Second Chance Angel

by Griffin Barber

  Finally, the cab pulled up to the entrance to the flop. I exited with a sigh.

  “Angel, how much credit is in my account?”

  “Before or after we buy a ticket to Sagran VI?”

  “Figured it out, did you?”

  “It’s about all we have to work with, isn’t it? Unless you’re keeping secrets from me.”

  “If I am,” I said as the doors of the building slid open, “they’re secrets I’ve kept from myself as well.” I shook my head. “So little to go on. Too little, really. Something is missing.”

  “You don’t have enough credit for a berth, anyway.”

  I considered that cheerful thought a moment.

  “Of course, you could talk to Ncaco if you think we have to go to Sagran VI. He did say he’d pay expenses.”

  “Do you want to go back to talk to that psychotic murdering little bastard again?” I entered the dirty lift to our floor and let the doors slide closed.

  “Not particularly. But then, maybe we don’t have to.”

  I felt interest rising past anger.

  “Touch the wall with bare skin,” she said.

  I did as she asked.

  “There you go,” she said, bringing up the image of the numbers in the account in my vision.

  My heart skipped a beat as I read the rapidly growing balance.

  “Wow.”

  “Yep. I put in a request. No objections to it being ‘dirty money,’ I hope?”

  “Not if it helps us find Siren. I’ve been taking his money all along by working at the club, even though I had no idea.”

  “I’ve found us a ship.”

  “So quick?”

  “There is only one that meets our needs.”

  “I don’t know that we decided it was the only path forward. Besides, it’s not without risks of its own.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, I need to arrange for Bella’s gifts to bypass security without Ncaco knowing about them. Never known a transport to fail to hand-check a low-tech bag for weapons.”

  “Think you can do that?”

  “I can’t, but Fulu can. I need to talk to her anyway. Should have as soon as I left Ncaco’s place.” I reached up into the compartment where I kept my stash. Felt good to be pulling weapons instead of pharma out of the hide. To have something to plan. To do. To be operational again. And to have an angel.

  Damn it.

  “I can connect you if you like?”

  “No. This is the kind of thing that’s better done in person . . . Then again: ping her to let her know I am heading over.”

  “I don’t think Fulu needs your apologies, but I will make the call.”

  “I’m not sure she’ll accept my business after I tell her about our little chat with Ncaco, but if I don’t do it in person, I figure there’s no way she’ll even talk to me. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “To be honest,” Angel said, “I’m more worried about whether she’ll have time to get the guns on before we depart than whether she’ll do it. She does like to get paid, but the ship is leaving really soon.”

  “I still owe her an explanation.”

  “Pinging,” she said, making no further arguments.

  I didn’t have much in the way of baggage. I threw a change of clothes into the low-tech duffel with the weapons and called it good.

  Angel spoke as I slung the bag over my shoulder and put my hand to the exit button: “Muck? Something weird here . . .”

  As weird meant threat in my usual world, I froze. “What?”

  “Activate your monitor.”

  I didn’t ask why she couldn’t just do it for me; I extricated my arm from the bag and activated the display.

  The grainy images took a moment to decipher. A low-res camera focused on a ship as it mated with the station, white interior lights lighting up the many translucent docking tubes of Last Stop’s docks like bones jutting from metal. The timestamp was . . . the evening of the same day Siren disappeared. Stepping on a surge of excitement, I watched as carefully as I could. The recording played through in a minute, leaving me disappointed.

  “Play it again.”

  I didn’t see anything the second time through either. Just a ship slowly closing to connect to the station.

  “What ship is that?”

  “Not part of the data. But that’s not the important thing here, I think.” Angel’s excitement was palpable.

  “Show me again.”

  I watched the background this time and picked up on why Angel thought the docking ship wasn’t important. She zoomed in on the silhouettes of two humans walking with an oblong, coffin-like shape between them, visible through the milk-white material of the next tube over from the ship that was in the process of docking.

  “That look like a stasis pod to you?”

  Angel dialed the image in closer.

  “Not quite,” she said. “More like a medical pod. Strange that they’re loading it onto a ship, though. If someone’s really injured, it’s safer to transport them in stasis. You’d only ship a medical pod if you needed access to the patient while in transit . . . like if someone had had their angel removed and had to rely on pharma. I think . . . I think we found her, Muck!”

  “Might be,” I said, trying to control the heady mix of fear and hope the thought caused. “First, though: Who sent this to you?”

  “I don’t know. Got it in a one-shot vine coded to your ID only. Those programs are designed to be difficult to track, and even when you can source them, it’s usually some public terminal or other easily denied location. So someone tech savvy, or with power and money to hire help.”

  “And has access to docking-area security cams.”

  “Dengler?”

  I shook my head. “I think he would have told us he had the data and then refused to turn it over, if for no other reason than to gloat about how much he knew that we didn’t. And, if it was him, or anyone with legit access to the system, why not just give us the direct feed from that camera? Why this odd angle and background?”

  “Who, then?” Her frustration mirrored my own.

  “I don’t know. Look, I know it’s frustrating, but most actual stone whodunit investigations are, until they aren’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means lots of the information we get won’t make sense until some critical fact comes to light.”

  “Like where that pod is headed?”

  “You know?”

  “I do. Only one ship docked at that terminal at that time. Guess where it was headed?”

  “Sagran VI?” I asked, incredulous.

  “The very same.”

  “Too pat. Too easy by far. Makes me feel like someone is trying to get us out of the way.”

  “I’m with you on that, so I’m going to run some checks. Try and figure out who our hidden benefactor is.”

  “Need me to sit tight or can you do it with me on the move?”

  “With your PID, I should be able to handle it on the move, thanks.”

  I left the coffin, low-tech bag a reassuring weight across my shoulder.

  * * *

  I had a lot to think about on the way over to Fulu’s. I felt like shit having revealed our business. Bad enough I had to break the local laws to get my supplies, but to betray the one running the greater part of the risks to get me those supplies seemed to me the height of ingratitude. The fact Ncaco seemed to already be aware of it didn’t absolve me of responsibility.

  I didn’t know how to make it right and hadn’t figured it out by the time I arrived out front of Fulu’s place.

  For the moment, at least, Angel remained silent on it. Of course, she might simply have been too busy to talk. I hesitated, unsure if I should go in and commit to asking Fulu to smuggle the weapons without fi
rst getting some kind of authentication on the video but unwilling to ask Angel for an update so soon.

  Hungry, I grabbed some noodles from a passing vendor and tucked in. I was just getting rid of the container when Angel returned her full attention to me.

  “Well, I haven’t been able to track the source, but I did verify the video we received with another set of cams. It was what it looked like, two humans transporting a medical transport pod. Odd thing: None of the cams that should have directly observed them along the route show a damn thing.”

  “Deleted?”

  “I think so. Or shut off on the fly as the pair came into view.”

  “Ever hear tell of any tech that can do that?” I asked, expecting another “I cannot answer that, civilian,” from her.

  “No.”

  “And you’re sure about the ship’s destination?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you get the passenger manifest? Some kind of medical transfer record?”

  “Looking at the ship, she wasn’t rated to carry passengers, medical or otherwise. The owning company’s infonet presence claims they ‘specialize in the safe transport of both delicate and general lab and medical supplies for those colonies that don’t have the resources to supply their own.’ A front, obviously.”

  “Where are their offices?” I asked.

  “Nothing local. Holnit Sector, where they have no operational ships nor partners to carry their water.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So Sagran VI is looking better and better, no?”

  “I think we have to go,” I said slowly, still mulling it over. “Regardless of who gave us the intel, we’d be stupid not to act on it.”

  “I’ll keep trying to run down the source and poke holes in the video while you talk to Fulu. Oh, and I’ll put in a call to the club and leave a message for Tongi.”

  “Shit, I don’t know if you should,” I said.

  “I thought you’d want your job back, eventually.”

  “Well, yeah . . . but then I don’t know that I want it, now I know it means working for Ncaco.”

  “Does it matter that much? You were doing honest work and getting honest pay for it. Why care where the credits originate?”

  “It’s just . . . hell, he probably owns a piece of every business on the station. Maybe you’re right.” It was a depressing thought I preferred not to linger on.

  “Let’s just focus on getting Siren back. I’m hoping that even if we’ve been misled, we’ll find another thread to pull.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I entered the shop, walking past the usual bots and up to the counter. Cloves and ozone, a scent I remembered from my first visit to the alien’s shop, hung in the air. I wasn’t sure what it might signify, but my mood made it a bad omen.

  I spent a moment peering into the darkness before Angel corrected for the odd spectrum conditions. Fulu was in her usual spot, but with Angel’s assistance, I was able to see more of her than before. She was larger than I’d imagined, root-like extremities filling the back of the building.

  “Fulu?” I asked, sending silent gratitude to Angel for the help.

  I put my hands on the counter and felt Angel moving things around in my head again. Hopefully she was searching for the data we needed, not looking too closely into the darker corners of my mind.

  “Customer Muck. Your visit is unexpected.”

  “Sorry for the interruption, Fulu, but I have something I needed to tell you.”

  “Say on, Customer Muck.”

  “Fulu, I revealed our business affairs to Ncaco.”

  A long pause, without a change in the scents hanging in the air or any movement from Fulu, then: “I am not sure what you mean, Customer Muck.”

  “Ncaco asked me about our dealings, and I revealed more than I should have. I want to apologize for that.”

  “Competitor Ncaco is already well aware of the nature of my business and has been for some time. I fail to see that you have anything to apologize for, Customer Muck.”

  Angel appeared to me, face contorted as if trying not to laugh aloud.

  I shook my head, irritated. I’d forgotten the simplest truth: aliens are alien. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. We humans project our own needs and wants on them, especially when we’re not being constantly reminded of their alien nature, like when we’re not face-to—Well, whatever passes for a face, with any particular alien.

  “Is there something else, Customer Muck?”

  “Actually, there is,” I said, shaking off my chagrin.

  “What can I provide you with, Customer Muck?”

  “I need something—some weapons—moved across the docks and aboard a ship.” I pulled the strap of my bag away from my chest. “I’ve been using this to keep them concealed so far.”

  “Good. Can you bring the weapons to a place I designate?”

  “I can.”

  “Will the destination ship’s crew know what it is we will be delivering to them?”

  “I’d like them kept unaware, if that doesn’t present too great a difficulty for you.”

  “It does not; such challenges merely increase the total price for my services.” A vine snapped out, tapped the countertop between us. “Can you afford my fee?” A sum appeared in the depths of the counter.

  I started to shake my head, but Angel said, “Actually quite cheap. Won’t even make a dent in the money Ncaco gave us, and if she were human, I would say Fulu would be tickled to take Ncaco’s money—”

  “I can meet your price, Fulu.”

  “—but she’s not. Human, that is,” Angel continued, poking at me.

  “Excellent, Customer Muck. When can I take receipt of your cargo?”

  “Right now.”

  “As you like. Place them on the counter.”

  “Will do—I just need a bag for the stuff you won’t be taking.”

  “That will cost.” A few more credits were added to the sum in the display.

  Ignoring her I-told-you-so’s, I had Angel transfer the funds and left the store.

  * * *

  A little later, we arrived at the docks. Instead of turning down the corridor toward the access point for the private luxury yachts, we went the other direction, emerging into the low-ceilinged rotunda that connected the many spokes serving the freighters and infrequent cruise ships that called at Last Stop before crossing the Abyssal Gap.

  While there weren’t a lot of passenger ships, even the best of independent freighters required sophont, if not sentient, labor. The docks were crowded with people supervising cargo-handler bots, negotiating prices for shipments, and generally standing around. Between the number of bodies in the confined space, several improperly sealed exotic cargoes, various decrepit air filters, and some engineer’s improper venting of his plasma-welding job, the odor was both distinct and unpleasant.

  I slowed down while the foot traffic sorted itself out. I felt Angel grumbling about the statistical improbability of the fact that our gate was LS99X, the very last transfer tube in the farthest docking spar of the station.

  After the fifth such delay, she’d had enough.

  “I’m calling ahead to Le Bonne Nuit’s AI to let the captain know we’ll be late.”

  “Won’t do any good,” I said. Delays like this were annoying, sure, but I was used to waiting. Angel, apparently, wasn’t. “These transports don’t hold their departures for nothing . . .” I trailed off as I caught sight of a familiar pugnacious scowl moving upstream through the crowd. What was Dengler doing down here? Was he looking for us?

  “Ha! Shows what you know,” Angel said with savage triumph. “Le Bonne Nuit says that they are not yet ready to depart. Last-minute shipment loading now. That’s gotta be our bag. They should be ready soon after we board.”

  “How soon?” I asked, half turning
in the crowd. If Ncaco had an update or something, it made sense that he might have sent Dengler with a message. I was pretty sure the security supervisor had seen me, but he was angling away from us toward the exit to the rest of the station.

  “Soon enough that you don’t have time to track down Dengler. The man does have a job, Muck. He’s probably here on Station Sec business.”

  “Ask, will ya?” I said, “Please? This feels weird.”

  “Approximately fifteen minutes,” she came back a moment later. She was right. It was barely enough time. I let out a heavy sigh and began navigating yet another snarl of irritated pedestrians.

  “You’re jumping at shadows, Muck.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re probably right. Working with Ncaco makes me nervous.”

  We made the gate in the projected time frame. A holo of the ship’s AI served as gate agent. It quickly provided us with the passcode for our cabin and the unrestricted areas of the ship, a safety briefing, and an earnest if not particularly warm welcome.

  Eventually we settled into our private cabin, a nice perk courtesy of Ncaco’s credit. It wasn’t a large space, but it was bigger than my old coffin, so that was something. I stretched in the reclining couch that took up the majority of the cabin and let out a low whistle.

  “Nice digs,” I said, flipping through the holographic display of available entertainment. I felt the need to let go of the paranoia that had taken hold of me outside.

  Angel busied herself reaching out through our skin to find the ship’s infonet. Like Last Stop Station, the ship was constructed almost entirely of nanoprocessor-seeded materials, so it had a robust organic network.

  Nice digs indeed.

  “How long is the transit supposed to take?” I asked.

  “About ten standard days,” she said, pulling the data through the place where our hand rested on the couch’s armrest. “Looks like our route puts us in orbit on the ninth day, and then it’s a day’s retro-burn to get into geosynchronous orbit above the lone city with a spaceport. Desolate place.”