“The odds are against it.” Jamil joined them in the cockpit. “Remember, the arrival of the exterminators on RFComSec is a common occurrence. People are used to it; they’re complacent. They won’t be looking for trouble and unless you’re scanning specifically for this type of transmission, you won’t find it.”
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take. Which means we keep communication down to the bare minimum. High urgency/need-to-know only. Besides”—Xris patted Harry on the knee—”you’re going to keep the guard so enthralled with your scintillating conversation that he wouldn’t notice a direct hit from a plasma cannon.”
“Yeah.” Harry snorted. He flinched when Quong placed the cold metal inserter on his skin behind his ear, yelped when the device went in. “It’s the sound I hate. Thump! Like it hits bone or something.”
“It’s all in your head,” Quong said, and laughed loudly at his own joke.
He was the only one. Harry didn’t get it. Xris didn’t hear it. He was staring fixedly at the space station.
“Xris ...”
He glanced around. “What? Did you say something, Doc?”
“I’ll need to make adjustments to your receiver to put you on the same frequency,” Quong repeated patiently. He’d said the same thing three times now.
Xris tilted his head. The Doc depressed a tiny button in back of the cyborg’s left ear, opened a small panel. Using minuscule, delicate tools, Quong made the necessary adjustments.
“Okay, boss. Give it a try.”
“Right, listen up. Does everybody hear me?”
Harry nodded, grumbled. “Yeah. It tickles. I hate that damn tickle.”
Tycho’s voice reverberated in Xris’s ear. “Check.”
Jamil came in next.
Quong confirmed his with a quick nod. He snapped shut the panel.
“What do you want me to do with the Little One?”
“Leave him here. He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t what I meant. Surely someone on that station is going to ask why only five of us show up for work when they’ve scanned six life-forms on board.”
Xris swore to himself and at himself. I should have considered that, already made plans. I’m slipping. Too emotionally involved. Yeah, I’m emotionally involved!
He made a pretense of running a systems check on his cybernetic arm.
“Good thinking, Doc. Bandage up the little guy’s face real good. Hide the bloodstained raincoat and hat. Cover him with a blanket. I’ll feed them a line if they ask.”
Quong departed. The others stood around, staring at him.
Concerned.
Xris glanced at them irritably. “You guys got nothing better to do?”
They filtered out.
“Coming up on the thousand-kilometer marker, Pilot Luck,” the computer reported.
The thousand-kilometer marker was a small navigational buoy placed in the approach lane to guide incoming vessels. Acting as guide was apparently not its only function, however. Strobe lights began to flash.
“We are being scanned, Pilot Luck,” XP-28 informed them.
“I thought we’d already been scanned,” Harry protested.
“They’re looking for weapons,” Xris said briefly.
“Well, they won’t find any on board this plane,” Harry stated with an accusatory glance at Xris. “They’re all stacked neatly in that bloody hangar back at Olicien.”
Xris smiled, shrugged. Leaving the weapons behind had been— and obviously still was—a sore point. When he’d first mentioned that the team would have to enter the facility weaponless (“Naked!” Tycho said indignantly), Xris was afraid he’d have to either call off the project or find a different team. Harry had balked, Tycho and Jamil had argued vehemently. Even Quong, who generally obeyed orders with cold-blooded mechanical precision, had expressed doubts.
“If everything goes according to plan,” Xris had argued patiently, “we won’t need weapons. I don’t want to take the chance of an innocent person getting hurt. We’ll be long gone before anyone ever figures out something’s wrong. We stroll in, stroll out. An hour after we’ve left, Dalin Rowan drops dead. Cause: unknown.”
This part of the plan had not met with general enthusiasm.
“And if something does go wrong?” Jamil had asked.
“The station is crawling with armed Marines,” Xris had replied lightly. “You won’t have any trouble finding weapons.”
“We just can’t shoot anyone,” Jamil had said glumly.
“Right.”
The cargo plane flew slowly past the marker.
Xris reached in his pocket, pulled out a twist, and lit it. The statement that there were no weapons on board wasn’t quite accurate. Tycho had brought along the duonamic sights. Xris was armed. His weapons hand and its assorted devices were packed into his leg compartment. Shielded, of course, but a truly sophisticated scanner might just pick them up. . ..
Olicien Two Five Niner set off no alarms.
RFComSec rotated like a pinwheel in space. The central hub, bristling with communications antennae, transmitters, receivers, was brightly lit. Four arms extended from the hub to an outer ring. This ring—the living area for the three thousand residents of RFComSec—was dark by comparison. Only a few sporadic tiny specs of light, shining through windows, glittered against the darkness.
“Cutting engines,” the computer announced. “We will coast in until the magnetic tractor beams lock on.”
A slight jolt indicated that this had occurred.
“Olicien Two Five Niner,” came a voice, “you are now under station control.”
Soon, Xris told himself, almost shaking with excitement. In maybe thirty minutes or less, I’D be face-to-face with Dalin Rowan.
He could swear that he could see Ito’s face floating in front of him.
At the hub’s center, a door one hundred meters wide and fifty meters tall began to open. The spaceplane glided into the aperture. The plane’s metallic skin shimmered with the reflected energy of the atmospheric integrity force field, which maintained the atmosphere inside the station during the time shuttle bay doors were open. Once the craft was inside, control personnel guided the spaceplane slowly to the middle of the bay, rotated it, and set it down.
Looking out the plane’s viewscreen, Xris read, in Standard Military, the words: Unsecured. Quarantine.
“Damn!” he muttered, blowing smoke. “Quarantine! We’ve been scanned. Why the hell are we being quarantined?”
“Maybe they’re looking for bugs?” Harry chortled. He prodded the cyborg. “That’s a joke.”
“Computer, is this standard procedure?” Xris snapped, in no mood for humor.
“Yes, sir. We normally enter this area. The plane and its cargo are checked by security. The equipment is scanned here, then the plane is moved over to the loading dock. It’s routine.”
Routine! Xris stared at the yellow markings, at the steel doors that were now rumbling shut. Ito’s face disappeared.
I should have asked about the routine, Xris told himself. The one member of the flight crew who has been here—probably a hundred times or more—is the XP-28 flight computer. I should have taken the time during the flight to find out from the computer exactly what the landing procedure was. It’s what I would have done on any other job. Another error in judgment.
“Go on back, tell the rest what’s going on, and see if they need help with the equipment,” Xris told Harry. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Harry hesitated, then said softly, “Sure, Xris.” He unstrapped his harness and left.
“So far, I’ve been lucky,” Xris said aloud to nobody. “The next mistake I make could be the last mistake I make.”
He unclipped the shoulder harnesses holding him into the copilot’s chair, stood up, and moved back to the cargo area.
“Don’t worry. There won’t be another,” he said to himself—and to the memory of Mashahiro Ito.
The team was assembled, a
ll wearing their yellow coveralls with the large black beetle and OLICIEN PEST CONTROL emblazoned on the back. The Little One, his extraordinarily ugly and battered face concealed by bandages, slept soundly on the cot. Quong had bun-died the empath in bulky blankets to conceal his small stature. The bloodstained fedora and the raincoat had been safely stowed away in a locked compartment.
“Everyone know what he has to do?” Xris glanced around.
They all replied in the affirmative. Calm. They were all confident, self-possessed, calm. Xris envied them.
“This is it, then,” he continued. “Harry, go back to the cockpit. Take the plane to the loading dock, then head up to central security ops and start shmoozing about fleas. Computer, open the cargo bay hatch.”
The hatch opened. The loading ramp descended to the deck of the shuttle bay. A Marine lieutenant, backed up by a detail of six armed soldiers, was there waiting for them. The ramp thudded into place. The lieutenant motioned for the pest control team to join him. They all clumped down the ramp.
“Who’s in charge?” the lieutenant asked.
“I am,” Xris said, stepping forward. He extended his good hand. “Aaron Schwartz.”
The lieutenant shook hands cordially, glanced at Xris with only minimal curiosity. The Marine had obviously seen his share of cyborgs.
The yellow coveralls effectively hid Xris’s metal leg. He had attached his tool hand, however, equipped with drill and screwdriver and other instruments—routine, with one small exception. The thumb was a special design, housed a tiny needle. When activated by contact, the needle popped out, injected a delayed-action lethal drug.
“I see you’ve got a new team this time, Schwartz.” The lieutenant was relaxed, jovial, obviously thankful for any excuse to break the monotonous duty on this isolated space station. “So Kloosterman and Lypps got stranded on Clinius, did they? Poor bastards. Dullest planet in the galaxy. And you got tagged for this detail.”
“Yes, sir. We were the only ones available who were cleared for the job.” Xris gestured behind him. “You want to look over our equipment?”
The lieutenant gave it a bored glance. “Maybe a quick look. Just to make sure you guys aren’t trying to smuggle jump-juice in here.” He laughed.
Xris gave a polite chuckle.
The lieutenant did a head count. “Our scans indicated six life-forms. Who’s still on board?”
“My pilot is waiting to move the plane over to the docks, and I’ve got an injured crew member. The load shifted when we made the jump. He got clonked a good one.”
The lieutenant was concerned. “I’ll summon a medic.”
“Won’t be necessary, sir, thanks. He’s out cold.”
“But it won’t be any trouble,” the lieutenant persisted. “Our doctor could check him over while you work.”
“One of our guys is an EMT. He bandaged him up. It’s not really necessary to bother your medical staff. Besides, technically he was injured on Olicien property. The company’s responsible. Your people would have to fill out a disk-load of forms, what with worker’s comp, insurance, medical release waivers. It wouldn’t be worth the hassle just for a bump on the head.”
“You’ve got a point.” The lieutenant considered the situation a moment, wrote down something on his electronic notepad. He showed it to Xris, offered an electronic pen. “I’ve made a notation that I offered medical treatment and that you refused. If you’d sign here ...”
Xris did so, solemnly scrawling the name “Aaron Schwartz” on the line indicated.
“There. That should satisfy the authorities.” The lieutenant smiled, relieved. “Sergeant, take your detail on board.”
The soldiers trooped up the ramp. Jamil and the others moved to one side to let them past. A few of the Marines gave Tycho an odd look. The chameleon’s skin had, unfortunately, changed to the same obnoxious yellow color as his coveralls.
Five minutes later, the Marines exited the plane. The sergeant made his report.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Lieutenant. All the equipment checks out. The injured man seems okay. He’s asleep. I didn’t want to disturb him.”
The lieutenant turned back to Xris. “Very well, Schwartz. Move your plane over to loading dock 28L. The sergeant here will escort you gentlemen to that location to unload your gear, then on to Engineering. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.” Xris yelled up to Tycho, who had keyed the intercom button on the door control. “Tell Harry he has clearance to move into loading dock 28L. We’ll meet him there.”
Tycho solemnly repeated the message via the spaceplane’s comm, although Harry had already heard everything over his own internal commlink.
The spaceplane lifted from the deck and glided smoothly forward.
The lieutenant spoke a few words to the sergeant, then headed for the exit. The sergeant ordered one of his men to stay with the team, and dismissed the rest.
“Good hunting, Schwartz,” the sergeant said, smiling.
“Thanks for the help, Sergeant.”
The sergeant left. Xris and his team, accompanied by a young Marine, were marched over to loading dock 28L. They found the plane there ahead of them, settled on the deck in the designated area. Harry lowered the cargo ramp.
Jamil, Tycho, and Quong located several floating air-carts, activated them, and took them up the ramp into the spaceplane. Harry joined Xris on the deck. The escort Marine stood several meters away, his beam rifle carelessly slung over his shoulder. He was relaxed, interested in the proceedings, which were a change from boring routine. He certainly wasn’t expecting trouble.
In low tones, Harry asked, “Everything go okay?”
“So far.”
Tycho and Jamil appeared, pushing air-carts loaded with equipment down the ramp.
Quong shoved the last cart out of the plane. He reached over to the control panel to close the hatch.
Xris waved, caught the Doc’s attention. The hatch took twenty seconds to cycle through before it opened. Those twenty seconds might mean the difference between life and death if they had to make a fast exit.
Quong left the hatch open, the ramp in place, and joined the others on the loading dock.
“We’re all set to go, boss,” Jamil said loudly.
The Marine glanced back at the spaceplane. “You’re not going to shut the hatch, sir?”
Xris grinned. “Why, kid? You afraid someone’s gonna steal my plane?”
The Marine stared, momentarily taken aback. Then he laughed, somewhat shamefacedly. “No, sir. I guess not. If you’ll follow me. Oh, and, uh, sir. I’m sorry, but smoking’s not permitted anywhere in the space station.”
Xris had the twist in his mouth. He started to offer his customary explanation that he wasn’t going to smoke the damn thing, then decided it would be easier to put the twist away. He didn’t want trouble of any sort.
He and Harry helped push the heavily loaded carts. Xris paired himself up with Jamil, the only ex-military man among them. They exited the loading dock, entered the space station interior.
Wide double doors led into a faintly lit access corridor. Pipes and cables were visible overhead, providing heat, power, oxygen, and other services. The walls were painted white. Emergency oxygen stations and fire-fighting equipment were mounted in compartments in the wall every twenty meters. The team moved along in single file behind the Marine.
They passed two more sets of double doors, marked by signs in Standard Military. The first read SS-SIGINT 2-2 and the other HS-SIGINT.
Xris, mentally going over the layout of the space station, tried to get a fix on their location. “What does that mean?” he asked Jamil, not bothering to lower his voice. With the rattle of the equipment and the whoosh of air from the cart, the cyborg wasn’t worried about being overheard.
“SigInt stands for ‘Signal Intelligence,’ “ Jamil returned. “I don’t know what the other letters mean.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t important.”
The access corridor open
ed into a large, brightly lit work area. Overhead cranes were built into tracks in the ceiling. Huge metal-paneled doors lined the walls. Yellow and black floor markings were covered by puddles of greenish motor oil.
“Please wait here, sir,” the Marine instructed. “I’ll inform Commander Drake that you’ve arrived.”
The Marine left.
“This is Engineering,” said Jamil.
Xris marked it on his mental map.
Moments later, pistons hissing, the metal doors along the right side began to open. Looking through them, Xris spotted some of the most important units in the space station—water pumps. Water was a highly valuable resource in space, second only to air. The air exchangers were located here, too, along with the myriad other machines all designed to keep the living inside the space station alive.
The Marine returned, accompanied by a short, stocky, muscular man wearing regulation coveralls with commander’s tabs on the collar. He smiled broadly, shook hands all around.
“Greetings, gentlemen. I’m Bradley Drake, chief plant engineer.”
“Aaron Schwartz. We’re here to perform the routine maintenance on the exterminator drones and to restock their chemical supply.”
“Sure, same as usual,” said the commander. “You guys are new here. Do you know where to find everything?”
“Actually, no. The regular team was stranded on Clinius, no way to brief us. If you could show us where the ‘bot control station is located and, uh, this man here”—he indicated Harry—”needs to be escorted to the central security station.”
Xris could almost see everyone in the team tense up. This was the crucial part of the entire operation. If the commander balked, they were in trouble.
As it was, Drake did appear startled by the request. “Why do you need a man at security? That’s not normally part of your routine.”
Xris nodded. “We’re installing a new software maintenance release in the exterminator ‘bots. If they stray during testing, they’re liable to set off your alarms, and we don’t want some trigger-happy Marine to vaporize them. I don’t suppose the Navy’d be thrilled about having to pay for replacements.”
“Right, right. I see your point. The private”—Drake indicated the young Marine—”will take your man to security. I’ll let them know he’s coming. You’ll find the bug-’bot station over there, by Air Exchanger Three next to the bulkhead. Let me know if you have any problems.”
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 17
