Kal moved through an inner hatchway and into a wider central corridor. Her eyes skipped around, looking for surveillance devices. She found one recessed into the ceiling several meters ahead of her.
Kal froze—watching the camera and its bug-like eyes. It appeared to be ignoring her. She chewed on her bottom lip, then stepped forward once, and then back again.
The camera remained still.
Deactivated? On standby? Or just plain broken?
The hair stood up on the back of Kal’s neck, but she moved onward. Most aerospace freighters didn’t need a big crew, but there should have been someone aboard—people she’d have seen, or at least heard already. Kal drew in a long breath, blew it out with puffed cheeks, and shook her head. This was no time to spook herself into doing something dumb. Perhaps the explosion in orbit had taken a lot of the enemy, as well as the Broadbill and its crew? How many people had crossed over the Broadbill’s ship-to-ship gangway before the double-cross had gone down?
Kal didn’t know.
Moving in her best impression of a cat, Kal crept down another passage: past some uniformly cabin-sized hatches—and then froze as another surveillance monitor suddenly loomed above her. Kal stood on her toes to peer up at the device: the cables were corroded and the gears on the device’s directional motor seemed non-functional.
What the hell?
It was then that Kal really began to take a good look around her. In addition to the exposed ductwork and wiring, the deck plates were soiled and corroded, and many of the cabin doors behind her appeared to be rusted shut. Just how long had this ship been gathering dust somewhere on-planet, its hatches and vents open to the air? A lot of moisture had come in, and been allowed to sit. No doubt the Ambit League was hurting, but it was still surprising to discover that they were willing to operate any scow, however scrapworthy. No wonder they were stealing armament—the League’s home-grown industrial base must have collapsed. Another byproduct of the blockade. Cut the various manufacturing centers off from each other, and it would be enormously difficult to replicate spaceworthy equipment. At least on a large commercial scale.
Somewhat heartened by these assumptions, Kal crept on until she found a doorway that looked like it had been repaired to operational condition. She stepped close to it and peered in through the small pane of transparent fiberflex that gave her a view of the next compartment. She saw four people unpacking an unmarked interstellar shipping crate—the same kind Tremonton said they used to discretely transport sensitive equipment.
Watching intently, Kal saw the people remove gauntlets and boots and other pieces of armor, all broken down for shipping. The people—Ambit League for sure—seemed to be sorting and separating the crate’s contents, while other crates were stacked nearby and waiting to be opened. Kal shifted to the side and peered past the crew, realizing that she was looking into the primary hold of the freighter. It went on for almost a hundred meters, and was half as wide, plus half as tall. Crates littered the space. Almost all of them appeared to have been opened in a hurry.
Needles in haystacks, Kal thought, remembering her comment to her boss.
Kal stepped away from the hatch and turned to creep back the way she had come
She stopped short.
The barrel of a pistol—somewhat newer and heavier in design than her P3110—was pointed at Kal’s forehead, and a huge bearded man in a use-worn jumpsuit was smiling at her.
“What do we have here?” The man said. Kal gulped and felt her stomach sink into a bottomless pit.
“You’re not one of Berd’s people.”
Who?
Kal’s weapon was still in her hand, but her arm had been lowered and she didn’t dare raise it lest she get a slug between her eyes.
“Drop the pistol,” said the bearded man, eyes darting to Kal’s gun.
“No,” Kal said quietly.
The man laughed. “Do we really have to do it like this? Drop your pistol or I’ll use mine.”
Kal looked past the man, saw no one, and then back into his eyes. They were older, but they didn’t blink, and she slowly stooped down to the deck, noiselessly placing her P3110 on its side. Then stood back up.
The man stepped closer and prodded the barrel of his gun between her breasts, ordering her to raise her hands. Kal did as she was told, then backed up a few steps as the man pushed her down the corridor.
“Shoulda known there would be two of you,” he said. “Didn’t make much sense to stumble across just one CAF soldier. You always travel in pairs, isn’t that right?”
“How would I know?” Kal said. But inside, she was doing a triple-take. Two? In an instant she realized that not only was Tim quite possibly alive, he was being held prisoner. Or worse. How could she find out where he was, or what shape he was in? She conjured a brief mental picture of crude torture techniques being used on the young Reservist, then blocked that image out and focused on her assailant.
“Well, your buddy can’t help you now,” said the man.
He suddenly reached out and attempted to get a handful of Kal’s damp, clinging coverall. Kal slapped his hand away and he punched her in the face with his free hand. Seeing lights, Kal fell back and began to scramble down the passageway while her assailant laughed and kept his gun pointed at her.
“Fighting just makes it worse,” he said. “You should ask my other girlfriends.”
Kal flipped up off the deck and tried to put a boot in his groin, but he dodged and swept her legs, then jumped on top of her, pinning her face-down. With her P3110 hopelessly out of reach, Kal cursed as the man began to press himself against her. His odor filled her nostrils—old sweat mixed with tobacco stink, and machine oil.
“Just relax,” said the man, “and maybe I don’t kill you when it’s over.”
Kal strained, but couldn’t get her arms free. Her combatives training wasn’t much good against someone as big as this guy was. His growing arousal was very apparent against her buttocks, and she experienced a sudden and unearthly shock at the fact that she was going to be raped.
Desperation drove Kal to snap her head back as hard as she could. There was a loud crunch as skulls met, and then the man rolled off of her, screaming and clutching his nose while blood poured from it. Kal pounced on the man’s pistol—still in his hand—and wrenched it free, hearing something in the man’s wrist snap.
The man screamed again.
Voices began calling down the corridor. Several of them. The staccato of running feet echoed dangerously.
Kal ran back up the way she’d come, snagging her pistol off the deck where she’d placed it. Now armed with two weapons, she kept running, the barrels of both guns pointed directly in front of her.
Three privateers skidded to a halt as they rounded a corner, and their jaws dropped.
One tried to raise a weapon: a submachine gun.
Kal pulled both of her triggers at once.
The man with the submachine gun flew back against the bulkhead behind him, the exposed piping making a loud clong sound as he fell, leaving a smear of fresh blood when his body crumpled to the deck.
The other two weren’t armed. They screamed, and tried to run from her. Kal raised the pistols, intending to empty rounds into the spines of the fleeing men. Her rounds went wide, drawing sparks from the metal in the next bend of the corridor. Her targets half-crouched, hands clamped over their heads, and were suddenly around the corner and out of sight.
Kal cursed loudly, then ducked into a crossway, turned to see a dead-end, and finally pelted down an altogether different corridor that seemed as neglected as the last.
A lift shaft entrance appeared, with somewhat clean-looking double doors. Kal slammed a hand on the hatch release. The double doors opened and a surprised woman in a standard spacer’s jumpsuit looked out into the corridor as Kal stood there, chest heaving.
Kal looked at the woman once, grimaced, and rushed in. The woman yelled, but Kal silenced her with the crack of a gun butt to the woman’s skull. The
unconscious body tumbled out of the car, and then the door began to close. Kal leapt on the controls and ordered the car to the top level of the freighter—or however close to the top the shaft went. Just as the door was shutting, more privateers came into view. But just for an instant.
Automatic small arms fire pinged and panged off the doors as they shut tight. The car creaked and rocked, and then began to shoot upward at an uneven rate. Kal was tossed about as the car jostled her, then there was a terrible screech and the lights went out.
The lift had come to a complete halt.
Chapter 6: the borderland
Viking Station was a hoop-shaped warren of cargo holds, starship docks, seedy temporary lodging, shops, gambling dens, and other establishments of variably descending repute. The Blackmatter ships docked at an inner hoop that was immobile, while the outer hoop—easily three kilometers in diameter—spun on its central axis. For simulated gravity.
Kal and Tim disembarked the Freefall and made their way to one of the less grimy places of lodging. There they set up shop and went about quietly looking for their contact, who’d supposedly been informed that they were coming.
Gulliver was the man’s name. Though Kal was reasonably certain he was working under an assumed identity, just as she and Tim both were.
It took nearly a local week of quiet inquiry to find him.
They met in one of the adult entertainment halls. A place simply called The Shiny.
It lived up to its name. Kal and Tim took seats at a table towards the back, in a dark spot where it was impossible to see the faces of any of the customers—though the glistening, mostly-naked bodies of the entertainers were spotlighted by lamps projecting from the ceiling. The ratio of female to male dancers was about three to one—each of them acrobatically cavorting across their separate stages, which were festooned with chrome-plated poles attached to the ceiling. Cash notes—both paper and coins—were being heaped at the feet of the more energetic entertainers.
Kal noticed Tim’s eyes kept straying to one particularly well-endowed woman who had short red hair, a narrow waist, and wide hips. The dancer spun artfully around her pole, staying expertly balanced on a pair of impossibly tall, high-heeled pumps. Kal gently kicked Tim’s shin under the table—to keep him focused.
“Took you awhile,” said a shadowy male shape as he sat down across the table from them.
“You’re a man who makes himself hard to track down,” Kal said.
“Occupational hazard,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
“Do you think you can help us?” Kal asked.
“Perhaps. I haven’t got my fingers in the cookie jar of every black market outfit in the Occupied Zone, but I make it my business to know about the comings and goings of major shipments. The Blackmatter retardation mines are only partially effective, you know. The good smugglers know where the holes in the network are, and use them on a fairly regular basis.”
“Something for Central Command to fix,” Kal said.
The silhouette of the man across the table began to laugh.
“I think Central Command is well aware of the problem. They just can’t do anything about it. Or won’t. You should know that there are CAF officers in the blockade fleet who are working those holes to their advantage.”
“Graft?” Kal said.
“Of course. You know as well as I do that being assigned to Oz is a job for both heroes and fools. Some people are here for the excitement, and to build a reputation. Others are here because they couldn’t be sent anywhere else. You’ve got the good mixed with the bad.”
“Which one are you?” Tim asked, his eyes still occasionally darting to the stage where the red-headed dancer seductively undulated in a rather pendulous fashion.
“Depends on who you ask,” their contact said.
A shadowy arm stuck out across the table.
“You can call me Gulliver, which is how most people in Oz know me.”
Kal and Tim shook the man’s hand in turn.
He had a strong, reassuring grip.
“Do you know about the missing Tremonton hardware?” Kal asked.
“Yup.” Gulliver said.
“Any idea where it’s been taken?” Tim asked.
“No. But I think I have a method for finding out. Rumor has it that one last shipment of armor is still coming here—to Viking Station—before moving on to the secure Tremonton test facilities that the CAF is jointly operating on-planet. It’s probable that shipment will be snatched, just as the others have been. I can make sure you’re in the right place at right time when it happens. You might be able to learn more.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Kal said.
“I can’t promise you’ll be safe,” Gulliver added, after gently clearing his throat.
“This is Oz,” Kal said. “You’re stating the obvious.”
“I’m not just talking about the usual scammers and cutthroats,” Gulliver replied, leaning on his elbows so that he didn’t have to speak as loudly in order to be heard. Kal could just make out his profile: balding, with a prominent chin, and a pale complexion.
“Oh?” Tim asked.
“The Ambit League is alive and well,” Gulliver said, in as close to a hushed tone as he could manage. “Folks back home assume we crushed the League during the war, and the Conflux Assembly is eager to perpetuate that perception with voters. But really, the separate pieces of the monster are subtly gaining strength. For a time when they might reconstitute. And I am not sure there’s anything the blockade can do about it.”
Kal felt her blood begin to run cold.
Tim’s eyes were now fully on Gulliver.
“How long until they renew hostilities?” Kal asked.
“Difficult to say. But I can tell you that they’ve been using the holes in the Blackmatter retardation network to place a lot of personnel and assets outside the reach of the blockade, in uncharted space—on the other side of the Zone. Stealing cutting-edge Tremonton tech is only the first step. They intend to improve upon and replicate what’s been taken.”
Kal and Tim exchanged concerned glances.
Gulliver sat back in his chair, allowing his eyes to watch the two female dancers who had shimmied their way over to a part of the branched stage that was closest to Gulliver’s table. The dancers began vigorously applying a fresh layer of oil to each other, while occasionally giving Gulliver winks and smiles.
Gulliver smiled back, and dropped a few cash notes on the stage
“So tell us where to be,” Kal said, trying to ignore the display of pulchritude going on behind her.
Gulliver reached into his jacket and pulled out something, slipping it across the table towards them. Kal collected the wafer drive and slipped it into the inner pocket of her own jacket.
“Are we done?” Gulliver said.
“Yes,” Kal said. “Thanks.”
He said nothing in reply. Merely kept watching the dancers.
Kal stood up, and Tim did the same, though somewhat reluctantly.
“Oh,” Kal said, “one more thing.”
Gulliver appeared to merely wait for her question.
“Who is paying you to pass us this information?”
“Whatever you may have been told about me,” Gulliver said, “I can assure you, my patriotic allegiance is to the Conflux. I’m not CAF anymore. At least not officially. And I’m going to admit I kind of like it out here, beyond the boundaries of polite society. But I think the Conflux is worth preserving.”
Kal waited, studying the shadowy man with her eyes.
How much of what he’d said was truth? She really couldn’t tell.
“Right,” Kal said, then turned to Tim and added, “let’s go.”
Chapter 7: uncharted territory
The lift car was pitch black inside. No emergency lights.
Kal whipped out her microlamp and flicked it on. Tendrils of acrid smoke filled the car. Scanning the lamp around, she located the emergency hatch on the floor of
the car. She pulled the release key and waited for the hatch to pop loose by itself.
Nothing.
Kal kicked it. Still nothing. Damn. The locks were probably rusted shut. Kal stood, and backed up against one of the car walls, aiming her lamp with one hand and the P3110 with her other hand. She pulled the trigger. The report was deafening, and sparks flew from the floor. Three more times, she repeated the procedure. Then walked up to the emergency hatch—her ears ringing badly—and stomped on it once. Good and hard. The metal panel creaked and groaned. She stomped again. And again. Finally the door dropped away into the shaft below. It clanged loudly when it hit bottom. Kal guesstimated she was maybe seven decks up. Quite a fall if she slipped.
She knelt by the hatch and looked below her. The sides of the shaft were just as corroded as the outside, and cobwebs filled the nooks and crannies. Kal was still looking when she heard feet land on the top of the car. The slamming of metal on metal told Kal she didn’t have time to waste. They were coming in after her, one way or another.
Kal quickly maneuvered herself into the bottom hatch, legs flailing in midair until her feet found the rungs of the emergency ladder on the side of the shaft. She searched by feel for some kind of handhold on the bottom of the car—her microlamp clenched between her teeth as she worked—and swung out of the hatchway, almost losing her grip. Kal’s heart thudded wildly as she scrambled for the ladder. The microlamp slipped from her mouth and spiraled down the shaft, along with the second pistol she’d taken off the man who’d initially accosted her. They too hit bottom.
The lamp went out.
Kal cursed, but managed to get a solid grip on the ladder.
The smell of old mildew, machine oil, and rusty steel was pungent in her nostrils. Kal tried to calm herself. She hated heights. And on top of that, she hated confined spaces. She stepped down a rung and then heard a thunk from the car.
No time left!
Kal worked quickly down the ladder, by feel. Suddenly she felt a gust of fresh air. Exploring with her fingers, she found the ventilation duct. There was no screen across it. Kal knocked her forearm around the edges of the opening, and realized the duct was just large enough for a person to crawl into. Swallowing hard, she maneuvered off the ladder and shimmied into the duct, feeling the pain in her abused elbows and knees as she worked her way forward.
Racers of the Night: Science Fiction Stories by Brad R. Torgersen Page 15
