Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  I was correct in my assumption that the shuttle wouldn’t be crowded, nor was the bay area when I checked my cart. For breakfast I selected a double order of toast, synthetic eggs and orange juice along with a vitamin supplement. Bread was the only authentic item available in the standard processed food line.

  After breakfast, I stopped at a patron service station to confirm my ordered equipment was scheduled for transfer to the Kalavar. I then commissioned a courier-bot to deliver my note to O’Vorley and transferred what was left on my chit to my personal account. I could’ve sent Kent’s note electronically, but those are impersonal.

  I made my way to the lounge area and sat in one of their meagerly padded chairs. I spotted Smith and his squad heading for a meal before forming up. I also saw a Chicher, possibly the one from the day before, scamper to the gourmet line.

  With nothing else to do but wait, I pulled down the overhead computer clip and set it to inform me when the Kalavar arrived. I spent the rest of my time reading the InterStellar Times News Update. Computer magazines, still called ezines by most, and made available compliments of space docks, are usually more advertisements and propaganda than hard news, but they’re better than nothing.

  While skimming an article on an attempted hostile takeover of 14th Venture Travels by CGIG, the preset docking indicator flashed. I switched the screen over to watch the docking approach. The Kalavar wasn’t large by today’s standards, being about the size of a World War II era battleship. Today, anything built under a kilometer in length is considered, at best, medium class.

  I’d researched the Kalavar. Originally her exterior had been sleek. But her modernization included a series of armor plates patched over most of the hull. It made the transport appear boxier than her designers ever intended. Since the vessel no longer served as a high-class transport catering to the wealthy, fashion was no longer a consideration. The patchwork reminded me of the Iron Armadillo’s exterior. A tingle of excitement ran down my spine.

  I retrieved my cart and waited in the contract employee section along with a few technicians and their automated carts. I’d dined next to one tech planetside; she had nothing to say to me then. I knew better than trying to start a conversation then, and now. They felt the same about me. Still, I gathered from their whispers that they were new hires as well.

  Shortly after the ship docked, a cross-looking class 2 Sec-Spec by the name of Club, sporting an Emigration Official patch, scanned our V-ID and checked us in. Upon closer observation, she appeared more exhausted than angry.

  “Specialist Keesay,” she said, “report immediately to Security Chief Brold. Your possessions will be delivered to your quarters.” Before I could ask, she finished. “Deck Three, below aft-observation.”

  The C2 didn’t appear open to questions. “Thank you, Specialist Club,” I said. I’d studied a basic layout of the old civil transports and modernization upgrades for interstellar travel. If there was an aft-observation located above the engines, then there must be some sort of weapons mount on Deck 1. Interesting, I thought, as I boarded.

  The vessel retained much of its old design as evidenced by the low ceilings and numerous pipes and conduits. A few new lines had been added. As on freighters or military vessels, placing them out of sight wasn’t a priority. I moved from portside, aft and upward, observing that the Kalavar had received more than one round of upgrades. Medium transports normally have a minimum crew of 50 technicians and engineers, in addition to general maintenance, service, and support staff. I had no idea the complement of security personnel on board. I passed only one person, wearing soiled, tan coveralls. Apparently they kept maintenance techs busy.

  Hesitating only once or twice to get my bearings, I thought about the name of the chief. Simms said his name was Corbin. Maybe a change in personnel or an unlikely error on Simms’s part.

  I arrived just as a pilot in a flight suit exited the security chief’s office. No one was in the outer office. Before I announced myself to the monitor, the door opened. “Enter, Specialist Keesay,” ordered a deep, gruff voice.

  Behind a broad desk sat a man with gray eyes and even grayer hair. His crew cut suggested a military background. Despite the gray, his build and attitude indicated anything but elderly. I took in all of this, including the nameplate, while coming to attention. It read ‘Security Chief Corbin Brold.’

  He pulled a small reddish stick from the corner of his mouth before addressing me. “Specialist Keesay, it seems you had a little action before we arrived. Quite a shiner.” He smiled. “Do you know why you’re here, Specialist?”

  His insignia identified him as a C1. “To serve aboard the Kalavar as a security specialist.”

  “Do you know why they hired you?”

  “My training and experience qualified me for the position.” He sat stone-faced. “And I understand that there is a shortage of security specialists currently available.” No response. “And that as a C4 I could do the same job for less, meaning more profit for Negral Corp.” I didn’t even think he was breathing. “Random luck, Chief?”

  “Don’t know, do you, Keesay?” he said. “They didn’t exactly consult me either. Any or all of your reasons may be correct.” He leaned back. “Fact is, you’re here.” He quickly sat forward. “Damn. Step around here, Keesay.”

  I did, and looked down at his desk and followed his finger. One of the multiple surveillance screens showed a man in uniform heading down a corridor.

  “That’s the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Carlos Devans. A company man. Smart, but a pain in the ass.” With a tap he enlarged the screen. “See that weasel-eatin’ grin?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “That means he’s got an idea.” He switched screens as the lieutenant commander turned a corner. “And he’s heading this way.”

  The chief slid the red toothpick back into the corner of his mouth. “Your first assignment is to stall him. Then, your second assignment is to familiarize yourself with the ship.” He finished with a business-like tone. “Report back here in three hours.”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” I said, studying the screen.

  “Turn right on your way out,” Chief Brold suggested. “You’ve got about ninety seconds.”

  I turned and checked my watch. Three hours. Now to stall. I left the chief, turned right and strode down the corridor with a purpose.

  This was a test to be sure. Of what? Ingenuity? The ability to respond? Maybe the chief wanted to finish a cup of coffee. I’d heard rumors that Negral supplied unusual fare, on occasion, to its crew.

  I trotted down the corridor, refocusing on the task at hand. I didn’t want to foster a bad first impression with the XO, nor did I want to tinker with any of equipment in the halls, which might ultimately cause somebody grief. Ahead I saw an old man moving with a bow-legged shuffle, examining the walls, pipes and grating. He had thinning, gray hair and a well-manicured mustache.

  The man had to be a centenarian, or older. He wore an aging leather tool belt carrying wrenches, pliers, and other old-style tools. A loose-fitting, faded black uniform draped his wiry frame. The color black didn’t conform to standard ID of a specific specialization.

  As I approached, he smiled. “You look to be in a hurry there.” He eyed my healing cuts and bruises through a set of half glasses.

  “I am just that...” There wasn’t an ID tag on his coveralls. “Maintenance Specialist?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not a part of any specialist conglomeration.”

  “You’re right, I am in a hurry.” Viewing his tool belt, I asked, “Say, do you have anything that I can borrow to reach down through a floor grating access port?”

  “Sure do,” he said, pulling out a flexible rod with a small claw-like tip. “Just grip it like this, and use your thumb on the plunger to open it.”

  “Great! Exactly what I need. I’ll get it back to you in about ten minutes?”

  “No need rushin’. I’ll be around.”

  “Thank You, Mr...”


  “Just Elmer, but my friends call me Mer.”

  “Thanks, Mer. Just call me Kra. Love to chat, but I’ve got to go!”

  He shuffled aside and chuckled. “No problem.”

  I hustled down the corridor, scanning the floor for an access hole in the grating. I came across one along the wall. It had a five-inch diameter. I reached into my pocket and produced an ever-handy gum-wrap. Looking through the grate, I lowered the candy through the unused port, and flipped it toward the center of the floor. It landed just beyond some conduits about three feet away. They conveniently obstructed a floor level view of the candy. Perfect, just in time.

  Around a corner strode the executive officer. He spotted me on the floor with my arm in the access hole. I looked up with a surprised expression before removing my arm and standing at attention. I saw more clearly what the chief meant by the XO’s smile. It was serious, whetted with a hint of wiliness.

  He stopped and appraised me. “At ease, Specialist.” His voice wasn’t deep, but it resonated. A contrast to my initial assessment. He caught my eyes darting a glance through the grating as I relaxed.

  Looking at my hand and then my ID patch, he continued, “What have you got there, Security Specialist Keesay?”

  I didn’t know the term for the tool. “A tubular grasping device, sir.”

  “And what are you attempting to do with your, grasping device?” He scrutinized my sleeve. “You’re not auxiliary maintenance.”

  Reestablishing eye contact, I said, “I was just leaving Chief Brold’s office, and preparing for my ordered tour of the Kalavar.” I looked around and didn’t spot the old fellow. “I was considering celebrating my new assignment with a gum-wrap, authentic sugar. As you can see, it ended up under the grating. Out of reach.”

  “Chief Brold’s office.” He nodded. “Where did you obtain the device?”

  “I came across what appeared to be a maintenance technician. He calls himself Mer.” The XO didn’t respond, so I continued. “I borrowed this from him. I should have requested his assistance.” He seemed to be taking all of this in. I hoped he responded to my leading statement.

  “And why would you need his assistance?”

  “The gum-wrap is too far to reach by hand a find by touch, sir. When on the floor, the view is obstructed by the conduit piping.”

  “Do you have a solution to this dilemma?”

  “Actually, I do, sir. If you would be willing to direct me as I attempt to reach the wrap, we could commemorate the occasion.” It was worth a shot. The XO seemed friendly enough. “I would be willing to split it with you, sir.

  “Is this how you mark your experience aboard each new vessel, Specialist?”

  I detected a hint of skepticism. “Actually, sir, this is my first assignment aboard an interstellar vessel. My other assignments were in the Solar System.”

  “I cannot chew gum while on duty, Specialist.”

  “I understand, sir. Sorry to have detained you from your business.” I stepped out of his path and waited for him to pass.

  “Can you be quick about it, Specialist? Wouldn’t want any rats, or crew with better equipment to run off with your valuable prize while you’re off seeking assistance. Would we?” He winked.

  I smiled back. “No, sir.”

  I bent down and went to work, not wasting any time. I’d played my hand as best I could. Besides, Lt. Commander Devans was very adept at providing directions. Appearing inept at following them didn’t seem wise. Within twenty seconds I’d retrieved the candy and stood at attention. “Thank you, sir.” I held out the gum wrap.

  “You are welcome, Specialist,” he said before turning to leave. “Now I am off to see the security chief.”

  I acted surprised at his statement, unsure how convincing I was. As soon as he was out of sight, I went looking for Mer. I checked my watch and estimated the XO’s delay to be almost four minutes. I hoped it was enough.

  Ten minutes later I located the old maintenance worker inspecting a series of rivets along the wall. “Elmer,” I said, holding out the tool. “Thanks for the loan.”

  “Mer,” he said. “Remember?” He replaced the tool in his belt and looked me over. “An R-Tech, and space faring too.”

  “Not that unusual,” I said.

  “What ships you been on?”

  “Not many. What about you? Those don’t appear to be the accessories of your average computer engineer.”

  “Hee Hee,” he laughed. “No, they ain’t.” He put a calloused hand on my shoulder. “It’s just you and me, Kra. The only R-Techs, ’till the passengers board.”

  “We’re hauling R-Techs?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That’s what I hear. I’m sure your boss’ll fill you in.”

  “You’re not an official part of the crew. What are you? A passenger working off debt?”

  “Something like that, but the other way around.” He pulled a rag and wiped the rivet. “It’d take a long time to explain.”

  “You know this vessel,” I said. “Pretty well I bet.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Sure do.”

  “If you’re not part of the crew, then you’re not on duty.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Maybe you could help me out. Chief Brold suggested I take some time to get the Kalavar’s layout. I’ve studied the diagrams and blueprints, but I’ll still be stumbling around.” His face lit up. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all, there,” he said, removing his glasses. “Looks like you’ve had a rough time, and about due for a good turn.”

  “That’s a long story, too,” I said. “I’ve got about two hours to get the layout. Whatever time you can spare.”

  “That should be just enough time, and maybe get your story in. This way, Kra. We’ll start at the beginning.” He led me down the corridor. “The Kalavar is now classified as a medium class transport because she’s less than two-hundred and fifty meters long.” The word meter rolled stiffly off his tongue. “Still,” he continued, “she displaces over two-hundred thousand cubic meters. In her day, she was a top-of-the-line transport, ferrying important businessmen and the rich from Earth to Mars, and back.”

  His voice had taken on a distant tone, but seemed to snap back. “That was before the war, and before the Phibs taught us to condense space. Nothing fancy anymore, especially after the armor plating.” He pointed and gestured as we continued. “We’re heading to the front of the ship. See these new conduits? The metallic red ones?”

  “Yes, I noticed them earlier.”

  “They run to the outer hull and power the anti-grav panels. They put in a space-condensing engine too. So now she’s interstellar.”

  “Wasn’t the Kalavar in mothballs?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he acknowledged. “During the Silicate War the Kalavar was converted. Part of her ventral section was gutted and turned into a cargo hold. Some of the passenger compartments were knocked out and turned into freight areas. Then, after the war, she was mothballed. Set in orbit around Venus.” He sighed. “That was a long dark time for me.”

  I looked at him, but before I could say anything, he cut in, “We’ll get to that some other time. Anyways, she was set to orbiting Venus with all of the other obsoletes. Everything of value’d been stripped. Just a few controls for the secondary engines.” He looked to see if I was following. “They tore out the main, center engine.”

  He seemed pretty spry, and walked at a decent pace. I wanted to ask how old he was, and why he was so familiar with the Kalavar’s history, but didn’t and, instead, kept looking around, familiarizing myself as much as I could. We passed few crewmen. Occasionally, I spotted recessed security cameras. “Why didn’t they take them all out?”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “The engines, I mean.”

  “In case the military wanted to use her for target practice,” he said with muffled ire. “But the Kalavar got a second lease on life. About four years ago Negral Corp bought her, and rebuilt her. Li
ke I said, made her interstellar.”

  “Must’ve been expensive.”

  “Sure was, but the shipyards are running full capacity. Years behind on their contracts.”

  “Negral probably didn’t have the pull,” I agreed.

  “True, but they got a deal. They don’t make them like this anymore.” We were past mid-ship and nearing the front of the vessel. He shifted to a business tone. “Like I said, start at the beginning.”

  I was about to ask his connection to the Kalavar when a small hand-held radio hanging from his belt crackled. “Mer, this is Chief Brold.”

  He grabbed the radio and held it close to his mouth. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Send Specialist Keesay to Medical, immediately. I mean now! Understood?”

  “Sure thing, Chief. Pronto.” Mer looked at me. “Sounds like he wants you there yesterday.” He signaled to me follow him. I jogged to keep up with his shuffling gait.

  “I’ll show you the short cut,” he said, leading me toward the outer hull. “All of these red lines run together. Some places there are powered maintenance sleds along them. Faster than by foot and lifts.” He wasn’t losing his breath.

  “The chief sounded a bit excited,” I said. “Out of character isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  Chapter 15

  Companies have tripped over themselves to explore and establish a presence just outside the relatively barren security zone. As the border region of space is not under explicit treaty restrictions, interstellar vessels of other races have been spotted and may be establishing a presence. Not all races are friendly to humans, and some are not hospitable toward other regional alien explorers. Galactic colonization is a dangerous game and humans are new to it.

  We stopped under merging red conduits that carried power for the anti-gravity plates. “Up here,” urged Mer, climbing a recessed ladder with a penlight clamped between his teeth. “It’s cramped.”

  I crawled after him between the deck levels, following the conduits. I focused my own pocket flashlight and watched him tap keys on a panel. He whispered, and the cramped section lit up.