Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  “Gunpowder, no. Firearms, nothing you’re looking for.”

  I watched as the inventory scrolled by. “There!” I pointed. “Old-style grenades.”

  He keyed up the information. “Those have been in stock here since...since the Silicate War. You want’em?”

  “Maybe. What kind, what’ll they cost?” Did Simms know these were here?

  “Well, if they can be found...hold on.” He accessed other files. “Just sent an inquiry.” He kept reading, going through codes. Finally, he came up with something meaningful. “Fragmentation, flash-stun, concussion.” He looked up. “Mean anything to you?”

  I nodded. “How many?”

  “One case of each, holding nine.”

  Less than I’d hoped for. An electrical engineering technician came up behind me.

  “It’ll be a moment,” the supply attendant said to him.

  The technician said to me, “Nice cart.” I was too excited to worry about his opinions.

  “If you’re rated to dispose of them, they’re yours. Inquiry sent back that their recommended date has expired.” He tapped a few icons. Waited for a reply.

  “Okay,” he continued. “A section in front of the counter opened and extended. “You know the routine.”

  I placed my thumb on it, stated my name and classification, and waited.

  “How long is this going to take?” complained the technician. He was only four inches taller than me.

  “I’ve had a difficult morning,” I said. “Would you like to schedule your visit to the infirmary now?” I felt the prick as a minute sample of blood was taken. “Or would you prefer to arrive unannounced.” I squared off, knowing I shouldn’t have let the first comment go by.

  “You sure look intimidating,” he said with a sneer.

  “Most of this blood isn’t mine, and I can still report for duty.” I licked my lips. “They won’t for a few days.”

  “Gentlemen,” warned the attendant, “I don’t want to have to call security.”

  If we’d been alone, I’d have nailed the technician right there. Maybe he was as relieved as me that the attendant had intervened.

  My adversary pointed at the counter. “C4,” he said, “your request’s been authorized. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Me too, thanks for your patience, Technician.” Then I looked at the account information. All seemed in order. It’d cost only 40 credits.

  The attendant appeared anything but pleased. “Process the transaction?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I appreciate your time and efficient service.” I grabbed my cart. “Just because I had a bad day doesn’t mean everyone else should.” I stepped aside. “I’ll wait for my order over here.”

  The tech requested a few components for some personal project. He was gone before a dolly-bot arrived with my packages and set them on the counter for scanning.

  “One security uniform with vest,” said the attendant. “High grade, with proper insignia and identifications attached. One stun-baton medium duty, extended use, retractable.” He looked up and handed me a small account chit. “You’ll have to pick up your ammunition and other equipment at the armory.”

  “Thank you,” I said while slipping the chit into a hip pocket. “Again, sorry about the trouble.”

  “I’m sure you get it all the time.”

  “It depends.” I licked a blood bead from my thumb. “Hey, is there a place to change? Maybe I’d get less flack if I looked a little more respectable.”

  “Flack? Probably true.” He pointed. “There’s a common area down the corridor about forty meters, to your left. You should be able to clean up. For two credits I can enable water access.” His eyes held some concern. “Specialist, shouldn’t you have requisitioned some medical equipment?”

  “I have water, and a first aid kit in my cart. Just haven’t had the time to use it.”

  “We just stocked a large medical shipment. Medical kits, good ones. Usually they’re in demand.” He prepared to enter the request. “I have some older ones that are still good. Won’t cost much.”

  “Sorry, but you’ve seen my account. I really can’t afford a new first aid kit.” It was true, for that account. Nice try on dumping more outdated equipment. “My transport will be in soon. I hope to avoid needing one.” I laughed.

  “I do too,” he joked, “but if you can’t, don’t come around here!” He went back to work, sorting data files, or whatever he was assigned when not filling orders.

  I hurried down the corridor and into the common area. It was corporate, but open to the public. I lacked water rights, but needed the space and privacy.

  Two full engineers, wearing the standard dull orange bodysuits and leaving the restroom for the lounge, ignored me. I went into a stall area and unlocked my cart before unfolding and examining the uniform. It was the correct size. It wasn’t labeled as such, but I could tell that it was a high-grade resist synthetic fiber. It offered at least twice the protection against blades and projectile penetration than my current uniform. Negral never would’ve supplied me with this.

  The protective vest was military issue in corporate dress and a little bulky to wear beneath my uniform. I mentally thanked Simms as I stuffed it into my already full cart.

  Before changing uniforms, I pulled out my small first aid kit. I cleaned my cuts and abrasions and wiped around my shoulder’s burn wound, being careful to avoid removal of the ointment. I taped a protective patch over the burn.

  My new uniform fit well. The loose fitting legs covered most of my boots’ laces. There was plenty of room in the arms and shoulders. Simms knew what an R-Tech preferred.

  I left the stall and checked out my uniform in a mirror. It was fine, but I looked pretty bad. The white of my right eye was red. Crusted blood covered small gashes beneath my black eye and my bottom lip. I combed my short hair and used an antiseptic cloth to wipe down my neck, arms and hands. Putting everything away, I headed off for my meal.

  Chapter 11

  Finding life in the Milky Way Galaxy above the microbial level is an infrequent occurrence. Intelligent life, especially that which survived long enough to achieve interstellar travel, is extraordinary by any measure. The only factor that favors such unbelievable odds is the vastness of the universe itself.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, humanity overcame such odds and reached the stars at a time when a fair number of intelligent species roamed the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. Some are civil and hospitable. Others are not. But not by any stretch of the imagination are any, even remotely, human.

  I checked my cart into Negral Corp’s temporary storage outside the hangar bay and glanced at my watch. I hoped O’Vorley was on time as I hustled past the bay toward the dining area.

  The cafeteria had a customary two-line setup. The one for expensive gourmet food was empty. The other line, which featured standard processed food selections, had a few customers. Dock personnel comprised the majority of patrons but a fair number of travelers on layover sat disbursed among the long tables. The attached seats were uncomfortable and discouraged loitering. Few of those not eating were engaged in conversation. Rather, they sat occupied with their computer clips and personal entertainment systems.

  Movement near the left entrance caught my attention. It was O’Vorley, beckoning, so I headed that way.

  O’Vorley said, “You made it on time, Specialist Keesay.”

  “You seem surprised. And call me Kra, if you like.” A pair of engineering techs, one heavy set, crowded past. “We’re in the way here. Let’s sit down.” I took the nearest empty wall seat.

  O’Vorley sat across from me. “You can call me Kent.” He handed me a small transparent card with an imbedded microchip. “I picked up your chit at HQ. Investigator Simms must have thought a lot of your effort.”

  “Why do you say that?” This chit appeared identical to any other. “How much is on it?”

  “Enough for you to try the gourmet line and then some.”

  “Is it
limited?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it only good for meals?” I tapped it on the table. “Or can I use it elsewhere on the station?”

  “It’s a voucher for food, and lodging. You’ve got an upgraded room for the evening. I just didn’t get around to telling you that. It might be transferable to medical.” After I didn’t comment he turned and looked at the lines. “Are you hungry? I can meet you back here.”

  My shoulder felt pretty good; the ointment was working wonders. I’d wait to see the medic onboard the Kalavar. “We’ll both go for the usual. My treat.” I stood, waiting for O’Vorley. “Don’t look puzzled. If I try the good stuff, I’ll end up missing it later.”

  He frowned. “I know what you mean. I miss my mom’s cooking.”

  “I’m sure what they have here’s better than what they served on Pluto.” I grabbed a tray and followed O’Vorley. “I know it’s synthesized protein, but you’d think they could conceal it.”

  “I’ve only eaten at the company cafeteria,” O’Vorley said, letting a lady tourist ahead of us. “I hear it’s better here. But Quinn only covers seventy percent.”

  He moved to the first station. I handed him my card before he ran the back of his hand over the scanner. “I said it’s on me. Keep the thirty percent in your account.”

  “Okay,” he smiled back, “just didn’t want to be presumptuous.” He ran my card and handed it back. “Avoid the pork.”

  “Good,” I said, “I prefer chicken.”

  We moved through the line, stopping at each automated station and tapped in our order from the limited selection. Simulated ground beef, chicken patty, or pork chop for the main course with instant potatoes, rice or synthesized carrot sticks for the vegetable, and a variety of gelatin deserts.

  I ordered rice and red gelatin with my chicken. O’Vorley had skipped the main course and ordered rice with double carrots.

  “How’s the water?” I asked. “Metallic?”

  “Yeah, I’d recommend the juice.”

  I took the orange juice with the standard vitamin supplement added and followed O’Vorley back to our seats. I wasn’t paying attention and almost tripped over a Chicher. Luckily it scurried out of the way. “Oops,” I said automatically, trying to keep my tray’s contents onboard.

  The rat-like alien chattered while an awkward translator device attached to an equipment harness replied, after a second’s delay, “Yes, my near tumble as well.”

  It would have been an excellent chance to try my limited sign language skills, but my hands were occupied with a tray. Besides, the Chicher had already scampered off toward the line.

  “I see you nearly stepped on our newest ally,” O’Vorley said.

  “What?” I sat down. “We’re teaming up with those guys?” I looked over O’Vorley’s shoulder toward the line. “For trade? Exploration?”

  “Maybe military,” O’Vorley said. “It was on the holo-news this morning before I went on shift.” He picked up his fork, preparing to dig in. “Said the government is working for cooperative efforts on all fronts.”

  I thought a moment as I tried the chicken. It wasn’t bad for artificial rations. The Chicher had disappeared from view. That wasn’t surprising considering the alien’s small size.

  “But they’re high R-Tech at best,” commented O’Vorley, after swallowing. “What can they offer?” He pierced another carrot with his narrow fork.

  “We humans don’t exactly have a lot of allies,” I said. “Just the Umbelgarri.”

  “Good point,” he agreed. “Safety in numbers.”

  “Plus,” I added, “they’ve been out in space for decades. A lot longer than us.” Technically, humans have probably been in space longer, but not beyond our own solar system. O’Vorley knew what I meant.

  “I’d like to know how they did that, being only R-Tech and all.” O’Vorley stifled a laugh. “I heard they still use vacuum tubes.”

  “Their computers probably are bigger and slower. Main systems certainly aren’t quantum. It takes them longer to get anywhere. But somehow they figured it out on their own.” I pointed at my tray. “This food isn’t too bad.”

  “They didn’t have anyone sponsor them,” said O’Vorley. “Or not directly. The Felgans were the first to encounter them—tried to conquer them two centuries ago. The Chicher were only exploring their own little solar system at the time.” The young security specialist paused to look around and took a drink before continuing. “Somehow ran the invading Felgans off.”

  “You know a bit about the Rats,” I said. “You like’em?”

  O'Vorley was a fast eater. “No. My senior cultural thesis was on them.” He shook his head after taking another drink of his pink juice. “Assigned to me—but it could’ve been worse.”

  “They certainly look like giant rats,” I said. “Maybe a little squirrelish.”

  “Yeah. They sound like squirrels more than a squeaking rat.” Waving his arm like a snake, O’Vorley added, “You know they have prehensile tails.”

  “No,” I admitted, “never studied up on them. Maybe I should have.” A crowd poured into the cafeteria. “A big shuttle must’ve landed. Anyway, what grade did you get?”

  “I got a passing score, let’s leave it at that. At least there was some data on them.”

  “True,” I said. “You could’ve been assigned the Umbelgarri. Who knows much about them?” I shook my head. “I’ve read in depth about the Silicate War. Studied the battles and all. The Umbelgarri are really our only ally and we know hardly anything about them.”

  “I’m like everybody else on that one.” He got serious. “Kra, you think the Crax are...”

  I cut him off with a quick hand gesture. “Speaking of friends...”

  The Chicher approached our table. Its high-pitched chattering was translated, “Do you humans mind if I nibble in your company?”

  O’Vorley looked to me. I said, “Sure, but we’re almost finished.”

  The Chicher’s ears shot back for a fraction of a second, nearly knocking its earpiece out. “No intention to disturb you,” it said, turning awkwardly on its hind legs. “Delight in the orb passing.” The translation device finished a second after the fur-covered alien began moving away in its bipedal gate.

  “I think I insulted it—him. Do you think?”

  “Kind of hard to tell,” O’Vorley said. “His translator was hard to follow.”

  I reviewed the brief conversation, then got up. “I’ll be right back. No sense insulting our newest ally.”

  The skittish, or at least wary, rodent was trying to make its way through the moving crowd. Being just over three feet tall while upright wasn’t helping. Few people bothered to look down or pay attention. Kind of funny, I thought. If they actually looked down, they might step far around a forty-pound rat. And the fact the Chicher wasn’t a natural biped added further difficulty. Still, with utmost patience, he was doing his best to balance his tray and make it to an open seat across the main walkway.

  Hurrying ahead, I ran interference for him. When we got to his targeted table I made my apology. “Sir, forgive my unclear statement.” I helped with his tray as he climbed onto the seat. “In a direct translation, my response to your direct question was ambiguous.” I waited a second for the translation device to catch up. The alien received the interpretation by means of a thin wire that ran along the harness up to a small earpiece. “In normal human conversation, my response was one of welcome, but simply informing you that we were nearing the end of our meal.”

  The alien’s narrow face observed me for a second before chattering a response. “Your effort is seen. My errant sound snatch.” He tapped his saucer-shaped translator hanging across his chest. “It must have better input sorting and reporting. Good you spoke to me as a surrogate pack member.”

  The Chicher sat on his haunches and placed his paw, or hand, on his plate filled with a real fish and several nuts from the gourmet line. “You are done nibbling,” the alien con
tinued after scrutinizing my uniform. “You have tasks, Security Man. Maybe a different orb passing we nibble?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. With a simple sign language gesture, I said, “Good bye.” I must have been successful, as his response was the same. With a measure of satisfaction I returned to my seat.

  O’Vorley asked, “What’d he say?”

  “Not much.” I sat down and finished my drink. “Seems friendly enough. I wonder why other races avoid them?”

  “Maybe they steal technology. Could be that’s how they’re at such a low tech level and still travel across space.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s possible that they’re just advanced in some areas and behind in others.” I lightly rubbed my injured shoulder. “The medical technology of the V’Gun far surpasses most races from what I’ve read. But they still can’t figure out how to build a fusion reactor, let alone a cascading atomic engine.”

  “Yeah,” agreed O’Vorley, “but neither could we until the Umbelgarri gave us technical support.”

  “That’s my point. The Crax are supposed to have been sponsors of the V’Gun for decades, but the V’Gun still can’t build a space-faring ship.” I leaned closer, pointing to my head. “Don’t you see? Different aliens are wired up here differently.” I tried to think of a reasonable analogy. “Just like some people make better artists and others make better engineers. Maybe their whole race is hooked up to be artists and not engineers.”

  “But they know medicine.”

  “You’re missing my point,” I said. “Having an innate ability or a high level of knowledge in biochemistry doesn’t necessarily translate to same—equivalent technical ability in quantum mechanics or astrophysics.” I leaned back. “Or not at least by our standards.”

  “I think I understand,” he said. “Speaking of the Crax and the Umbelgarri.” He leaned closer and finished, “Do you think they’ll go to war?”

  He’d started this topic before. I didn’t know why he thought I’d have any special knowledge, but I’d read a lot on it. More than most. Certainly more than I had on the Chicher. I leaned a little closer as well. “Seems likely. The Umbelgarri took a real beating in the war. They’ve been holding their own, but with their homeworld destroyed, they’re at a big disadvantage.”