Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  “Two decks up there’s one, I think.”

  “Let’s try. Makes sense there aren’t many. This was constructed as a military space dock.” I looked around. “Elevator is right over there.”

  We waited until it arrived. One marine and two engineering techs were already inside. The marine ignored me, but the red-clad technicians glanced a little longer than was polite. The elevator stopped and we exited.

  O’Vorley led me about twenty feet down a more lavish corridor. It was painted a faded green with fewer exposed pipes. We approached a terminal.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Well,” he said, “your lip is split, you have an abrasion across your cheek and your right eye is blackened.”

  “Well, your supervisor and his assistants were less than cordial upon our meeting.” My hand explored my face. “I’m surprised there isn’t a boot imprint. I’ve run into worse crowds.”

  “Plus your shoulder,” said O’Vorley.

  “Good point. Where did they say my equipment was?”

  “Green Storage, locker 478, bay 2.”

  “Green Storage,” I said. “That’s probably near the armory. Do you know where that is?”

  He shook his head. “Not from here. If I go back to Security HQ or my quarters and start, I could find it.”

  “Your first time out in space?” There was more to this kid’s story. Kid, I thought. I’m not much older.

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, sir.”

  “Yes, it is. And I’m a Security Specialist 4th Class, certainly not sir to you.” I stepped in front of the terminal and surveyed the screen when it activated. I tapped the icon for tourist information requests. Giving it a second, I said, “Diagram route to Green Storage.”

  A synthesized voice replied, “That area is restricted. No civilian admittance.”

  I looked at O’Vorley, then continued, “Just because I request information does not mean I intend to follow up on it. Diagram route to Green Storage.”

  “Request is for information to a restricted area. Your voice imprint does not match proper admittance records.”

  I care very little for artificial intelligence programs. “Is the deck level of Green Storage classified?”

  “No, it is not.”

  I watched O’Vorley frown as I spoke. “Terminal, what deck is Green Storage on?”

  “Deck Twelve.”

  “Omitting the restricted areas, display layout for Deck Twelve.” If it did this, it wasn’t too bright of a program or what I was seeking wasn’t restricted enough to alert monitoring programs. Or security would arrive and rough me up again.

  I pointed to the screen. “I’d guess there.” O’Vorley nodded in agreement.

  I leaned back and looked near the elevator. “Display layout Deck Eight.” We studied the screen. “Can you find it now?”

  “Yes, I can,” O’Vorley said, turning toward the elevators. “You’re R-Tech?”

  “Correct.”

  “You use an information terminal pretty well.”

  “Correct, I do.” I knew where this was going. “Just because I choose not to have various implants or advanced technical training, or become hooked on electronic gadgetry, doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant of computer functions and use.”

  “Oh,” he said sheepishly.

  “Contrary to popular I-Tech belief, most relic techs aren’t morons.” Maybe I was overdoing it. “A common misconception. No harm, no foul.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just an archaic sporting reference—means don’t worry about it.” Although I knew the route, I asked, “Which way, Specialist?”

  “This way, back to the lift.” As we fell in stride, he tensed up. “Specialist Dribbs said you killed one of the offenders by clubbing his skull with your old-style steel gun.”

  The corridor was empty, as was elevator when it arrived. “I figured the second blow might have finished him. He was down in front of me with laser in hand and I was out of rounds.” I shrugged. The elevator ascended. “He tried to kill me. I responded.”

  O’Vorley looked at my shoulder. “Him or you?”

  “Pretty much. I’d have shot him in the head if I could’ve.”

  The door opened. My companion looked a little pale. “I don’t think I could’ve done that.”

  “You might be surprised,” I said. “When someone’s shooting at you, your adrenaline—instincts take over.” I watched him ponder as we walked. “It’s kind of like in training, but more intense. You just react.”

  O’Vorley said, “I didn’t have much training.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how things are on Earth—the recruiting.”

  “Wait!” I grabbed his shoulder. “Slow down. You just came from Earth?” Of course he did, I thought. Pay attention!

  “Yeah. Straight to here. Got my training en route.”

  “What’s going on? What do you mean?” He didn’t follow. “Who’s doing the recruiting? When I was stationed on Pluto, there was news about the Colonial Marines stepping up efforts. Is that it?”

  “Yeah. The recruiters came to my career tech center and everything. Checking records and testing. My dad said not to sign up. I had several months before draft eligibility.” He thought a moment. “My dad got me a contract with Quinn Mining. They told us that I’d complete my study in planetary geology and work for them.”

  “I didn’t know the draft had been reinstated. You did this to avoid the draft? And now you’re out here?”

  “Uh huh.” He frowned. “The contract’s fine print said that if required, my original assignment could be deferred.”

  “How bad is it?” I was anxious. “Where are you from?”

  “Security?”

  “No,” I said and led O’Vorley past several technicians repairing a heating transfer. “I’ve read sketchy reports that the Crax are gearing up for war.” We almost missed a turn. “Reception on Pluto isn’t much.”

  “There was a lot of talk about it in Rio de Janeiro, but hardly any holo-casts.”

  “You’re from Rio de Janeiro?” I asked. “When did you leave?”

  “I left a week after signing with Quinn. They transferred me to Cairo and enrolled me in tier two geology classes. Then they reassigned me here, around Gliese 876—as security.”

  “What do they say about the Umbelgarri? Is that why the Marines are recruiting?” I led the way while O’Vorley searched for an answer. We had a distance to go.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody knows.”

  You don’t know, I thought. But now I have something to think over. Damn! I’m missing my chance for the Relic Army’s GASF.

  I felt bad for the kid, but I had one more question before I let him relate his ordeal. “You probably didn’t hear if the Relic Army is recruiting for its Ground Assault Support Force.” It was a long shot, but even among I-Techs they’re respected.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  He must’ve seen my disappointment. “Did you want to be recruited? Can you get out of your contract?”

  “Mine would be even harder than yours.” I looked around. “And I bet you and your father tried.”

  “We did.” O’Vorley sighed. “But young bodies are hard to come by it seems.” He stared ahead. “I got six weeks training. I don’t think it was very good. Supervisor Gaverall won’t even issue me a sidearm. Says maybe in a few weeks.” He put his hand on his equipment belt. “Issued me a stun baton.”

  “They can be pretty handy,” I said.

  “If you know how to use it. I got about four hours of weapons training. Most of my work was online. Law, regulations and customs.” He unhooked and extended his telescoping baton. “For this, a thirty minute holo-instruction on its use, care and maintenance.” He looked down. “Maybe you could show me?”

  “Sorry.” I disappointed him. “My transport, the Kalavar, should be in tomorrow at the latest.” I gave him the name. If he looked it
up, he’d know it was the truth. “But, I might be able to tell you how to obtain proper training.”

  He looked hopeful.

  “Marines are stationed here. Others passing through. Some stay a week or more?”

  Confused, he nodded as we moved to the side for an orange-clad engineer and several assistant technicians. Seeing their red uniforms gave me an idea.

  “Do you have anything to trade—skills?”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “I carve small wooden busts for barter. You know anything unusual like that?”

  As we neared Green Sector I spotted an armed marine. “You aren’t going to get much help from Dribbs or his pals,” I explained. “They’re probably shorthanded and mad all they got was you. Young, and untrained.

  “Most marines live to demonstrate their skills,” I said. “If you had something to trade. I know your disbursement after company support allocations is nothing to speak of.” I was thinking as we approached the marine. “It might be demeaning, but you might offer to clean and polish boots or...” I pondered out loud. O’Vorley was new, less experienced than me, and unlikely to take the initiative. “Something, and maybe they would help you out. Maybe.”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Put some thought into it,” I urged. “Could save your life.” He sent a quizzical glance before we passed a wide cross corridor. “Look at me. I didn’t expect to be shot by some criminals while getting off a shuttle.” O’Vorley would be an easy mark. “Said you studied mostly regulations, rules, company policies?”

  He nodded, “Sometimes fourteen hours a day.”

  “I’ll see what I can do for you. No promises.”

  I looked ahead at the marine to avoid seeing the kernel of hope I’d just planted. I recalled my cousin, Oliver. He’d always been far more worldly than me. I smiled to myself thinking that could change. As we neared the guard I got a sick feeling. I hated making promises I couldn’t be sure of keeping.

  The marine’s challenge interrupted my thoughts. “This is a restricted area.”

  Not looking the marine in the eye, O’Vorley replied, “We are here to retrieve Specialist Keesay’s equipment.”

  The marine’s haughty gaze shifted. “You’re Keesay?”

  “That’s what my uniform reads.” I pointed carefully to each letter on my patch.

  “I can read, R-Tech.” He sneered, noting my battered appearance. “Read better than you can fight.”

  I couldn’t believe I was trying to get on a marine’s bad side. “Look,” I said, “if you’ve been on duty here in the last four hours, you probably saw the one who roughed me up, on a gurney. He was the one with the caved-in skull.” I grinned wide enough to encourage my split lip to flow. “I may not be as good as you, but I get the job done.”

  He spoke into his collar. “Security Specialist Class 4 Keesay is here for his equipment. Do we have it?” He directed his gaze at the security camera.

  He looked at me. “You have permission to enter.”

  I pointed to O’Vorley. “You still owe me that meal. I’ll get my equipment, find a place to clean up, and meet you at the cafeteria near the main docking bay.” I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I can find it no problem, okay?”

  O’Vorley looked relieved. “Three hours?”

  “Can you make it two? It’s been a while.”

  O’Vorley nodded. “It’ll be close but I’ll see you there.” He turned and strode back down the corridor.

  The door buzzed and the marine commented while stepping aside. “Strange kid.”

  “Just a little green,” I said.

  “Straight down to the desk behind the bullet-proof plastic.”

  “Right. Thanks.” The door closed behind me. I wiped the blood from my lip and began to consider as I walked. Me, referring to O’Vorley as green? That gunman wasn’t the first person I’d killed as a security specialist. I’d have to take a careful look in the mirror someday soon.

  Passing a number of doors on each side, I walked up to the desk at the end of the short corridor. A clear wall extended from floor to ceiling. A cute blonde with wide green eyes looked up from behind the barrier. Crow's feet framed them as she smiled. Inoffensive as she appeared, I knew with a few finger taps she could trigger the automated defenses. I’d treat her better than the marine outside.

  “I am Security Specialist 4th Class Krakista Keesay. I’m here to retrieve my equipment.”

  “Yes,” she responded. “It has been arranged.” A door to my left slid open. “Locker 478, bay 2. You have the key.”

  I almost questioned her. Then I recalled the magnetic keys I’d absent-mindedly slid into my pocket. Simms didn’t say more than he had to.

  Locker 478 was easy to find. My equipment was in the second of five bays. I examined my cart and found nothing wrong. On top rested both keys to the padlock. I looked inside, unpacked, and checked every item: clothes, wood, tools, ammunition, firearms, Bible, and personal papers. Everything was in order, even my popcorn nukes. They sat neatly concealed within a box of 12-gauge shells. I’d carefully painted over the warning and codes on them so that they resembled standard slugs. Simms was the first to catch it, but not many people ever had reason to look closely. I gave them no more notice than was due normal ammunition as there was bound to be surveillance. I placed the manacle case with key in a pouch next to a water bottle, after taking a swig.

  I examined the contents of the shelf above. Freshly cleaned, my revolver rested in its belt holster. Next to it was a small plastic box. Inside were my backup .38 and the contents of my pockets, including the beef jerky from the representative.

  Everything seemed in order. I loaded my revolvers with standard jacketed lead rounds and reorganized my pockets and belt pouches. I strapped on my wristwatch and the attached automatic sound dampener.

  I paused, then retrieved my bayonet and sheath and hooked them on my belt. Maybe I’d purchase something other than a blade for unexpected trouble. Pondering this, I locked up, took hold of my cart’s handle, and exited the bay. My left shoulder reminded me of its injury. I approached the desk and held out the locker’s magnetic key.

  A panel at my feet slid open. “Place it in there,” she said.

  “Could you tell me the way to the Corporate Quartermaster?”

  “You’re R-Tech, right?” she asked politely.

  Although she already knew I answered, “That is correct, ma’am.”

  “Then I’ll show you.” The transparent wall became a localized map of the space dock. I looked at my current location and the yellow path. A synthesized voice read the subtitles explaining the route.

  “Do you need to view it again, Specialist?”

  “No. I believe I can find my way. Thank you.” She didn’t appear putout at having to call up the display. Normally she would’ve relayed a temporary auditory sequence to a receiver chip implant, if I were I-Tech. My stomached reminded me that it was hungry as I nodded to the marine guard while exiting the Green Sector.

  Stares from technicians and civilian travelers, reminded me of my need to get cleaned up. Field Director Simms probably wouldn’t approve of me drawing unnecessary attention and raising questions.

  I reached the corporate quartermaster station just before the shift change, so I was able to go right up to the counter. I opened my cart and set the manacles, key and case on the counter. “I’d like to return these for the deposit.”

  The attendant tapped a screen just out of view. The counter scanned what I’d placed there. “It shows here that there is also a security uniform requisitioned for you.” The information readout scrolled across the counter. The attendant eyed my shoulder. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Briefly,” I said. “Could you apply the deposit credit toward a stun baton?”

  “Type?” he inquired.

  “Medium duty use, retractable, extended charge.”

  He tapped in my request. “I could give you light duty, standard charge, and retractabl
e, in exchange.”

  “No,” I said, making a fist. “I prefer one with a little duration...and more oomph.”

  “Don’t intend to have another rough morning?”

  We both laughed. “That’s the idea. I should have sufficient funds on account with Negral Corp. You can access my account?”

  “Yes, just set it up six months ago,” he explained as he tapped a few keys. “With Negral on the planet below, we administer most of their local accounting.”

  I showed him my left thumb. The attendant caught on. “R-Tech,” he said. “No chip access. This will take a moment.” He worked diligently through the directories.

  “Not a lot of us out here?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Very few, at least who visit the quartermaster.” He continued tapping. “Why not get an account chip? Faster and hurts less.”

  “This is more reliable. Tough to fool a DNA reading.”

  “True,” he agreed, “but you pay three percent on the transaction cost for the inconvenience.”

  “Hey, while you’re at it, can you access the armory’s inventory?”

  “I can. Is there something specific?”

  “As long as I’m giving blood, may as well only do it once.” I looked around. “Slow time of day?”

  “For about another twenty minutes.” He relaxed. “Okay, what were you looking for?”

  “Any old-style ammunition? Thirty-eight Special and .357 Magnum caliber rounds. Also any 12-gauge?” I smiled. “I know it’s kind of a long shot out here, but I was told you might have something.”

  “We do,” he said with raised eyebrows. He looked closer and punched up something from his screen to the counter. “You’re name is Keesay?”

  “Correct.” I said, surprised at the question.

  “Shows here that you have a package, some of the ammunition you requested.”

  “Really?” It seemed odd, but I wanted to be careful of what I said. Maybe it was from Simms.

  “You’ll have to pay the storage fee, and pick it up.”

  “I’ll do that. Where?”

  “At the range, near Green Sector.”

  “I know where that is,” I assured him. “Anything else of interest?” Maybe there was another surprise. “Any gunpowder? Old-style firearms?” It was worth a shot.