others, actually.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a military identicard, stamped with the markings of the Triplanetary Fleet Reserve, and asked, “Is that good enough?”
“It'll do,” he replied, conjuring up his cover story. “A few months ago, Triplanetary Intelligence found evidence that a terrorist group was setting up to steal and sell alien artifacts to fund themselves, and they were quite willing to commit murder to cover up their crimes. Posing as the crew of a freighter, they massacred a research team working out at Karnak.”
“Good God,” McCormack said. “And you think...”
“I think that they're working with your pirates. We identified one of the fighters that attacked us as being stolen from a Triplanetary storage depot, and I'm guessing that's where they got the rest of their material.” The lies started to flow freely. “Our guess is that they're trying to start a war between the Confederation and the United Nations, and everything they're doing here seems to fit that pattern rather well.”
Nodding, Moran replied, “It does make sense. Are you sure about your identification?”
“We've got a positive sensor trace.”
“And the charges facing you and your crew?”
“Part of the cover story, to make it easier for us to operate as a rogue element.” He paused, and said, “We think it highly likely that they're working with United Nations Intelligence. If that's the case, I'm authorized to do whatever it takes to stop them, but if my crew and I are listed as traitors and mutineers...”
“It'll be a lot easier for the Senate to disclaim all responsibility,” Zharkova said, shaking her head. “Wouldn't it be better just to make everything public?”
“Then the rats would scurry back into their hiding places for a couple of years, getting ready for another try. We've got to draw them out, and smash them once and for all.” Looking around the room, he added, “Naturally, everything I have just told you must be treated as highly confidential.” He coughed, something tickling at his throat, and added, “I hope that goes without saying.”
Nodding, Moran replied, “No one will hear it from me.” She wrinkled her nose, then asked, “What next?”
“One of my people will take a look at Petrov's possessions, if that's acceptable. And try and ask around, see if there is anything else we can find out down here.”
“I'll help with that,” Zharkova replied. “He spent a lot of time working with my people. They've got as big a stake in the future of this colony as anyone with some shares in their portfolio.”
“As for the...” he stopped, his vision swimming, and said, “Is this just me?”
“No,” McCormack replied, moving to the life support controls, staggering against the wall. “I was just thinking that there was something wrong.” He coughed, and added, “Everything looks fine according to these readings.”
“They're wrong,” Zharkova said, pulling out her datapad, tapping open the sensor controls. “Oxygen content is down to fifteen percent, and carbon dioxide is up to ten and rising. We've got to get out of here.” She moved to the door, the controls not responding to her frantic fumbling. “Why is this sealed?”
Pulling open his communicator, McCormack tapped a button, and looked up with his eyes wide, saying, “That should have sounded a general alarm. Something's wrong.”
Reaching into his pocket for a datarod, Conway pushed the union official out of the way, slamming it into position and pulling out his own communicator, struggling to concentrate as he gasped for air, his limbs feeling heavy, ungainly.
“Max, come in,” he said. “Max, damn it, answer me!”
“What's up, skipper?” the hacker asked.
“Datarod access link,” Conway said, in between desperate breaths. “Open the door.”
“Sure,” McGuire replied. “One minute.”
“Now,” he said. “Or you'll need a new boss.”
He dropped to the floor, crashing down next to Zharkova, her eyes sliding shut. She was falling a sleep, a sleep from which she would never waken unless the door opened. McCormack forced himself to take another step, before tumbling onto the ground in front of the door, his hand futilely reaching for the controls. Moran, sensibly, had stayed in her seat, a low snore rumbling out of her mouth.
Grey mist forced itself from the sides of his vision, overwhelming him as he lay there, struggling to remain awake. He looked up at the datarod, a flashing red light indicating that a hack was in progress. A burble of sound in the background told him that McGuire was providing a running commentary, but he couldn't focus on the words, or anything other than his next breath. Finally, despite all his efforts, his eyes slid shut, the darkness reaching out to claim him.
Rough hands shook his shoulders, as a blast of cold air rushed in around him, and he forced his eyes open to spot a pair of men in police uniforms reaching down, trying to drag him out of the room, where a familiar figure was waiting, Angel rushing towards him with a respirator. He shook her away, almost collapsing onto the floor, and turned around to look at the others, already being treated with oxygen, McCormack struggling to his feet.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, turning to Angel.
“Someone played some interesting games with the life support system,” she said. “As well as the locking mechanism of the door. McGuire had a hell of a time breaking through the firewall.” Shaking her head, she added, “He was just in time
. Another few minutes, and it would have all been over. As it is, we're going to have to get you all checked out.”
“Up on Churchill,” Conway insisted.
“What?” McCormack said. He paused, then nodded. “This wasn't just an accident, and if someone is out to kill us...”
“Then I'd rather not give them the chance,” Angel said. “I've got a shuttle waiting to take all four of you up to the ship.”
Shaking her head, the rousing Moran replied, “I'm not leaving.”
“Even the Deputy Mayor can handle things for a couple of hours, Liz,” McCormack replied. “She's right, and you know it.” He turned to Conway, and said, “We knew that the pirates had people down here working for them, either openly or not. We thought we'd dealt with them out on the spaceport, but I guess they still have some undercover operatives after all.” Turning to Moran, he said, “We've got at least one saboteur, right here on the colony.”
“I can't...”
“We'll have an argument on the ride up,” Angel said, moving into the room. “Do I have to carry you, or are you going to walk?”
“I'll walk, thank you,” Moran said, icily. “Tell me, Captain, are all of your crew like this?”
“How do you think he's stayed alive this long?” Angel replied, flashing a smile. “Let's move.”
Chapter 5
Deputy Wagner pulled a small metal box out of the wall, dropping it onto a table and entering a six-digit access code, following up with a thumbprint that set the lid sliding open. With gloved hands he started to empty the contents, one at a time, a small pile of possessions gathering as Morgan and Angel watched. A pair of datapads, a datarod with a chip in it, now useless, a holoimage of a woman and three children, dim as the battery that powered it died, a pile of neatly folded clothes.
“That's it?” Angel asked.
“Aside from some perishable items, I'm afraid so. He had a vase of flowers that are long since gone, but we took some images of them, just in case. I think he had most of his stuff with him. He always carried a metal attache case around, and there was no sign of it in his quarters.” The policeman looked up, and added, “We didn't do much of an investigation, I'm afraid. After all, we knew what had happened to him.”
Interceptor (Strike Commander Book 2) Page 4
