Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  Director Cavelvar waited for the remote judge’s green light and then spoke into his collar, “The defendant is ready. Let’s get underway.”

  The holographic images disappeared. The lab assistant came forward as the grav-bed returned to horizontal. She worked some of the controls, elevating my body several inches above the bed. It felt like zero gravity.

  “Is what you said about Lawyer Hawks true?” whispered the assistant. “There’s a recording of him?”

  I didn’t want to lie, but why not take the chance to embarrass the esteemed Mr. Hawks further. The more outlets for a rumor the better. “What would be the point of someone about to have their brain transcribed making things up?” Let her interpret that however she liked.

  Dr. Goldsen entered the room and the assistant returned to business. “We are about to begin, Mr. Keesay,” the doctor said.

  “Call me Kra.”

  “If you prefer. Kra, maybe you would like to take a moment for prayer?”

  Dr. Goldsen must’ve been working on her bedside manner. I-Techs aren’t known for their religious beliefs, especially scientists. “It’s getting close,” I said. “I think I will.” She nodded and went about her work.

  I’d never been a religious zealot, but I attended services when I found the place and time. Sporadic would be a better term. But in my situation a little praying couldn’t hurt, so I did. It actually felt warmer, more practiced and positive than I’d ever experienced. I wondered if it was a good or a bad omen. To let her know I was ready I asked Dr. Goldsen, “What will it feel like?”

  She stopped next to me. Her eyes looked away for a second as she thought. “The best description would be as if you were dreaming. But it will seem more real. You will feel pain, or pleasure, more intensely than if you were dreaming. To counteract, the Cranaltar inhibits the brain’s interaction with the central nervous system. Safer for the subject—patient.”

  The assistant positioned my bed under the large metallic parabola. Dr. Goldsen stepped to a keyboard and began entering instructions. The needle-bearing cable came to life and slowly stationed itself above my head.

  The assistant attached clear plastic sides to the grav-bed, forming a box.

  “What are those for?” I asked.

  “To hold the immobilization gel,” explained the assistant. “Less chance for interference.”

  Made sense, I thought. Hadn’t somebody already mentioned the gel? At this point I figured it didn’t matter. The assistant continued to work, but didn’t look too involved, so I asked, “I’m likely to be here a while?”

  “You’ll be continuously monitored. You’ll be provided nutrients through your support tubes during the procedure, if necessary.”

  Dr. Goldsen walked over and leaned close. “Are you ready, Kra?”

  “Let’s get this over with.” My voice cracked just a little.

  Dr. Goldsen took my hand. “Things might turn out better than you expect.”

  I heard the assistant adding liquid below my suspended body.

  “You might want to close your eye.” Dr. Goldsen squeezed my hand and let go. “Relax.”

  “Sure thing.” But before relaxing, I added, “Innocent or not, learn something from this. So the next person has a better chance.”

  She met my gaze and nodded. I closed my eye, determined to keep it shut. I didn’t want to see the Cranaltar begin its work.

  Almost immediately I sensed more than heard movement of the needle-filled cable. Warm solidifying liquid flowed around me. I couldn’t move. All at once hundreds of pinpricks radiated across my scalp and forehead. There was definitely no going back now.

  I wondered if my scalp was bleeding, but that question was lost. Something intruded into my thoughts. I began to see flashing images from my past. Oliver. Tending bees, collecting honey. My mother’s drawing room. One of her political cartoons.

  It became difficult to concentrate, as if I was fighting for control. I tried to stay focused on a thought, but more persistent ones kept intruding. It was the Cranaltar taking over. I tried not to resist, but couldn’t. Eventually, the device became more established, more dominant. My thoughts became more random, weak, retreating. I clenched my teeth as I fought to hang on.

  Suddenly, I was preparing to board a shuttle from the Mavinrom 1 Colony to the space dock in the Gliese 876 system. I knew it wasn’t real. I wasn’t really there. I was lying, mortally wounded, in a grav-bed on Io. But I felt so healthy. I was walking and excited. I was there.

  Chapter 8

  Although deadly infectious diseases are not entirely a thing of the past, for humans at least, the threat isn’t a major concern. The human immune system, as compared to most alien species, is highly effective. There hasn’t been an alien-born plague inflicted upon a major human population. The same cannot be said about every alien species that has encountered humans.

  One of the reasons this is true is the government mandated vaccination program. From birth, every infant begins a strict inoculation regimen until the age of four. Each individual is marked with a tattoo-like geometric pattern located just beneath the left ear. When further vaccinations are administered, the half-inch pattern is modified, indicating the sum of protections received.

  Over time the vaccination identification mark, or V-ID, has evolved into more than a medical records marking. Because each individual’s V-ID has an identification sequence they are also used to restrict travel. Some colonies require supplemental inoculations based upon needs, environment, and expected alien contact.

  Strictly enforced protection is vital to the overall health and safety of the expanding population. Corporate use of the protective health policy to deny travel by colonial citizens is not unheard of. There are appeal processes, but they are lengthy and heavily weighted in a corporate entity’s favor. Freedom of travel isn’t a luxury held by all.

  I scratched at the V-ID just above my collar. They always itch after modification. I was glad to be leaving the Mavinrom 1 Colony. It was a small, very poor and densely populated mining colony, located on a very large and desolate planet. The frequent power shortages didn’t inspire confidence. If the grav plates counteracting the planet’s immense gravity ever failed, few areas of the mining colony would survive.

  The local security checked my V-ID. With it, I was now permitted to travel among the border and even to some of the outer colonies. The woman checking me over was I-Tech. She wore a grayish green uniform with a lettered patch of metallic green outlined in black on her sleeve, spelling out ‘Negral’. My uniform was the same color with the same Negral Corp logo, except hers was a snug-fitting body suit while, like most R-Techs, I preferred loose coveralls. Her uniform still showed the outline of a previous logo’s removal. The rating patch above her right breast pocket indicated she was a Class 3 Security Specialist.

  I was a C4 Sec-Spec. Only R-Techs like me are initially assigned a class 4 rating. I smiled. She sneered. I wouldn’t be happy either if I were assigned to this dismal planet.

  I pulled my equipment cart along. During my weeklong layover, I rarely left it, or anything I valued, unattended. I never ventured about unarmed and I didn’t stick to a set pattern or daily routine. No sense being an easy mark. Poverty necessitated theft for some, but I wasn’t in a charitable mood. Whenever I was feeling charitable, I gave extra at the collection plate.

  Negral Corp had recently purchased the rights to and the facilities on this planet. Negral Corp wasn’t like most corporations; it balanced investments between people and equipment. The policy was self-serving in its goal to obtain more votes for its citizenry in the House of Commons. Negral was too small and financially weak to secure even marginal influence in the House of Investors. Negral Corp’s unorthodox strategy was an unreliable method of securing votes, but one of the few viable options for an upstart company. I was betting on Negral’s success. I’d just divested myself from the Primus Resource Transport Group.

  I unlocked my possession cart, allowing the other C3 Sec-Spec t
o review its contents. I was wearing my body armor vest over my uniform coveralls. In addition to my holstered revolver, I showed him my concealed backup on my leg. The male C3 eyed them with passing concern. He was more interested in the cart’s contents than my archaic weaponry. He performed a cursory inspection of my modern titanium-alloy shotgun and the two other stored archaic firearms. He largely ignored my small stockpile of ammunition. My clothing and other personal effects weren’t even touched. Being R-Tech has its advantages.

  These guys weren’t on the ball. If I hadn’t been harboring a few questionable items, I would’ve reported them on the spot. The only thing that caught the C3’s eye was my small stash of authentic wood. I’d neatly sealed each four-inch block in clear plastic wrap. My attentiveness ensured nothing disappeared.

  “You’re clear, Specialist Keesay.”

  I caught his ID patch under his rating. “Thank you, Specialist Nitchumn.” I ignored his smirk as I closed my cart and secured it with an old-style padlock before pulling it through the main passage toward my transport. I intended to see my possessions securely stowed on the shuttle before boarding. My cart lacked modern automated drive and reverse gravity plates. Instead, it sported two wheels and a handle. Upon inspection of the cart lineup, I ventured to guess mine was the most secure.

  The cargo handlers were busy, but smiled when I approached. “Afternoon,” the older of the two said.

  I nodded. “Can you find a nice place where this won’t bump into any of those fancy rigs and damage them?” From my pocket I produced two small wraps of chewing gum.

  The older cargo handler scratched his shoulder as I handed him the candy. He tossed one to his partner. “No problem, Specialist. The other passengers are sure to be grateful for your concern.”

  I politely stepped back and let them work. The tip was good quality, some genuine sugar. Odds were I’d be back this way. I’d seen the two workers around the colony and they seemed to know some of its ins and outs. I read the name patches on their steel gray coveralls. I’d remember them, hoping they’d remember me.

  The launching bay construction appeared structurally sound to my untrained eye, but it was in need of routine maintenance. Several rows of computer terminals sat covered and unmanned. Beyond them rested heavy robotic equipment with simple ‘Out of Order’ signs affixed. As a newly endued investor, I hoped my sponsor didn’t pay too much for this place.

  Negral Corp owned the planetary colony, not the orbiting space dock. I didn’t look forward to the standard cost-cutting 1.8 by 2.8 meter room. Such was the life of a lowly space-faring security man. I wondered what my quartering aboard the Kalavar would be like.

  I noticed a middle-aged woman also observing the area. Although she was dressed business travel casual, her stance and awareness indicated something else. She scanned the loading and the mingling passengers heading toward the transport shuttle’s ramp. The woman definitely had military training. Odds were she was a corporate bounty hunter...maybe.

  I waved to the handlers as they closed and sealed the external access cargo hatch. Both nodded while I moved toward the boarding ramp. There appeared to be few passengers leaving the planet’s surface today. I fell in line behind a taller man in a business suit. He turned and noticed my sidearm before spotting my rating and company logo. He sported a red tie riddled with random black geometric shapes. The large amount of black on his red tie identified him as a low-ranking political bureaucrat, probably an assistant to an assistant sent to visit the Mavinrom 1 Colony. I nodded politely, “Good morning.”

  He must’ve taken it as some sort of cue. “Good morning to you, Specialist Keesay,” he said with enthusiasm. “Traveling on business for Negral Corporation?”

  I politely responded, “Correct.” In my experience some bureaucrats can be very long winded despite having nothing of relevance to say. Oh well, I thought. “And you are?”

  His grin revealed more teeth than the average dental commercial. “Garnose Linnuhey, Secretarial Assistant to Nephron Jones, Corporate Advisor to Representative Vorishnov.” He extended his hand. “Mind if I ask you a few questions on the way up?”

  Although he looked a little disheveled and overworked, his handshake was firm and confident. “Sure.” I nodded, seeing the short line had disappeared. “We’re next.”

  He turned and proceeded through the scanning arch. I followed him toward the ramp. The observant brunette had quietly maneuvered in line behind us. I kept an eye over my shoulder as she passed through the arch. Assistant Linnuhey seemed oblivious as he shifted a palm-sized computer clip from an inner breast pocket to an outside one.

  The sleek, modern transport shuttle looked to be in excellent condition. For its size it had to be. Few small transports could generate sufficient thrust to escape Mavinrom’s gravitational pull without antigravity assistance. Moving toward the standard portside ramp, I spied evidence of the necessary plates near the hull’s aft section. I followed Linnuhey in, observing the interior. There were 42 high-backed seats arranged in eight rows of six with an aisle splitting them down the middle. There would have been 48 except the mid-entry ramp necessitated the removal of six for passenger loading. Negral Corp’s logo was prominently displayed on the forward section wall, leading to the pilot compartment. I listened to the bounty hunter stride up the ramp.

  A third of the seats contained stacked packages held in place by netting. Passengers occupied about half of the remaining seats. I stopped in the aisle, politely blocking the way aft, pretending to search for someone. Bounty hunters often made a security specialist’s life difficult. Why not return the favor while I had the chance? With most of the midsection seating occupied, lingering seemed a reasonable ploy to force the bounty hunter to select a seat forward.

  Too quickly Garnose Linnuhey stopped and turned. “Back here.” He pointed. “More room.”

  I couldn’t come up with a response to stall. A bounty hunter wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself, but Linnuhey had solved that dilemma for her. “Sounds good.”

  Several passengers watched as we passed open seats on our way to an isolated corner. He selected the furthest seat starboard.

  “I kind of like aisle seats,” I said.

  Unfazed he grinned. “Corner’s better.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and tried to remember why I started talking to this guy.

  Linnuhey glanced at the trailing brunette. Until now I hadn’t scrutinized her appearance. Her attractiveness probably caught the bureaucrat’s eye. She took a seat on the back row as well, across the aisle.

  Linnuhey’s voice interrupted my observation. “Better strap in, Specialist Keesay.”

  “Good idea.” I secured the leg and ankle restraints. Then I buckled and adjusted the shoulder harness, making sure my sidearm wasn’t unnecessarily bound. I hadn’t loaded it with armor-piercing rounds that could compromise the hull. Getting off Mavinrom put me in a better mood. “Just call me Kra.”

  Linnuhey fidgeted with the seat’s lumbar adjustment. “Most of my friends call me Garney.”

  Friends, I thought. Acquaintances maybe. He acted more than a bit odd.

  “Nice vessel,” he commented.

  “Hope it’s as comfortable as it looks. The transport I took down didn’t compensate for the planet’s gravity very well.”

  “I’ve been on this class shuttle before. It’ll be just fine.”

  I glanced toward the brunette. She was tying her hair back before strapping in. Most of the other passengers sat ready and waiting. Nothing happened. I began to wonder at the delay. I figured Linnuhey’s lack of commentary indicated he was at a loss as well. I heard some commotion near the ramp.

  “What is it?” asked Linnuhey.

  “Don’t know. If I had an aisle seat I could see.” He appeared oblivious to the hinted sarcasm. I released my harness and stood. “A security specialist,” I whispered, noting his body armor, helmet and medium-duty laser carbine. “A loaded dolly-bot with a fancy crate.” I couldn’t be sure, b
ut it looked to be an armored security version. The security man glared at me through his visor. I saw his rating, Supervisor 2. None of my business so I sat down and prepared for takeoff.

  “Must have been running behind,” said Linnuhey.

  After warning tones, the ramp retracted and the hatch sealed. “Guess so,” I said, feeling interior grav plates activate. They were less noticeable than the older shuttle’s I’d ridden down. Linnuhey was probably right.

  “Travel much, Kra?”

  “No. This is my first time out of the solar system. I was stationed on Pluto for about a year.”

  “Doing what?”

  I was trying to review the details of the C2 and dolly-bot but answered anyway. “Warehouse security. Pretty boring.”

  “Not much activity on Pluto, or Charon?”

  “Some ethane collection on Pluto. Except for the ice harvesting transports working the Kupier Belt, not many layovers. They sometimes need supplies.” I craned my neck a little to see between the seats. “Parts, a little entertainment.” I heard and felt the engines fire up. “I was there to ensure nothing left unaccounted for.”

  Linnuhey grinned. “Makes sense—what’s so interesting?”

  Through the ceiling-mounted speakers a voice announced, “We have clearance. Secure for takeoff.” Everything from my vantage seemed okay. A few seconds later I felt a minor shift, much weaker than I’d expected.

  “Anti-gravity sled,” Linnuhey said. “Maneuvering us out of the holding bay.”

  I nodded as if appreciative, then flicked a glance at the bounty hunter. She appeared to be staring off into space, or listening.

  “See,” said Linnuhey, “what did I tell you?”

  “We haven’t left the colony’s influence yet,” I said, although I knew he was right.