“Welcome to Tir-a-Mar, Lieutenant Fels,” said the woman. “I’m Dorothea Fenster, assistant city administrator.” She turned to her staff, pointing at the Morok: “Arzat Akeel, Public Relations, Jon McCaffer, and Ruskan.” She didn’t introduce the guard, whose brown, animal-like eyes gazed into the middle distance with no sign of interest in me.
“Thank you,” I returned crisply. “My orders.” I handed her a printout in an ornate binder. A formality, as all this had been handled via download long before, but the ceremony was as old as spacing.
“We are happy to have your visit,” Fenster said, “but as I informed you before, most of the personnel on that list you sent are no longer here. By and large, they moved on to other projects and locations.”
“Odd that none of those involved returning to their points of origin or communicating in any verifiable fashion with family and friends they left behind,” I stated. “My orders require me to make a full investigation of these personnel matters. I’ll also need to review and renew the habitation certificate for Tir-a-Mar for oxygen-breathers—”
“Ah,” said the Dua-Denlenn, Akeel. “The station has been certified by the Ribisan authorities—”
“All stations supporting Confed life must be subject to annual review by Confed authorities if they support member species other than the original builders. I’m looking at four Confed species right here. The Ribisans built this place and their membership in the Confederacy is only associate level. They do not have the authority to certify the habitability of space stations used by full members.”
“This is a Ribisan floating city, not a space station,” the Morok administrator objected.
“Negative. It’s not built on a planetary surface. Per Confed law this is a station in low orbit of a gas giant’s core.”
“Lieutenant, I think you are exceeding your authority,” Fenster said, raising an eyebrow. “We may have to take this up with your superiors.”
“I can do that for you. There’s a Confed flotilla with a heavy cruiser, under a Commodore due to transit through a nearby warp-point four galactic-adjusted weeks from now. I can have the Commodore reroute the fleet and conduct his exercises here. Of course, you’ll be under a suspension and trade moratorium until I return. It should only be a few months—”
“Perhaps, we are all being hasty,” she said, raising her hands. “Really, you need to talk to the chief city administrator. We are also being totally remiss in our hospitality by conducting business on a hanger deck like Free Traders. Our staff will secure your luggage and bring it to your hotel.”
After searching it thoroughly, I thought. A sense of amusement ghosted through my consciousness, I felt as if Maauro was laughing somewhere. The thought that she was with me, even as only a silent presence, cheered me.
“Please follow us,” Fenster said. “We’ll take you to the main office for refreshments and a meeting. I imagine that even if it’s only to a floating city, you’re relieved to be out of your small ship.”
I allowed a tight smile. “Well, I guess about now I know every nook and cranny of Pisces, so yes, getting into some new and open space is a relief.”
Fenster smiled in a fashion that showed me why she had been successful at running for office. “Please follow me.”
I noticed the Okaran Guard fell in behind us as we moved. Force of habit, or warning that I was on their turf? I wished Maauro was already down on the station.
My escorts took me to a railcar, which whisked us off to the administrative section of Cimer. As we rolled on, I saw the floating city was just that. We passed neighborhoods, shops, and factories in the human section. Confed citizens of various species wandered about – all oxygen breathers. I knew that for all the sections I could see, it represented only about fifteen percent of the structure. Beyond the well-lit halls and walls of Cimer’s O2 section, the Ribisans lived their lives, with religions, politics, entertainments and even a biology that was barely understood.
“What’s the primary industry here?” I asked of my hosts, playing the part of a not-too-interested officer saddled with an unwelcome administrative task.
“As is usually the case with Ribisan trade outposts,” Akeel the Morok said, with an air of you-should-know-this, “exotic chemicals and metals, but we have a brisk trade in intellectual property.”
“Such as?”
“Well they are the premier chemical and physical engineers in high gravity and high pressure. We, of course, have the advantage in low pressure and oxygen work.”
I frowned. “I seem to recall that this station was set up for biogenetic research from my briefing materials.”
“Oh that,” Fenster laughed dismissively. “Yes it was, still is in a small way. We brought in some biologists and genetic engineers. It never really amounted to much. Ribisan biology is too different.”
“Still,” I said. “I should check into that. A Dr. Malich was with that team. He never returned to his homeworld. His family was particularly concerned about his disappearance.”
“I hear most of them continued into Ribisan space or moved on to other company business,” Fenster added with an almost elaborate lack of concern.
We pulled up into a carpeted lobby with a scattering of abstract statuary and a beautiful fountain. My escorts conducted me past desks and staffers to a large office with glass walls and potted plants. On the other side was a broad conference table filled with administrators, scientists and probably some lawyers.
A tall, lean, older, man rose. “Greeting, Lieutenant. Welcome to Tri-a-mar. I’m chief city administrator, Arn Mysol.”
“Greetings, Mr. Mysol. I have already tendered my credentials to your staff.”
“Yes. I hope your descent wasn’t too difficult.”
“No, but I certainly won’t be shuttling up to the ship. I packed a few extra uniforms.”
A perfunctory chuckle sounded around the table.
“Then you plan an extended stay?” Mysol asked. His face indicated only mild interest.
“My mission here is twofold. My orders are to check into the status of certain Confed citizens who have not been accounted for in over one solar year and to update the Confed habitability certificate for this floating city which is five years out of date.”
“Please, Lieutenant,” Mysol said, “a habitability certificate? Does anyone actually pay attention to those? I mean—”
“They are as much to make sure that no one is setting up a pocket tyranny as to ensure habitability,” I interrupted. “My charge is to ensure the safety of Confed citizens on the frontier. It may sound old-fashioned, but I take my duty seriously. I have a lot of inspecting to do. If there’s nothing to find, then I will be out of your hair sooner. I do want to interview all section heads and then, frankly, I am going to wander about unescorted and unsupervised to talk to the being in the street. I’ll know if I am being watched or interfered with. As to the missing staff, well, I will want to talk to anyone who knew them or the other personnel in their disciplines.”
“No need for melodrama. We have no interest in obstructing Confed officers. However we also have no interest in being subject to overzealous inspections by a junior officer. Our staff counsel will want to be consulted on your activities. I do advise you to be quite careful in remaining within your regulations,” Mysol said, his face calm and even. “If you do, you’ll find my staff more than accommodating to your needs.
“As for the personnel you are asking about, only a few are still here. Likely, most of these missing staffers went on to other business opportunities. Space is vast.”
“Leaving no word and making no further contacts?” I said.
“We are far out on the frontier of the Confederacy. Your couriers and scoutships are the fastest means of communication out here. When was the last time you put it at your original command base?”
I grimaced. “The time I got these cr
appy orders. I suspect some politicos on Malich’s homeworld kicked up a fuss and HQ decided to mollify them by sending Pisces here. However, orders are orders and if I’m going to get this inspection done...”
“We will give you all the assistance you are legally entitled to,” Mysol replied.
I nodded stiffly. “It appears we do understand each other.”
“I’ll set up a series of meetings. It’s 1800 hours local time. Could they wait till planetary morning?”
I yawned. “Yes. The flight down was quite taxing. If you could arrange for the original files and data I requested to be sent to my accommodations, I’ll get some work done before hitting the rack.”
“Oh, I was going to arrange for a few of our executives to take you to a late dinner,” Mysol said.
“Perhaps we could save that for later. I’m beat and I have a huge amount of reading to do. I must update my ship reports as well.”
Did I see a flicker of relief across Mysol’s face? Briefly, I wondered if I should reconsider, but decided the people that they’d throw at me would either be too well coached, or would know nothing. Their purpose would be to run out my clock. I also knew that during my first night down here their ad hoc security arrangements would be easiest to elude. By tomorrow morning, Maauro would be down and I would feel better about everything.
I was escorted to a nearby hotel, the Star and Comet, and installed in a suite. I suspected some of the hotel staff were security, assigned to watch me. But no one interfered when I made some unexpected forays out of my suite, talking to a few random citizens and grabbing some local food. Any attempt to contain me would clearly backfire, so my job was to push the envelope as far as I could, without making killing me a preferable course of action. However bold or connected my enemies were, there was still a Confed warship hanging in their sky. More formidable for what it represented than for its own powers.
I discovered all the hidden cameras in the suite using the small robot that Maauro had made for me. The spider-like machine had ridden down in my flight bag and ran about the room, webbing everything under its own control. I was as secure as possible.
“Maauro,” I sent, fighting fatigue. “So far so good. Should I try and get out and find out anything else?”
“No,” her voice came back as a whisper with static making my head hurt. “We have pushed far enough for tonight. Have the spider prepare option B-2 in case we need it. Rest. I will be down in the morning. We will operate together thereafter. Sleep well, Wrik. I shall see you soon.”
I open the window and the palm-size robospider scuttled out it and down the sheer side of the building with no apparent difficulty. It had been programmed by Maauro to find something near the hotel that it could rig to cause an explosion with a small capsule of HE that it carried. I hoped I wouldn’t need it, but I had to be free of observation to get Maauro inside Tir-a-Mar.
Chapter Nine
I board my small capsule and it kicks free of the Pisces. In moments I orient myself and begin to drop toward the massive gas giant below. Pisces will continue to orbit and I have programmed the ship’s computer to simulate two additional crewmen while we are away. They will give terse replies to any incoming radio traffic.
The immense blue world stretches below me like an infinite ocean, rolling and tumbling its layers of gasses and titanic towering clouds. Lightning bolts of fantastic power rip across the cloud gaps, promising a stormy descent. I am grateful for my armored body; at least Wrik has the comfort of a stout shuttle for his descent. I am using a modified escape pod. It will be disposed of after I land, disappearing into the vastness of the gas giant.
I right my capsule and dive. The nose quickly begins to glow as the pod hits atmosphere and slows for proper reentry. I am cybernetically and electronically cloaked, but can do nothing about visual detection. Still it is unlikely that anyone is looking up at me from beneath the titanic layers of cloud.
My pod begins to heat as it slows and sinks. I am 55 minutes from a stealth landing on the floating city below. All is unfolding per plan.
I access my internal link to Wrik; fortunately it is working despite interference from the gas giant’s fierce electromagnetic field. I must tune it to full gain though I know it will cause Wrik discomfort.
“Ouch!” Wrik answers.
“Sorry, Wrik. The atmospheric interference is even worse than expected. What is your status?”
“I’m in the hotel with a very bored minder sitting down the hallway. I’m looking at reams of data that I do not understand. They’ve decided to drown me with cooperation in the form of meaningless operational data.”
“Can you slip away when I land to let me in?”
“I have that little robot you gave me to fool their security sensors and I used it to arranged for a small explosion and fire near my quarters. Hopefully that will let me get away.”
“Good. I will call you when I am closing in.”
“I’ll see if I can slip away. If not, well I have the little boom to fall back on.”
I reach the outer layers of the cloud deck and continue braking and sinking from orbital speed. It’s ironic to think of this as a stealthy approach when I create a thunder in the heavens and a glow across the sky.
My senses pick up metallic objects below, rising on an intercept course. I refine and enhance the images quickly, alarmed by this unexpected encounter. The images resolve into three ships. The types are unfamiliar. Ribisans do not use standard Confed equipment, but their shape tells me that they are aerospace fighters. I have been intercepted. I cannot fathom how this has occurred. Even Wrik did not know the path of my orbital entry. In the atmosphere of a gas giant it should have been impossible for scanners to find me. The odds of simple visual detection through the many layers of varying gas and clouds were similarly astronomical. Yet the interception is here and the fighters will destroy me in forty-five seconds. Already I detect their scanners trying to lock on my capsule. I disrupt these signals. They will have to get much closer for a firing lock.
The fighters go to emergency thrust, seeking to close the range. Unusual, it is as if they are wary or afraid of my small, unarmed craft. This time I cannot prevent a partial lock. Missiles jump from rails. The fighters follow, struggling in the turbulent sky. All I can do is fling cybernetic attacks at them, but their systems are well protected, far above Confed standard and I cannot penetrate them in any useful time frame. I turn to the missiles winding their way through the chlorine sky toward me. These are simpler and I cause them to explode or lose tracking, but not even my best efforts can turn one back on its fighter, or explode one still on the rail.
The fighters continue to close, seeking to use their direct-fire weapons. I employ electronic counter-measures but that will simply cause them to come closer before firing. I am totally on the defensive and the situation is hopeless. Escape and evasion are my only alternatives.
Decision made, I program the pod into a climbing turn as if I was seeking the safety of space. Then I seize a parasail, eject the hatch and fling myself into the freezing blue sky, curled into a ball. Gravity seizes me and I hurtle down. Yet for all my speed I have a vast distance to fall and much time to consider my course of action. I aim myself in the same trajectory the pod was traveling.
I roll on my back to see if my ruse has worked. I am rewarded by the sight of my pod disappearing into the clouds above, pursued by the fighters. I do not see the pod’s destruction but it is assured. The immediate danger from the fighters is past. While I could do nothing more to conceal the pod’s entry, my own fall should be undetectable unless I was to hit one of the fighters. Yet the odds of the fighters finding my pod in the first place were nearly as great, I must take nothing for granted.
I turn back to face the world below, spreading my arms to stabilize myself. I slow slightly but I am afraid to open the parasail for fear it will fail instantly. I thin the material of my arms
and legs, spreading it out to generate more atmospheric resistance. This involves some delicate balancing, as my Infester-made replacement arm is not malleable like my original limbs. I slow and judge it safe to pop the parasail. It jerks me upright. I check the canopy of the thin but tough metallic-plastic. It appears to be holding. The painful intersection between high gravity and high atmospheric pressure is balanced for now.
I steer for the floating city’s coordinates. I must be precise as I fly my parasail, since I have no way to climb. My only chance is to come down on the city. I need more speed. The parasail cannot last long in this crushing night.
I open a hollow place in my chest, using the material from my chest to form the elements of a crude jet engine. The plasma torch in my right hand migrates through the interior of my body until it is in the right position. The newly formed engine whines to life as its ramjet sucks in atmosphere and thrusts it out between my shoulder blades. I acquire forward speed and directional control. The power drain is significant. I am already operating at full military power but for once waste heat is useful to me. It is keeping my body from freezing.
A lightning bolt of immense power flashes through the sky. If it hit me, I would be vaporized.
I carefully open my internal link to Wrik, hoping the feedback will not cause him too much pain.
“Ouch, yes, I’m here. How is it going?”
“Not ideal. Listen and do not interrupt. My pod was intercepted by fighters and destroyed. I had to bail out. I am floating down in a powered parasail—”
“WHAT!”
“Quiet please. I will land on the floating city in 45 minutes and 33 seconds if my sail holds out. But I am exposed to the elements and using power at prodigious rates. You must evade attention and reach an airlock to bring me in. I will signal again just before landing. I will have little operational time after I arrive.
“By your location signal, you are in the admin section. I believe the safest place to try would be the central core in the industrial power section.”
Against That Time Page 9