Racers of the Night: Science Fiction Stories by Brad R. Torgersen

by Brad R Torgersen

  “Did you have any trouble getting in?”

  The woman laughed. “Do I ever?”

  Now the man named Yangis laughed. “That’s our girl.”

  “They’ve got at least twenty units on this ship. Probably more, once we properly inventory her.”

  “Excellent. How many crew are still aboard?”

  “Wait one.”

  The woman used the holdmaster’s computer to do a quick count on keys which were still known to be aboard.

  “Fifteen, though I can’t be sure of their location.”

  “No matter. Arbai, you’ve done an excellent job, as always. You know what to do next.”

  “Just make sure you and yours are ready when I extend the cargo gangway.”

  “I leave the command module to your delicate skillset, my dear.”

  “Copy that. I’ll see you when you get there.”

  Arbai cut the secure connection.

  Using the holdmaster’s mate’s keys to re-enter the lift car, she plunged back through the length of the ship, getting off at the foyer to the command center. The keys got her through the outer door, then the inner door, and nobody seemed to notice as she entered the nerve center of the Broadbill, looking for all the world like just another one of its crew.

  Eventually a watch officer looked up.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  Arbai stopped. The officer was a young woman with junior merchant command studs on her shoulder. She floated from her chair near the middle of the complex. Screens and holographic projections decorated the space between them.

  Arbai smiled.

  “Don’t get up, the holdmaster just sent me to tell you that he’s got trouble with the seal on bay door three.”

  “Really? We didn’t detect it here.”

  “He figured that, otherwise you’d have done something about it already. He wanted me to make sure you knew.”

  “We’ll have to recall some of the engineers from station leave,” the officer said, her brow furrowing with concern as she walked to one of the in-wall displays and began hitting keys to bring up the ship’s roster.

  Arbai drifted further into the command module, which didn’t seem to alarm any of the other five watch officers sitting at their various stations. Reaching to her left breast pocket, she pulled out a tiny device like a diver’s nose plug and inserted it into her nostrils. Then she reached into the shipsuit’s right breast pocket and removed two glass phials, gripping them in either palm.

  “I’m sorry,” Arbai said to them all.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”

  Before anyone in the room could say or do anything else, Arbai pitched the phials in opposite directions, smashing them against the bulkheads. Several officers began to move, but not before a sickly-sour smell filled the room. All six of the watch went limp where they were, the respiratory nerve agent making them twitch as signals between brain and body became disrupted.

  Arbai breathed through her nose while she counted ninety seconds—the deadly nerve agent’s active lifespan. At one hundred and twenty seconds, she allowed herself to circle the command module, checking everyone for vitals and, satisfied that all were dead, settling herself at one of the master control stations.

  The menus for the cargo bay’s gangway were simple enough to find, and easier to operate. Within three minutes, a tube had been extended out to mate with Viking Station’s bulky commerce deck. The command module remained intensely quiet throughout the entire operation, only a gentle whisper coming from the air cycle vents.

  When next the command center’s inner door opened, eight men and five women entered, each of them wearing filters on their noses similar to Arbai’s.

  The tallest of the men grinned, surveying the dead around him, then reached up and removed his filter, taking a deep whiff.

  “You know there’s always the danger of trace contamination,” Arbai said, smirking at her boss.

  “Live dangerously, or don’t live at all,” Yangis said. “Let’s get these unfortunates out of here and fire up for departure.”

  Yangis’s crew fanned out immediately, two people per body, and began to get the Broadbill’s former bridge crew evacuated.

  Yangis settled himself at a control station next to Arbai’s.

  “Was he a nice boy?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That lad you picked up, the one we eyed out for you. Was he nice?”

  “I’m not sure how to take that question,” Arbai said, frowning.

  “Take it any way you like,” Yangis said.

  “If you mean sexually, he was as clumsy as any young man can be.”

  “Worse than me when we first met?”

  “No, he wasn’t nearly that bad. Compared to you, he was a pro.”

  Yangis’s laughter boomed through the command module.

  “Leave it to my ex-wife to bust my balls for me!”

  “You don’t pay me to be gentle, dear.”

  “No, no I don’t. Now get that hard ass of yours down to propulsion. I’ve got several more people coming aboard in maintenance coveralls, and I want you to make sure they don’t have any trouble when they get down to the drive assembly.”

  Arbai mock-saluted and floated away from her station, feeling her ex-husband’s hand pat her rump before she went to the command module doors, and exited.

  As with previous jobs on merchant ships like the Broadbill, everything else proved academic. Arbai wondered why more ships—more companies—hadn’t learned better. Lax protocol, lax training, weak security measures at entry points, skeleton staffing while in port. Typical, typical, typical. It was like they were begging for piracy. Though pirate was not the word Arbai would have used to describe herself. She was a trained professional, and very good at what she did. Had there been any money in it, she might have even stayed in the CAF. Lucky for her she’d met Yangis, and when they’d both gotten out of uniform, gone into business for themselves.

  A very select, very exclusive kind of business.

  When the Broadbill broke dock without warning, there was the usual wailing from traffic control. Yangis ignored it, and Arbai watched from one of the portals in the crew module as the merchant ship spun away from Viking Station and flew into the blackness of space.

  Chapter 11: the Broadbill

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Broadbill had left dock without proper authorization from Viking Station control.

  As soon as Kal felt the gee of acceleration assert itself, she knew what was up.

  “You can’t be serious,” Tim said as he watched Kal get her pistol out of her shoulder holster, remove and check the magazine, then slap the magazine back in place.

  “I’m dead serious. Whoever has been taking these Tremonton shipments? Their ambition just leveled up. Now they’re taking a whole cradle ship. The Broadbill is officially under new management.”

  “So what do we do now?” Tim asked.

  “Nothing. We stick to the plan. In fact, this actually makes things a easier. I was trying to figure out how we were going to manage to get out into the rest of the ship, if or when somebody decided to snatch the sensitive hardware in the cargo hold. Now they’re liable to take us directly to wherever the missing shipments have been piling up. Or, more probably, we’ll rendezvous with another ship in orbit somewhere obscure. The cargo will get moved to a new ship. And then the Broadbill will be sent off somewhere far away. To confuse the trail.”

  “Sounds like we’ll have to be ready to go where the crates go,” Tim said.

  “Yup. And that’s going to be very potentially tricky. We might have to go outside again and hope we can jump—ship to ship—without being noticed. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Sounds like I might have to be,” Tim said, frowning and running a hand through his curly black hair.

  Kal slipped her pistol back into its shoulder holster, and sat on the bunk across from where Tim was slouched in the sin
gle fold-up chair that was next to the shelf-like fold-up desk.

  “Tell me,” she said, “just what is it about this new armor model that’s so exciting the Ambit League wants a piece of it?”

  “Ummm, I’m not sure I can talk about that, you see—“

  “Save it, kid, I have need-to-know at this point. I used several different types of armor during the war. It’s not like that’s brand new technology.”

  “The Archangel series isn’t just an upgrade to the older armor suits that the CAF’s been using since the war,” Tim said. “We’re talking about an entirely new generation of bio-neural interfacing. You don’t wear the suit. It’s like the suit wears you. Reflexive response times far in advance of anything the CAF or the Ambit League were using in battle when the war was still hot. Plus it employs advanced ceramics, polymers, alloys, and a microcomputer system that learns its owner over time. Until the microcomputer is almost a shallow, duplicate personality. It knows your moves before you know your moves.”

  Kal was intrigued. She wondered what it would be like to pilot such a suit. The conventional suits were big, bulky behemoths with loads of firepower, but slow and cumbersome. Not to mention exhausting. The delayed response times on movement meant an average troop became physically tired while fighting against the lag. If what Tim said was true, the Archangel suits truly were next-generation.

  “Anyway,” Tim said, “the Ambit League would be stupid to let itself fight that kind of suit without trying to replicate the tech. Trials on some of the Occupied Zone planets have already yielded very good results. Even against entrenched, experienced opposition, the Archangel has a perfect record. No losses. With countless enemy combatants neutralized or destroyed.”

  “What about heavy stuff? Tanks and bigger things?”

  “The Archangel is meant for speed and agility, not raw firepower. Still, in the hands of an able pilot, it can fight circles around conventional tracked armor. Give an Archangel troop enough time, and she can quickly ventilate a tank like a piece of Swiss cheese.”

  Kal nodded her understanding.

  “That means each of the Archangel suits is worth a lot of money,” she said.

  “You don’t even want to know,” Tim said, smiling sardonically. “Just the pinky finger on one of the Archangel’s gauntlets is worth more than my entire annual salary.”

  “Which also means that Tremonton is going to make a killing selling these things to the Conflux Assembly Defense Office.”

  “Prices will drop once the suit’s been put through its paces and mainline manufacturing can begin. But yeah, even a single suit’s worth more than a dozen conventional suits put together.”

  “And now the Ambit League has them,” Kal said.

  “Apparently so. Though they’re going to be hard-pressed to replicate even half of what they find, when they pull the Archangel apart. It’s Tremonton’s most advanced design, and it took countless hours to engineer and create it. Using Tremonton’s top facilities on several planets. I don’t think the Ambit League is up to the task of copying the Archangel just yet.”

  “Well, that’s another reason I need you: to verify if your guesses are correct, assuming we get to have a look at the final destination for these shipments that keep getting stolen. Gulliver said the League’s been surreptitiously expanding into the unexplored space on the other side of the Occupied Zone, away from the Conflux. If they’re setting up shadow colonies, especially with industry and mining, they might have what it takes to start trying to replicate advanced tech. Or perhaps they simply want to mass-produce a poor man’s version? Numbers will almost always beat quality, if the numbers are large enough.”

  Tim looked at Kal, his smile fading.

  “Then it really might be a second war?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” Kal said, her eyes unfocusing, “it might.”

  Chapter 12: uncharted territory

  Garth Pitman stomped across the rusty decks of his ship as he made his way down to the engineering section. The buzzing of his subordinates was comforting in his headset’s earpiece. They were executing as commanded: turning the old scow inside out, trying to locate the intruder.

  The mischievous mystery guest had eluded capture and killed crew, but Pitman wasn’t necessarily worried. Yet. People had died for the Ambit League before, and people would continue to die for the Ambit League in the future. It was the price they all had to pay if the long war against the Conflux was to succeed. Pitman accepted that. He was even confidant that he himself would give his life should it become necessary, but he always assured himself that he was far too crafty to be caught unaware.

  He would live to see the Conflux fall.

  Taking a lift car down a few decks, Pitman continued to stride confidently. In the eyes of the crew, Pitman saw respect. And sometimes fear. That was good. He could use both, when he needed to. It came with the job. As long as people obeyed his orders, or the orders of Berd—to the letter—that was all he asked.

  His headset suddenly squealed and one of Pitman’s junior officers demanded his attention; down in the lower compartments close to the main cargo bay. Another crewperson had been killed.

  Pitman ran: around a corner, down a ladder, through a hatch, and then through a corridor, until he finally arrived at the location of the latest murder.

  As he showed up, several of Pitman’s crew were outside a partially opened hatchway, eyes wide and feet shuffling nervously. An old load master named Gimms was there, running a hand over the thin stubble on his head.

  “Who was it this time?” Pitman asked.

  “Go look for yourself, sir.”

  Pitman grimaced, his hackles rising at the tone in Gimms’s voice. But as Pitman watched Gimms and the others, Pitman’s feet began to get cold and his hands began to sweat. Something was seriously wrong.

  Pitman unslung his submachine gun and gripped it in his hands for comfort, then brushed past Gimms and went into the cargo compartment. The area was full of refuse, and smelled of corrosion. The doors and walls were rusted badly. Rectangular containers clogged the walkway. Gouts of blood were freshly splattered across one side of a container, where a body lay underneath a draped plastic tarp. Pitman stooped and gingerly peeled the tarp back so that he could see the victim’s face.

  Her eyes were open and stared emptily at the ceiling. Her mouth was half open and blood trailed down the corners across her cheeks. The bullet had gone right through her esophagus and lodged in the spine. Instant death.

  Pitman’s eyes ogled, and then a quiet rage began to build in him.

  Gabriella. She and Garth had been lovers for some time now, sharing the glories of his bed every night for weeks. Now Pitman’s companion lay lifeless and crumpled on the deck, her drying blood staining the soles of his boots.

  Pitman dropped to his knees, fists balled around the grips of his submachine gun—his eyes closed. A low growl uttered from his clenched teeth. Then he stopped, composed himself, and calmly stood up, his mind trying to focus. This was CAF handiwork, he was sure of it. Only the CAF could murder so brutally and efficiently.

  Pitman held back the raw anger and sorrow jointly gnawing at his heart. He had to stay composed if he wanted to avenge his lover. Pitman ran his eyes over her body, checking for missing or damaged equipment.

  Gabriella’s headset was gone, but her weapon was not.

  Damn.

  “Take the body out of here and put it in the cold locker,” Pitman ordered as he exited the compartment. “We’ll take her back with us, and make sure she’s given a soldier’s burial.”

  The others saluted and silently went to work, eyes wary of Pitman’s barely concealed rage.

  Chapter 13: stowaways

  It took almost two weeks for the Broadbill to reach her intended destination. During which time neither Kal nor Tim dared leave their cabin, for fear of being spotted. Though the people who’d hijacked the ship had no reason to believe anyone else might be onboard, it paid to be cautious. So, they each went ou
t exactly once: to look for meal packs.

  Not precisely gourmet, the meal packs were easily had in any emergency locker. In case the Broadbill were disabled or stranded between star systems, with the crew unable to travel freely between compartments. Starvation was a real possibility if rescue was still light-years away, and your radio signals only traveled as far as the nearest spacelane beacon.

  During that time Kal and Tim did the best they could to be comfortable. Which wasn’t easy, given the tight quarters. Including a micro-toilet that was barely big enough for Kal to use—making it almost impossible for Tim.

  They traded stories about initial entry training in the CAF. Things which had stayed the same. Things which were different. Between the time when Kal had joined, and Tim had joined—to fulfill his obligation under contract to Tremonton.

  They also talked a lot about the Archangel suits. Plusses. Minuses. Things Tim had noticed when piloting the suits in a laboratory setting. So that Kal felt like she was familiar enough to try operating an Archangel in a pinch. If it came down to it.

  “They key thing is,” Tim said one morning while they pushed fruity-nutty breakfast bars into their mouths, “the Archangel wasn’t designed to plod. It was designed to soar. Where older suits thud along like the Frankenstein monster, the Archangel glides. Most pilots who are used to conventional armor have to go through a teething period, where they re-train themselves to the advanced, hyper-responsive servos and motors in the Archangel’s design. So in the unlikely event you’re ever putting one of these things on, don’t get gung-ho. You’re liable to put an arm through a wall or accidentally hurl yourself into the ceiling, or across the room. Go very gently. Almost as if you don’t want to move. The Archangel will do the moving for you.”

  “It must be a lot of fun,” Kal said.

  “What?” Tim asked.

  “Getting to play with Tremonton’s latest toy.”

  “It’s a good job,” he said. “And I certainly get paid well.”

  They munched their meals for a quiet moment.

  “Got anyone back home worth spending the money on?” Kal asked.

  Tim cleared his throat and took a drink of water from a cup on the rim of the cabin’s tiny sink.