The Surrana Identity

by Michael Campling

  Drumph swiveled in his seat to stare at Dex. “I gave you no authorization to replace those parts, mister. And now I know why you took so damned long. I sent you down there to slap some grease on the coupling to get it running smoothly again, and that’s what I expected you to do.”

  Dex almost laughed. “But, sir, that would only have deferred the problem. If I’d done that, sooner or later, the servos would seize up, and then the actuators would almost certainly snap. Then we’d be forced to strip the whole assembly down, and that’s a big job.”

  “A job which you could’ve done when we dock on Drammadon Four tomorrow.”

  “I suppose so, but with respect, Captain, I need to keep ahead on maintenance because when we reach the space station, I was going to take some leave. I made the request some time ago.”

  “Request denied.” Drumph turned back to his console. “And you might want to think about that before you go around replacing perfectly serviceable parts.”

  Dex clenched his jaw, his fists, and any other muscles he could think of. One day, he thought. One day I’ll finish this tour of duty, but Drumph will be on this ship until he retires. He ran his eyes over his workstation then opened a messaging window, selecting Zeb as the recipient.

  Thanks for helping me replace those servos, Zeb. Bad news on the leave though. I have to stay on the ship, but you should go ahead. Take a tour of Drammadon Four. Visit the leisure decks. You deserve some downtime.

  He hit send, and almost immediately a reply winked on his screen:

  Thanks, Dex, but if you’re staying aboard, I’ll keep you company. We can overhaul the guidance system, and then we could scrub down the exhaust ducts. We’ve been intending to complete that task for months. Also, when our shifts are done, we could finish that game of skirmish chess.

  Dex smiled as he replied with just one word: Thanks.

  He sat back, letting his eyes wander across the wall-mounted status displays. We’ve almost filled the quota for this run, Dex thought. You’d think the old man would be happy. But he knew that in the Andel-Kreit Coalition’s small fleet of minesweepers, almost filling a quota wasn’t good enough. Each mission had its targets to meet, and with good reason. The wars between the Andelians, the Kreitians, and the Gloabons had left the galaxy littered with autonomous armaments. Some mines had been disarmed remotely, but most were still active, drifting through space, waiting for a target to happen by. Many of the mines had been unpowered to start with while others had been equipped with small engines to keep them in place or steer them toward their targets. But over time, even the powered weapons ran out of fuel or broke down, and then gravity gradually dragged them across the void. The solar system’s asteroid belt was riddled with the things, and the Andel-Kreit Coalition had set out to remove every single one. It’ll take decades, Dex decided. But hopefully, he wouldn’t have to stick it out to the bitter end. This posting was a punishment, but surely the High Command wouldn’t keep him on The Twang indefinitely, would they?

  Dex closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, his talons rasping against his scaly skin. Who am I kidding? I wrecked the high-level talks between the top brass of three races, then I took a ship into an unauthorized battle against an ally, almost starting a war. For an encore, I triggered a biohazard alert that wrecked my own vessel, then I abandoned my ship. He shook his head. He was screwed. He’d be on this rusted tub forever, sweeping trash from the space lanes until he wound up as bitter as that old bastard Drumph.

  “What’s that?” The captain demanded, and for one horrible moment, Dex thought he’d voiced his thoughts.

  “Captain, I, er…”

  “Stop your blithering,” Drumph snapped. “Check the defense status. I’ve got a red light. Prepare to raise shields.”

  Dex sat bolt upright. “Defense warning confirmed. Someone has a lock on us. Raising shields.” Dex ramped the shields up to maximum strength, but his eyes went wide. “Captain, it’s too late. We have an intruder alert. We’ve been boarded.”

  Drumph’s reply was lost as the door flew open with a resounding crash.

  Dex grabbed his bolt gun from its holster, aiming at the empty doorway. But when he saw the figure striding onto the bridge, he lowered his weapon, an amazed smile lighting his expression for the first time in a month. “Captain Stanch! Sir, what are you doing here?”

  Stanch acknowledged him with a nod. “Lieutenant Commander. Good to see you.”

  “What the hell is this?” Drumph staggered to his feet, his hand resting on his sidearm. “How dare you board my ship uninvited? I’ll have you court-martialed for this.”

  “I think not,” Stanch replied smoothly. “Captain Drumph, if you check your comms, you’ll find that I have orders from Lord Pelligrew himself. I intend to carry them out fully, so I suggest that you do not stand in my way.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve seen no orders.” Drumph threw an accusatory glance at his console. “I insist that you leave my bridge until such a time as I can verify your story. Dex, place the intruder under arrest.”

  Dex jutted his chin. “Sir, I cannot do that. I’m sure Captain Stanch–”

  “Silence!” Drumph roared. “Do as you’re told, Dex, or you’ll spend the rest of your days scrubbing space lice off the hull.”

  “Well, this is nice,” someone said, and they all turned as Zeb sauntered onto the bridge. “Greetings, Captain Stanch. I came as soon as I saw the orders.”

  “What orders?” Drumph spluttered. “The only orders on this ship are the ones given by me, do you understand?”

  “Ah.” Zeb crossed to the captain’s console and pressed a key. “I think it’s about time you hit refresh, Captain.”

  Drumph looked ready to explode, but he stared at his display, his eyebrows performing a dance of their own devising. “I don’t believe it. These orders can’t be genuine.” He looked up. “Why, in the name of all the gods, would Pelligrew send for this pair of idiots? They’re a disgrace to the fleet, and I won’t allow them to leave this ship until their tour of duty is done. They must be taught a lesson.”

  Stanch studied the captain for a moment. “Sir, I advised you not to interfere in the carrying out of a legal order, but you give me no choice.” He turned to Zeb. “Lieutenant Commander, kindly discipline Captain Drumph under regulation six seven two nine four, sub-paragraph G.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Zeb stepped closer to Drumph. “Captain, this gives me no pleasure. Well, not much anyway.” He hesitated. “Who am I kidding? I’m going to get a kick out of this.” Grinning, Zeb brought his fist up sharply, catching Drumph’s jaw with a blow that lifted him from his feet and left him sprawled on the deck.

  “Did I say sub-paragraph G?” Stanch asked. “I meant J. But never mind, your way was so much better.” He rubbed his hands together. “Dex, Zeb, I have a job for you, so if you’d like to grab your things, we’ll zing out of here as soon as we can.”

  Dex stood to attention. “Sir, I have everything I need right here. I’m ready when you are.”

  “Same here,” Zeb said. “At your service, Captain.”

  Stanch pulled a handset from his pocket. “Stanch here. Three to zing up.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Dex began, “but where are we going?”

  Stanch winked. “Wait and see, Dex. Wait and see.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kreitian Salvage Vessel The Twang

  En Route - Destination: Not Logged.

  In the ship’s tiny medical bay, Captain Planjer leaned a little closer to the occupant of the only bed. The Gloabon female was unconscious, and she was securely strapped down, but Planjer kept a respectable distance. The med-scanner had certified her free from contagious organisms, but even so, there was something disconcerting about her, something overtly threatening in the taut muscles of her athletic physique. Even asleep, the set of her jaw seemed defiant; her features an unspoken challenge to the galaxy.

  His gaze went to her right arm. With the help of the crew, Hamphrey had managed to reset
the shattered bones. He’d sedated her heavily, then yanked the limb back into position while Wurnzig, Yackal, and Queex had held her down. There’d been a nasty gash on her forearm too. Hamphrey had sewn the torn edges of her skin together quite neatly, and it looked like the stitches would hold, but Planjer was worried about her hand. The flesh from her elbow to the tips of her fingers had lost its sheen of lustrous green, and the skin was pulled into tight creases as though stretched beyond its tolerance. Even so, he could still make out the bold tattoo that ran along her forearm, and his eyes traced the bright red letters. Surrana, he read, the word ending where the ragged line of stitches began. The name of a loved one, perhaps?

  He tutted under his breath, leaning closer, and the Gloabon opened her eyes.

  Planjer gasped, but not for long. Somehow, the female’s left hand was clamped around his throat, her fingers sinking into his wrinkled flesh.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? What the hell have you done to my arm?”

  Planjer’s eyes bulged, but he could only utter a strangled cry, pointing at his throat. Scowling, she relaxed her grip enough for him to breathe, and he sucked in a grateful breath. “My name is Planjer. Captain of The Twang. We found you drifting in space. Please, we mean you no harm. We could’ve left you to die, but we brought you aboard. Rescued you.”

  The Gloabon sat up, pushing him back and letting him go, then she winced, cradling her right arm. “I need some painkillers. Show me what you have.”

  “In a second,” Planjer said, massaging his throat. “First, tell me who you are. I took a risk when I brought you onto my ship. I haven’t reported you to the authorities, but I deserve an explanation.”

  She narrowed her eyes, studying his expression. “You wanted to avoid official scrutiny. Why?”

  “We’re a salvage vessel. We have to keep working or we don’t make enough to get by. We can’t afford to sit idle while forms are filled in and reports are compiled.”

  “And if I looked in your hold, would I find items that were salvaged before their time? Items with government markings?”

  Planjer shook his head firmly, but beneath the female’s gaze, he was sure that the look in his eyes had given him away. “We’re fully licensed. We abide by a code.”

  “A code,” the female murmured. “That…sounds familiar.”

  “How do you mean? Are you military or something?”

  Her gaze grew distant. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but everything’s kind of hazy.” She sniffed, looking up at him. “Please, Captain, my arm hurts. You said you’d fetch me some painkillers, and I’d certainly appreciate it.”

  “Sure. I’ll see what I can find.” Planjer hesitated. What’s with the little girl lost routine? he asked himself. She’s tougher than any five Kreitians put together or I’m much mistaken. He cleared his throat. “Just one thing. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  Her eyes darted left and right, widening in alarm. “I can’t remember. I really can’t. Perhaps it’ll come back to me in a minute when I’m feeling better.”

  “Okay, but what about that name on your arm? Surrana. What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. No more questions. I’m tired.” She lay back, closing her eyes. “Just leave the painkillers by the bed. I’ll take them in a minute.”

  She exhaled loudly, and Planjer stepped back, keeping quiet. She looked as though she was sound asleep already, her eyelids motionless and her features relaxed, but he couldn’t get away from the sensation that she was still monitoring him, tracking his every move. She was a strange one, all right. Had she really lost her memory, or was she putting on an act for reasons of her own? Just what had he got himself involved in?

  He crossed to the wall cabinets and began rummaging through their contents, picking out a selection of analgesics and occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure which meds would work best for a Gloabon, so he kept looking until he figured he’d covered all the bases. But as he went to shut the last cabinet, a plastic bottle caught his eye. Stimulinax. He licked his lips. He’d been known to pop a couple of the small blue pills to keep himself sharp toward the end of a long night shift, and as a mild stimulant, it was harmless enough. Unless you were a Gloabon. Everyone knew that Stimulinax gave Gloabons a severe case of the runs. If he left some by her bedside, she’d know not to take them. But if she’d really lost her memory, she’d swallow them without a second thought.

  Don’t be an asshole, he told himself, closing the cabinet on the stimulant and placing only the painkillers on the nightstand. He took a last look at her before letting himself out, and as he headed back to the bridge, one thought occupied his mind. She’d been strapped down, every fastening secured. So how in hell had she managed to grab him by the throat?

  CHAPTER 5

  Earth

  Brent led the way through the main entrance of the executive hub at The Gloabon Institute of Technology, a swagger in his step. He held the door open for Vince and Rawlgeeb, then he took a deep breath. “Smell that, boys. Ain’t it grand?”

  Rawlgeeb sniffed experimentally. “Industrial cleaning products, mainly common organic solvents. Ah, sorry, Brent–that’s just your cologne.”

  “No, Rawlgeeb,” Brent went on, his mood undaunted, “you’ve missed the point. Take in the delicate scent floating on the air. That, my green and misguided little friend, is the smell of money. Cold, hard cash. Lots and lots of it.”

  He strode across the lobby confidently, but when a young man appeared behind the reception desk, Brent stopped in his tracks. “Hey, pal, we’re here to see Mr. Halbrook. Tell him Bolster and associates have arrived.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Bolster,” the young man replied. “My name is Bobby. Please take a seat, and if there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

  “Thanks,” Brent said, but he didn’t move away. “Tell me, Bobby, what happened to Rachel? Does she still work here?”

  Bobby smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rachel was retired.”

  Suddenly, Vince was at Brent’s side. “I must’ve heard you wrong. Rachel can’t have retired. She looked younger than me.”

  “That’s not quite what he said.” Brent laid his hand on Vince’s arm. “I guess Maisie was right. She had Rachel pegged as an android from the start.”

  “But, she liked me,” Vince insisted. “There was chemistry there, I’m sure of it.”

  Brent heaved a sigh. “They’re programmed to be very convincing, Vince, but it’s all fake. They give them personalities and complex backstories to keep them from going insane. There was a documentary on channel ninety-seven, and I was awake for most of it. Admittedly, I had the sound switched off, but the whole thing was very clear.”

  “Brent, channel ninety-seven is all retro drama. You must’ve been watching some old sci-fi flick.” Vince ran his hands through his hair. “I’m telling you, Rachel was not an android.”

  “Pardon me,” Bobby said urgently, his fingers fluttering in the air. “Apologies if I’ve given the wrong impression, gentlemen. I sometimes have a little difficulty with my conversational English. Rachel is most certainly not an android. She was able to retire thanks to the very generous benefits package that is awarded to GIT employees.” He paused for breath. “Rachel left about two weeks ago. We had a party. There was cake.”

  “Thank you, Bobby,” Vince said pointedly. “As if I wouldn’t know a real human being when I saw one! I wish you’d give me a little credit from time to time, Brent.”

  “I couldn’t eat the cake,” Bobby went on, “on account of the dried fruit.”

  “Sulfite allergy?” Vince asked. “My Grandma was just the same. Couldn’t look at a sultana without coming out in hives. I expect that’s where I got my sensitive immune system from.”

  “I have no allergies, sir,” Bobby replied, “but dried fruit tends to lodge in my nutrient synthesis module. You see, I am an android.”

  Vince’s expression froze. “I knew that. I was jus
t…trying to make you feel more comfortable.”

  “Unnecessary, sir,” Bobby said. His head twitched to one side. “The elevator tells me that Mr. Halbrook is on his way down.”

  “Thank you, Bobby,” Rawlgeeb said, casting a pitying look at Brent and Vince. “Prepare yourselves. Professionalism at all times.”

  Vince nodded, squaring his shoulders, but Brent chortled to himself, muttering, “Sulfite allergies. Oh man.”

  “Quiet,” Rawlgeeb snapped, and as the group fell silent, the elevator doors slid open.

  Mark Halbrook stepped out into the lobby, but he headed straight across the room, making for a glass door on the opposite side. “Follow me,” he called out as the door whirred open, then he disappeared inside.

  “You heard the man,” Brent said, setting off to catch up. The others fell in behind him, and beyond the glass door, they found themselves in the plush executive lounge they’d visited before, although the room was almost unrecognizable. “You had the place redecorated,” Brent said, admiring the sturdy oak furniture.

  “Constantly,” Halbrook replied, taking a seat at a long table. “It encourages productivity apparently, though I can’t remember how. But we don’t have time to chit-chat. Sit down, and we’ll get right to it.”

  Brent took a seat at the table, and the others followed suit. “So,” Brent began, leaning forward, “the question is, Mr. Halbrook, how can you help us?”

  “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?” Halbrook asked.

  “I don’t know, should it?” Brent shot back. “Seems like you’re getting hedged in by institutionalized thinking when what we need here is creativity and vision. Thinking outside the envelope. Pushing the box to the next level.”

  Halbrook blinked. “Have you been jacking into one of those VR marketing webinars, Brent? Because you must know that those guys are scammers, right? It’s all just buzzwords and pseudo-psychology. Meaningless drivel dressed up as solid fact and served out in motivational sound bites.”