Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (4 page)

He could have smiled while saying it. I took a breath and tried to ignore the splitting pain in my head, bad eye, and shoulder.

From above, near the starboard side lift came an announcement. “The
Armadillo
has just departed.”

I knew that voice! I fumbled for my pistol but Caylar placed a hand on it. “Not necessary,” he said.

From the lift, Hawks’s former assistant, Mr. Loams, looked down. He appeared friendlier without his yellow tie. “No arm restraints for this trip, I hope?” He looked to Caylar. “I’ll request departure momentarily.” Mr. Loams disappeared after Caylar nodded in agreement.

Caylar set the safety and placed the pistol back within reach. “Mr. Loams is, as you might say, our ace in the hold.”

I listened to my nurse hum a light tune as he manipulated my support equipment. “Hole,” I corrected. I felt more pain meds entering my system. A good thing as my adrenaline was played out. “What was Silvre’s holo all about?”

“Deception.”

“It might fool the infrared. What about motion sensors?”

“It’s A-Tech. I suspect it did, easily.”

“Simms?” I asked.

“He went down.” Any sign of mirth abandoned his voice. “Looked like he took a couple of shots to the legs, maybe one to the head.” He paused. “Might be dead. If not, might wish he were.”

“He’s high-up intel. A Director?”

Caylar came around and began adjusting my straps. “You saw what happened back there. They were darn serious.”

“They should’ve had us. Pretty disorganized.”

“I agree,” said Caylar. “Not professional.”

From above Mr. Loams added, “They didn’t have much time. Capital Galactic doesn’t have a lot of contacts around Mars.”

I asked Loams, “Did you take out the hanger security?”

“Yes,” he replied. “They should still be seeing him standing guard. A loop of a prerecorded surveillance.” He chuckled. “Even programmed in our departure. It should take them some time to find something amiss. Thirty minutes minimum.”

“Still, won’t they have to worry about Varney and Simms?”

“Director Simms radioed in indicating terrorist action,” said Caylar. “That allowed the
Iron Armadillo
’s marines to board.”

“And the captain of the
Pars Griffin
can use that to deflect any accusations against Capital Galactic?”

Caylar nodded while tightening a strap. “What’s this?” He pulled from under the covers a small wooden carving. A four inch bust of someone wearing a hat.

I held out my unsteady hand. “Let me see.” I examined carving. It looked like my work so I checked the bottom. “Read this.”

“It has the initials KRKY,” said Caylar. “Fancy script.”

“This is my work! Diplomat Silvre must’ve put it there. Right where the holo-mechanism was.”

Caylar looked at the small bust. “Not bad work. Authentic wood.”

“I learned to carve before I was ten. Do it for bartering, extra credits.” I looked at it closer. “I don’t recall carving this. Does it look familiar to you?”

Caylar held it a moment. “Someone R-Tech, a youth. Buttoned shirt, floppy-brimmed hat. Looks like a fishing hat. That must’ve been difficult to carve.”

“Hey! Is it that—you know—the one I was supposed to have abducted?”

“Maximar Drizdon Junior?” Caylar reappraised the bust. “Could be him.”

I didn’t bother questioning why my nurse knew the specifics of my supposed crimes. “What would Diplomat Silvre be doing with it? My carving?”

“Drizdon is married to her step sister, I think.” He paused. “Yes, Maximar Junior must be her nephew with Maximar Senior her brother in law.”

“What?” The pain meds made it increasingly difficult to think.

“I don’t know. I saw them only once, briefly. I’m simply her personal assistant. A bodyguard.” He scratched his head. “She didn’t say a lot. I was assigned to her less than four months ago.” He thought a moment. “Maybe your friend Mr. Loams knows more.”

From above echoed, “We have clearance.”

“No dawdling,” suggested Caylar. “Let’s put some distance between us.”

“Agreed.” After a moment Loams finished, “We’re on our way.”

I felt our acceleration before the yacht’s gravity plates kicked in. “Where are we heading?”

“I’m not sure,” said Caylar. “I think we’re to meet up with another vessel shortly.” He reviewed my vital signs. “Not good.”

I already knew. In addition to my head, a throbbing in my chest had been growing along with a dull pain in my abdomen.

After a few minutes of intense work Caylar looked me in the eye. “Your internal bleeding has increased. I’ve made adjustments.” He shook his head. “Your lungs are still in good condition, all things considered.”

“I know. I’m in pretty bad shape.”

He nodded sagely. “You should get some rest.”

“But...” I began to argue, but knew he was correct.

Caylar continued to tap at the numerous icons and turn an occasional dial. I looked again. Dials meant the medical equipment was military. Hardened against electronic interference.

“I’m going to have to insist.” He lowered the bed to fifteen degrees elevation. Then he went back to the engine room. With the door open the engine hum increased.

Five minutes passed. I examined the small carving more with my fingers than my eye. A woozy warmth crept over my thoughts and body. I was about to close my eye when the yacht surged and change direction.

Loams yelled down, “Mars tracking is on high alert! Planetary defense grid has been activated. There’s a Crax vessel in the area!”

I almost sat up, except for the restraints. Pain hammered back the cozy warmth. I fought to remain conscious.

Caylar ran to the lift and looked up. “Where?”

“Logical guess,” said Loams. “Opposite of where civilian traffic has been directed. Only slight alteration from our original course is required.” He paused. “Reaching maximum speed. All combat ships in the area have been alerted and are converging.”

This time I barely detected the buildup in speed. Fine workmanship in this vessel.

Caylar said, “Must have been hiding in the asteroid belt.”

I stared at the metallic-paneled ceiling.

“What military ships are in the vicinity?” asked Caylar.

“Besides the
Armadillo
, I think there’s a light cruiser, the
Red Bison
.” The lights dimmed. “Powering down all non-critical equipment. The
Soul Scorcher
is still in space dock. Being patched up. She won’t be any assistance.”

“Any Umbelgarri?” asked Caylar.

“None that I am aware of,” said Mr. Loams. “There are several police cutters, and three gunboats around Mars. Normally.”

“Any idea what type of Crax vessel?”

“Sorry, my frequency isn’t military. Sensors are picking up our ships. Not the enemy.”

“The
Iron Armadillo
?”

“She’s moving fast. Looks like she is trying to evade.”

Five minutes passed. I was having trouble keeping awake. “Caylar, undo the sleep meds.” He ignored me. “Caylar.”

He looked back from the bottom of the lift. “You need to rest.”

“Not until I know what happens.” My eye closed. I strained to keep awake, keep focused. I faded in and out.

Loams’s voice echoed. “The
Iron Armadillo
’s off the screen. Confirmed. The
Iron Armadillo
has been destroyed!”

That horrific statement carried over into troubled dreams.

Contemporary theorists claim that if, on their own, humans ever managed to develop the ability to condense space with sufficient energy to maintain it, and the ability to provide energy for the necessary antigravity shell while generating adequate thrust to make the whole effort worthwhile, the current generation’s great grandchildren might have been the ones accomplish it.

I endured troubled dreams about my older cousin, Oliver. He’d helped me get picked up by the Negral Corporation and signed on with the
Kalavar
. Oliver was organized, meticulous, and a decent guy. My older brother called him Spiffy. He called my brother Uncouth. Both nicknames fit.

Oliver’s math aptitude and ability to interface with computers at a young age earned him notice. He was raised I-Tech. Scholarships and grants provided what his family couldn’t toward remedial advanced technical education.

Later, the military recruited and trained Oliver as a gunner where he served aboard the destroyer escort,
Midnight Vigil
. There, for ten years he manned the dual beam laser housed in the forward turret, before transferring to the
Iron Armadillo
. After only six months Negral lured him from the prestigious assignment with a substantial contract to serve as chief gunner aboard an armed freighter.

In my dream, however, Oliver wasn’t happily journeying to exotic outer colony ports. Rather, he was repeatedly dying along with the rest of the
Iron Armadillo
’s crew. Sometimes Oliver was trapped, burning alive while his shipmates struggled to reach him. Other times he was lost to the vacuum of space. In the last dream, his turret took a direct hit. The caustic bolt devoured the armored hull, only slowing when it reached my cousin’s flesh.

I awoke, sweating. The
Iron Armadillo
was gone. I tried to sort things out. I knew Oliver wasn’t on board when she went down.

I opened my eye. The pain had receded in my head, body and leg. That was good. The ceiling wasn’t the same—grating instead of paneling, and that wasn’t good. The hum of the engines was wrong. The sense of disconnection, of being slightly out of sync with my bed and everything around, added to the unfounded feeling of anticipation, told me I was no longer aboard the
Gilded Swan
. Space-faring yachts aren’t built with the cascading atomic engines needed to initiate the condensation of space. The
Gilded Swan
wasn’t large enough to harbor both condensing engines and the generation capacity to power an anti-gravity field. So, use of a con-gate was out.

I closed my eye again, and relaxed. No, the feeling was genuine and not drug induced. I felt to my left. The wooden carving was there. To my right Simms’s pistol was missing. I suddenly felt vulnerable. Where was it? And where was I?

As if on cue, footsteps preceded a confident, feminine voice. “Good evening, Specialist Keesay.”

I turned my head and looked toward the source. My mouth was dry. “Water, please.”

The tall woman disappeared from view and returned with a large syringe without a needle. “This may be easier than a cup.” She smiled and placed it in my mouth and slowly squirted a small amount of metallic-tasting water. “I was unsure whether using a straw would hurt.”

I looked up and noticed she was tall, even for an I-Tech, unless my bed had been lowered. She wore a gray quasi-military uniform. Her hair was braided and wrapped into a large, tight bun. “What vessel am I aboard now?” I asked. “Where is Caylar?” That was the only name I had for my nurse.

She smiled. “He is not here.”

“I guessed that, ma’am,” I said after receiving the useless answer.

“How are you feeling, Specialist Keesay?”

“Confused and angry.”

She frowned slightly. Her green eyes studied me.

“Ohh, you mean physically...Miss?” She looked young for an intel agent. But with I-Techs looks aren’t always an accurate gauge.

“Special Agent Vingee,” she said.

I was right. “Agent Vingee, you look like a bright girl. I should think astute observation on your part would lead you to the correct conclusion. That I happen to feel like I look. Like a chain saw, you know gas—fossil fuel powered, cuts down trees? Like one happened to dig into my intestines, maybe my spleen? After shaving my leg of course.”

She took the syringe and walked away. After a moment she returned. “Will you require anything else?”

I already regretted my remark. “Yes, if you cannot answer my questions, just say so.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry. I feel better than I did before my previous, medical provider put me to sleep.”

“Apology accepted,” she said curtly, then looked away. “I’ll see if there is someone available who’s authorized to answer at least some of your questions.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at the carving. “Excellent work. Done with a chain saw?”

I stared at her, unable to follow her last remark.

“At least,” she said with a smile, “you know where
your
lower half is.”

It hurt more to suppress laughter than to let it out. She turned away with a concerned look on her face before leaving.

I stared at the bust, wondering if I’d really carved it. I ran my fingers over the wood, sensing the cuts and the grain. I reexamined the signature mark. It didn’t appear counterfeit. Other questions came to mind. Where are my tools, knife and gouges? My guns and equipment? I had them in the surveillance holos Silvre had shown me.

I set the bust down and pondered the face. Was there any resemblance to Diplomat Silvre? My talent wasn’t that good. Did Silvre survive?

I thought about Simms and Private Varney. All dead. For what? Generals, admirals, directors, diplomats, high-powered lawyers at my pretrial. We’re at war with the Crax. Was there a connection? Caylar wouldn’t know but Loams might. And where were they?

All of this for a dying man. One demanding to have his brain scrambled to get at the truth, which he’ll never know. Ironic—depressing and ironic.

Sleep, even a troubled sleep seemed preferable. It was.

Someone placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Agent Vingee. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, I am now.”

“Good. Captain Hollaway will be here shortly.”

“Will he answer my questions?” I asked.

“Some of them, depending on what you ask.”

I figured that she wouldn’t answer anything important. “How long have you been with intelligence?”

She thought a moment. “Longer than you’ve been in security.”

She was being evasive. Or was it something else?

Vingee must have discerned my puzzlement. “I was a guest lecturer at the Rift Valley Finishing Academy. I spoke to your class on corporate-intelligence agency protocol. In reference to surveillance files.”

My security training at the academy had consisted of nine weeks, twelve hour days. I squinted. Yes, I recalled her, vaguely. She’d ascended the stage in an unusual fashion. Two steps per stride up to the podium. It had been a less than stimulating lecture, as technical legal information usually is. “Yes, I recall now.” Her lecture had been a bit condescending. Figured the R-Techs in attendance couldn’t spell CPU correctly three out of four times. “You didn’t seem too enthusiastic about being there.”

She smiled, showing her flawless white teeth. “True. I was a last minute replacement. You earned a ninety-four percent evaluation over the material I presented. Second highest.”

“Mostly from hitting the books. Your presentation wasn’t riveting.”

“True,” she admitted, catching the archaic figure of speech. “I don’t like lecturing. You prefer to read?”

It wasn’t really a question. She’d certainly read my file. “It seems to be the most efficient way of gathering information, for me. Some security work requires a lot of sitting. Between rounds. Behind monitors...you know.” Enough about me, so I asked, “Pretty good recall yourself, or did you look it up?”

“I have an exceptional memory for names, faces and figures. Riley earned the highest score, ninety-six percent.”

“I remember Riley.” I decided to test her. “Graduated top of our little class. Where is he now?”

“Security assistant, with Cardinal One Intrasolar Corp. First Lunar Weigh Station was his initial placement.” She waited. “Have you kept track of him?”

“No,” I said, recalling that Riley thought Vingee was pretty hot. Riley had a thing for tall women and he’d made a few lewd remarks within earshot. “More than just Riley’s scores. He got your attention another way?”

She smiled. “I can assure you, Evan Riley’s life has run into a few unexpected complications.”

“He was kind of obnoxious,” I said. “Smart but obnoxious. I’d like to hear about one of his complications some time.”

She glanced at me before looking away. “Not much to tell.” She paused and checked the medical monitors. “The captain should be here any moment. Can I get you anything?”

“No. No thank you. I’ll just rest.” I sighed. “My head still hurts.”

“I will discuss it with your doctor while you meet with the captain.”

“I could speak with the doctor myself, if he ever stops in.”

“Oh, she has. Several times.”

“While I was asleep?”

Vingee nodded once.

“Figures. Probably good foresight on her part.”

We both chuckled. She longer than me.

An awkward silence followed. Vingee decided to double-check the monitors.

“Don’t worry,” I said, realizing she must have been concerned about my being hooked up to the Cranaltar. Capital Galactic had absorbed Cardinal One Corporation two years ago. “I’m sure Riley had it coming. My chips’ll be cashed in soon enough, anyway.” Suddenly, I liked Agent Vingee a whole lot more. “Do you have a first name?”

“Allison.”

“Even acquaintances call me Kra, sometimes.”

“I’ll tell you what, Specialist Keesay. You pull through and I just might tell you a little story.”

“Now I have something to live for.” Then, a stabbing pain raced through my abdomen and faded. “Maybe,” I finished.

Another awkward silence grew until the door opened. It was the captain. Agent Vingee said, “I’ll talk to the doctor,” and, acknowledging the captain, strode out.

Looking up at her, the captain had simply said, “Special Agent Vingee,” before heading toward me.

The captain was stocky with short, peppered hair. Despite cosmetic surgery, his nose looked as if it had been broken several times, possibly explaining the nasal tone of his voice. Deep scars checkered his right hand. He offered it.

I shook it. “Captain.” He was definitely a veteran of the Silicate War.

“I’m Captain Hollaway. I understand there’s a few questions you want answered, young man.”

“Class 4 Security Specialist. Yes I do, sir.” I knew where to start. “What vessel is this?”

“
Evanescent Thunder
,” he replied with evident pride.

I didn’t recognize the name. “What kind of vessel is this?”

“A patrol gunboat.”

Of course. I knew most gunboats had ‘thunder’ incorporated into their name. They’re used for local patrol to police commerce and defend against occasional raiders. None that I’d ever heard of were equipped with condensing engines. If we were heading from Mars to Io, they’d have used a con-gate. “A gunboat?”

Captain Hollaway acknowledged my confusion. “This isn’t exactly your standard gunboat.” He relaxed a bit. “Deputy Director Simms called us in. We’re to get you to Io safe and as soon as possible.”

“Your ship’s modified for interstellar travel?”

“Not exactly. We removed the part of the forward batteries and installed a small cascading atomic engine. Condenses only about a 5000-to-1 ratio. Good enough for local travel.” He grinned. “We don’t exactly advertise it. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought not.” He eyed his watch. “Ask away. Dr. Goldsen will be here shortly.”

“Well, where are Mr. Loams and Caylar?”

“Mr. Loams and Mr. Guymin went to look for Diplomat Silvre.”

I must have looked hopeful.

“Odds are pretty slim for their success, son.” He sat on the edge of my bed with hands resting on his knee. “The
Iron Armadillo
ran for an interdiction minefield. Newly laid, with the war on. She led the enemy in, turned and made a stand.”

“What was she up against?”

“Selgum-Crax frigate. She was so intent on getting the
Armadillo
she followed her right in. That old scout was no match for a Crax ship. When we got there, the
Red Bison
had engaged along with three other gunboats. Two cutters were already destroyed, and a gunboat crippled.”

His hands tightened, emphasizing their scars as he spoke. “The Crax frigate had been damaged, a proximity mine. Hemmed in, she couldn’t maneuver. The
Bison
got her with a canister nuke. We lost the damaged gunboat before it was over and the
Bison
is going in for repairs.” He shook his head. “With the radiation and mine explosions, it’s doubtful any of the escape pods made it.”