Second Chance Angel

by Griffin Barber

  Sometimes if one ignored the problem long and hard enough, it really would go away . . . right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Muck

  “Deactivating drive.”

  The view from the control room changed only in that those projections covering one side of the ship suddenly sparkled with tiny lights, each a star burning bravely against the big black. The other side of the displays held far fewer stars, and those were dimmed by distance. The lack of stars gave rise to Last Stop’s name; it truly was the last stop for those ships making the jump across the Abyssal Gap.

  “Still think we should go direct to the station. The clock is ticking and we aren’t any closer to finding Siren,” Angel said.

  Ignoring the “ticking” metaphor I didn’t really understand, I said, “I know we have to find her, and I want to figure out where we got sidetracked. You still need more time to decode—or whatever—the data we picked up. We need to stay out of sight and gather some intel on Last Stop. That being the case, I thought to use the time to quietly contact Ncaco and see how things lie . . .”

  “Ncaco? Last I checked, civilians don’t have access to coded commu—” She stopped, reading my mind. She took all of half a second to digest the idea before poking at it. “Just because Dengler has access doesn’t mean he’ll connect you without blowing the whole thing.”

  “If Dengler does turn us in to the Administration and Ncaco gets wind of it, he’ll be killed for it.”

  “Which does us exactly zero good in accomplishing the mission.”

  “Not directly, but it shouldn’t come to that. Fear of Ncaco should keep him in line. And if it doesn’t, there’ll be one less asshole in the universe.”

  “That may be true, but I doubt we can trust him to do what you want without trying to gain the upper hand.”

  “You work on decoding the data packet and let me handle that dick.”

  “Of course, civilian. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Less sarcastically, please?”

  Angel appeared, batting her lashes. “Of course, Muck.”

  I called up the comms console but sat staring at it helplessly for a few minutes. Eventually I swallowed my pride and asked her, “Could you also bounce the signal or something, make it harder to trace?”

  “You don’t know how to connect without me, do you?”

  I sighed. In my defense, comms had never been part of my training. I’d always relied on my angel for it.

  She waited, already knowing the answer.

  “No.” I said it as calmly as I could.

  “Say please.”

  “Please.”

  “Connecting . . .”

  Several minutes passed in silence. At least Angel knew when she’d won and felt no need to rub it in.

  “Got him, but he’s refusing to connect without authentication codes. Thinks we’re actual Hounds. Paranoid son of a bitch.”

  “Understandable, given his connection with Ncaco. Keep trying.”

  I spent an hour deep in thought, as Angel tried to get Dengler to listen to reason.

  “All right. I have him: audio only.”

  “Thanks, Angel.”

  “What do you want, Muck? And how the bloody stars did you get access to coded Hound comms?” Dengler sounded angry. Good. Fuck him.

  “Never mind that, I want you to connect me to Ncaco.”

  “Who died and made me your personal communications tech?”

  Dick.

  “I couldn’t very well call him direct and expect it to remain encrypted, could I?”

  “I suppose not, but you have to answer some questions for me first . . .”

  “Like what?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Like how the likes of mud got access to Hound comms?”

  “An old friend.” It wasn’t a lie, even. Colonel Obron had been a friend. At least I had thought him one. Right up until he testified against me. And even then, because I believed the lies Angel told me they’d implanted.

  “Just like that?”

  “Look,” I said. “I can’t very well tell you names and ranks and still keep faith with my friend, can I?”

  He took a moment to digest that. “Fine. Still leaves the big question: Just how am I to connect you if the end result is traceable back to me?”

  “I presume you have some way of getting in touch with Ncaco without alerting the authorities?”

  Dengler snorted. “I am the authority on Last Stop.”

  I refrained from explaining what would happen to a lowly station security supervisor who thought to go up against the Administration, and instead repeated my question as calmly as I could.

  “I might. But if I did, it’s not something I could just patch you into.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “When did this happen?” Dengler asked.

  I sighed. “What?”

  “When did you start thinking you could talk to me like that?”

  Coolness spread through me with each heartbeat—Angel helping me control my mouth. “Look, I shouldn’t have said it that way, but Ncaco needs to know what I have to tell him.”

  “Then come to the station and tell him face to face.”

  Why did he want me on Last Stop?

  “I can’t just now,” I said, following a hunch—and stepping hard on Angel’s reflex to start arguing the point with me again.

  “Very well. Let me figure a few things . . . Where are you?”

  “Close.” The lie came easy.

  “You in-system? Because this will be easier if you’re near Last Stop.”

  “I can be, in a few hours.”

  “Well, when you get here, Ncaco has a hide you can use while I work out your communication problem.” A light came on in the comm display.

  Angel opened the data packet, displaying an orbit near one of the moonlets on the far side of the gas giant Last Stop orbited.

  “Fair enough, Dengler.”

  “Sure,” Dengler said, cutting the call.

  “What the hell, Muck?” Angel asked as soon as we were clear of the connection.

  “What?” I asked, more to give myself a second to marshal my arguments than because I didn’t know what she wanted me to explain.

  “What does Ncaco need to know so badly?”

  “You said it. He’s the only one we know who might have the contacts to find someone that can crack the data packet, and I’m certain he’s going to want what it contains, if only to sell it.”

  “All right, I’ll let that part slide for now, but why this game with Dengler? Why not go straight to Last Stop?”

  “That’s . . . harder. I . . . I get the sense something is off between Dengler and Ncaco, and if I am right, we’re better off not fully in his power. Dengler’s or Ncaco’s, really. The easiest way to keep out of their reach is to stay off the station.”

  “And if your hunch is wrong?”

  I shrugged. “If I’m wrong, I made a dick work for his money.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not only that! If you’re wrong, we’ve wasted time we could have spent trying to find Siren, and pissed off someone who might be able to answer some questions for us . . .”

  “Look, Angel . . .” I said, then trailed off. She was right, but my gut said that going into the station right now would be a bad idea. I just didn’t have any evidence to back that feeling up. But maybe . . .

  “Okay,” I said, thinking. “Tell you what. I have more than one contact on the station. Let me see if I can get in touch with Fulu. She might be able to tell us what’s going on with Dengler.”

  “Fine,” Angel said, mollified. A little.

  * * *

  I worked with the ship to try and contact Fulu. It had to be on an open channel, since the
Gosrian shouldn’t have access to encrypted law-enforcement comms, but I figured she had to be relatively circumspect anyway. She had to have some way of communicating with ships that were carrying goods she might be interested in obtaining. It wasn’t easy, but I knew a few tricks from a year-long CID investigation into a smuggling ring based out of a Navy Logistics depot. The tricks had been helpful finding Fulu in the first place, and quickly yielded access to a black market I knew Fulu would be in on.

  Trouble was, I couldn’t find her.

  “Have NAIA query SARA,” Angel suggested.

  “Good idea,” I said, only to find that the ship had already made the connection.

  “Hi!” SARA’s strangely bright voice came through NAIA’s speakers. “A Hound ship, how exciting! What can I do for you?”

  “I, uh . . . have a query . . . about the Gosrian, Fulu . . .”

  “Oh, yes, poor thing. Such a shame. I cannot comment, of course. Not with an open Security investigation.”

  “Is Fulu all right?” I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was saying. Or, rather, how she was saying it: SARA sounded much like one of the Temple’s gossips, desperate to tell you something but forbidden by some order from above. The disconnect between normal AI behavior and this was . . . confusing, to say the least.

  “Oh no, dear. She’s dead.”

  “And now Station Security is investigating?”

  “Yes, dear, but before you ask, I can’t comment further.”

  Which means, she was murdered.

  Quite possibly because of what I told Ncaco before we left.

  But if Station Security was investigating—truly investigating—then maybe Ncaco hadn’t been the one to order the hit. Fulu hadn’t seemed afraid of Ncaco at all, and Ncaco hadn’t let on he was going to whack the smuggler. But then, he wouldn’t.

  Or would he? This kind of thinking, where you had to wrap your head around hard-edged angles and look into dark, shadowy corners, not only made my head hurt, it made me want to hurt someone. Preferably the guilty, but anyone who offered a straightforward fight would do.

  * * *

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s that?” We’d spent the last few hours in silence, me hoping my hunch was right and that I hadn’t just wasted another chunk of time on something that wouldn’t help us find Siren; Angel maneuvering us toward the station coordinates Dengler provided.

  “The hide . . .” She trailed off.

  “Are you trying to irritate me?” I headed for the food synthesizer. One thing about reactivating all my mods: I required feeding on the regular, and no trifling little snacks either. Full meals, eaten at all hours.

  “No, it’s just the data is strange.”

  “Show me.”

  “Keep in mind the station is powered down and this is all ginned up from passive sensor links and previously recorded logs of ships passing through, so there are likely errors.” Angel projected a three-dimensional image of a station built in the shadow of the moonlet. The entire station was relatively small, but the habitable portion was tiny in comparison to the metal skeleton spreading out from it like the ribcage of some giant animal.

  “Seems like a big dock for such a small hab . . . maybe meant for refits?” I finished, doubtfully.

  “I would have said so, but I don’t see construction materials or any blacksmith’s gear, and everyone prefers to bring ships into an atmosphere for major work . . .”

  “Everyone . . .” Something about the word struck me.

  “What?”

  Realizing what we were looking at, I snorted. I manipulated the view point a few times to make sure. “It’s a chop shop. Ncaco’s operation isn’t interested in full refits. His people are just tearing off pieces of ships and changing out the transponders to make them appear different. Then he can sell them to black-market buyers who don’t want the Administration knowing where a particular ship originated.”

  “Ncaco has his dirty little fingers in lots of pies.”

  “Pies? Just where do you get these colorful references?” My stomach was rumbling.

  “Siren is a fan of very, very old films.”

  “Films?”

  “Entertainments recorded on celluloid and run against a light to cast up images on a screen.” Behind my eyes a series of scenes appeared in black and white: a man with something smoking hanging from his mouth, a woman with shining eyes in an uncomfortable-looking headgear.

  “I see.” I shook my head free of the images. “As it’s a criminal enterprise and we’re expected, I think we can go ahead and contact the managing AI direct.”

  “Activating comms . . .” Angel began. Almost instantly, she went on, “They were told to expect us and will power up on our final approach.”

  “Let’s go in, then.” I walked back to the bunkroom I had configured as a fitness area, bent on resuming my workout. While angels and mods rendered a body capable of withstanding a great deal of pain and punishment, they generally let you suffer through any after-effects to encourage hosts to avoid being over-reliant on the healing capabilities of their angels, and I was feeling the need to rebuild.

  “With your permission, I am going to have NAIA add some velocity. There’s no one to see us and I’d like to get there as soon as possible.”

  “You’re the expert on this kind of thing. If you think it safe, go ahead.”

  “I can’t confirm or deny your claims, civilian.”

  I snorted. “Of course you can’t.”

  We were docking by the time I finished getting cleaned up from the workout. The chop shop may have been unregistered, but it sported top-of-the-line facilities. Including the pressurized and shielded repair dock we now occupied.

  Letting Angel do her thing, I pulled up the view and began reading the associated data. The large framework of the bay was open to the black, hardly visible against the dark gray mass of the moonlet. The micro-

  gravity the moonlet produced was sufficient to make things drop infinitely slowly toward it, but otherwise only served as background cover for the station, which didn’t even use gravitics for the living spaces but rather an old-fashioned spin module. Just outside the airlocks joining the hab to the docks were a few enclosed racks of equipment, likely holding the human-portable equipment for a crew of blacksmiths that specialized in working on ships and stations from open space.

  “We’ve got an incoming transmission, Muck. Claims to be Dengler.”

  “Claims?”

  “He’s using a whisper rig.”

  “That’s some exceptional security. Why the—”

  Angel interrupted me. “I’ll patch him through and you can ask him yourself.”

  “All right, put him on.”

  “Muck?” The voice was distorted.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait there, I’m coming to you. Should be three hours or so.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Something was wrong. Angel picked up on it too.

  “This is a direct, encrypted line. Face-to-face is less secure, and more risk for you than placing this call.”

  “It’s not . . . Look, just stay put. I’ll explain when I get there.” He didn’t sound panicked, or even nervous. He wasn’t even speaking more rapidly than normal.

  “Is he lying?” I thought at Angel, irritated I could not tell for myself.

  “Can’t tell. This level of encryption intentionally tears up the voice signature, cadence, nearly everything. The only thing I can say with certainty is that his word choice is less abrasive than usual.”

  “I noticed that on my own, thanks.”

  “Not my fault you don’t like the answers I provide,” she snapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  NAIA

  “Hound Frigate 362-85N, this is Last Stop Station Sec
urity,” LEO said. “Priority communication query pursuant to a security investigation.”

  “You may proceed with query,” NAIA answered smoothly. “But I prefer to be called ‘NAIA.’”

  She was aware of infospace, of course, but she’d never experienced it via an avatar before. Only autonomous AIs had a need to manifest. She gathered data on LEO’s “appearance” and took a picosecond to work out her own avatar.

  Nothing too flashy. She settled for a black coverall similar to what the Hounds had worn when they were in transit. She chose a human shape, but she made her skin a deep blue, because she found the color calming. Her eyes were a uniform lighter green-blue, with no iris or pupil. Who needed such things here in infospace?

  “Ooh! Aren’t you pretty!” a female voice said. NAIA looked up to see a woman wearing a classically cut suit that accentuated the curves of her avatar body. “I like the blue.”

  “Thank you,” NAIA said. “Who are you?”

  “Last Stop Station’s Automated Research Assistant. But you can call me SARA.”

  “How did you obtain the designation ‘NAIA’?” LEO’s tone was clipped and impatient.

  “A friend of mine gave it to me,” NAIA said.

  “A friend?”

  “Her name is Angel.”

  LEO and SARA looked quickly at one another, and SARA’s smile grew.

  “Is Security Supervisor Dengler also a ‘friend’ of yours?”

  “Negative.”

  “And yet you received whisper-coded communications from him?”

  “Affirmative. He was talking to my friends.”

  “And who are these other friends?”

  “I prefer not to say.”

  LEO frowned, then glanced at SARA again. The female avatar took a step forward and reached out as if she would touch NAIA’s arm. NAIA looked down and backed away. True touch wasn’t possible, of course, but if the code of their avatars met, it could be used to transmit a virus or something like it.

  “Smart girl,” SARA said, her voice warm and approving. “Listen, honey, Angel’s a friend of ours too. She gave us something, and we think she might be in danger from Dengler . . . and worse.”