Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  Frost ignored my discomfort. “You probably wouldn’t,” admitted Frost. “Seen him working out and eating with your pals Gudkov and McAllister.”

  McAllister’s dislike of me had to be common knowledge. I wondered if Frost knew why. I was silent, so he continued. “Haxon politely avoids contact with me, too.” The elevator door slid open. Frost slapped me on the shoulder. “His loss, right?”

  “Correct,” I replied, and led the way down the pallet-narrowed corridor past two maintenance and one engineering tech. “I pulled duty with Club. What about you?”

  “Have to monitor a team of exploration scientists as they load the rest of their equipment. Then liaison with dock security before departure.” He paused. “Did you see their fancy exploration shuttle?”

  “From a distance. Why?”

  “A lot of what you’d call bells and whistles. Maybe even some A-Tech,” he whispered, and nodded once.

  Interesting, I thought, but sloughed it off. “All the same to me.”

  “You’re a lot more up to speed than you pretend. You and your archaic firearm there.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I leaned close. “I won’t let it get around.”

  Specialist Club stood waiting in the doorway. “Glad to see you gentlemen are early. Not a lot to cover, but a lot to do after.” She ushered us, the last to arrive, in.

  The meeting lasted four minutes. We reviewed assignments with a lot of nodding and no questions. As soon as it was over I crowded next to Specialist Club. “Meet you at the main docking hatch in twenty minutes?”

  “Keesay, where’s your sec-bot?”

  I surveyed the room and didn’t see her assigned sec-bot. “Lefty is on a mission. Should be at my quarters in five minutes.”

  She said, “I sent Rusty to ensure no errant passengers wander near the forward engine room.”

  “Rusty?” I licked my teeth to suppress a smile.

  “By your schedule, you have nineteen minutes to meet me at the hatch, Specialist. You and your robotic assistant.”

  I stood at attention, nodded and shot off. En route, I contacted my sec-bot and met it at my quarters. I grabbed my cleaned pump shotgun, and slid eight extra shells in my belt loops and a half-dozen slug rounds in an empty thigh pocket. My robot already had a box of fifty revolver rounds in its storage compartment. Recalling the incident in the med lab, and the explosive device on my cart, I attached a flash-stun grenade to my belt. It was one of two I’d inspected.

  I pondered the robot. It had a teargas canister, so I exchanged my teargas shotgun shells for three light shot. Along with my flare rounds, they’d be firepower without lethality. I buttoned the vest pocket. “Lefty, follow me to the main docking hatch.”

  Overnight the Kalavar had aligned with one of the passenger loading bays. Specialist Club stood at the hatch with her heavy-duty laser pistol and shoulder power pack. She eyed my slung shotgun, then shifted to my bayonet. “Are we expecting trouble?”

  “No. But recently I’ve experienced situations where a little more firepower would’ve been handy.” I dropped my gaze to her power pack. “Should I be expecting trouble?” Maybe she knew something I didn’t.

  “You? No,” she said, stifling a yawn before pointing to her patch. “You’re not the emigration official.” She looked down the corridor. “Medical will supply personnel to scan V-IDs and engineering a few techs to scan and monitor passengers and carry-ons. First Class, then standard passage.”

  “The colonists will board last,” I added. “Already been scanned. Their gear,” what there is of it, I thought, before finishing, “has been checked and loaded.”

  Club looked impatient. “They’re being held in a waiting area adjoining the passenger bay.” She indicated a closed doorway to the left.

  I looked in. “Did we upset somebody?”

  “Middle of renovation.” She eyed the unfinished walls and high ceiling. “Acceptable. Acoustical tiling and lighting. Just not the final touches.”

  I frowned at the temporary rows of seats. “Doesn’t look very efficient.”

  “It’ll double as a multipurpose auditorium. Concerts, catering hall, conference center.”

  Near the docking hatch, two long folding tables had been set up with a red line indicating the proper path to each. About halfway across the bay, maintenance had placed chairs in two columns, three rows deep. Plush padded chairs for first class passengers lined the facing front rows. Bolted down behind them were more rustic versions with flip down seats.

  Passengers filled a dozen of the seats. “Three times as many seats as we’ll need,” I said, knowing passengers would continue to arrive during the boarding process.

  “After we depart, a larger transport’s scheduled to dock. They’ll be short.” Club completed a visual inspection of the area as well. “You plan on fixing that bayonet?”

  “With your sidearm, I’m confident our minimum intimidation requirement has been met.” She cracked a smile, but it faded, adding annoyance to signs of fatigue. Not a good combination.

  “Maybe your associate, Anatol Gudkov, will weld some charioteer spikes on Lefty?” She nudged the sec-bot with her boot. I was unsure how to respond. Humor might alleviate the situation now, but the potential long-term consequences with Gudkov were unknown. She observed my silence and stared ahead. “First class are the worst.”

  I double-checked my gear. “Really?”

  “The Kalavar’s a fine ship, but not top of the luxury line. If they really had credits—”

  “I know the type,” I cut in. “Like to posture for all to see.” And prone to look even further down their nose at an R-Tech. I thought better of verbalizing the second opinion.

  “Usually, not even big fish in a small pond.” She looked around again, checked her watch and flexed her fingers.

  It’d be a long morning if Specialist Club became really irritated. “More like a mid-growth mackerel in a tidal pool?”

  My last comment interrupted her thoughts. “You have the situation. No need to explain the standard passengers.” Several medical and administrative personnel rounded a corner. Club signaled to the senior med tech.

  Janice Tahgs was part of the team. I nodded when she winked. She’d added a light violet nail polish to match her eyes. Janice looked around, oblivious to Club’s muffled verbal lashing of her superior.

  “Come on, Keesay,” said Club. “We’ve got a duty to perform. Let’s do it efficiently.” We walked in, followed by the administrative team. Two engineering techs arrived to assist. They avoided Club by tying the portable computers to the scanning equipment.

  “We’ll have Lefty remain in view off to the side.” She led me away from the crew. “They’ve tried adjusting the scanners to pick up equipment similar to the explosive device set by Tech Stardz.”

  I’d been intentionally left out of that ongoing investigation, so I didn’t ask any questions, but hoped Club would clue me in. She didn’t.

  “Senior Engineer McAllister finished this morning and thinks it’ll work.”

  “I understand she is very good.” I tried to erase the image of a bull’s-eye painted on my forehead. Even so, a thought recurred several times...would McAllister do her best, knowing her efforts might prevent my suffering and demise?

  “Okay, Keesay,” Club said. “They’re about set up. We’ll have two scanners running. Two lines.” We walked over to the tables. “You take station at the front. Direct and kind of loiter in between, keeping an eye on things. Keep it moving.” She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll be monitoring the scanning of the carry-on possessions.” She observed the growing crowd seated about twenty yards away. “No assistance from dock security today. Anyone suspicious, signal me and be sure they go to the right-hand scanner.” She seemed a little tense for routine boarding duty. “I’ll take it from there.”

  I checked my watch and scanned the crowd. “Two minutes,” I said. “The teams look ready. We could start early.”

  “No sense giving pa
ssengers the idea we don’t stick to a posted schedule.” Club cracked her knuckles. “You look a little edgy. What kind of a grenade is that?”

  I put my hand on it. “Flash-stun.”

  “Not fragmentation? They don’t know that.” She smiled, eyeing the first class crowd. “They should be the edgy ones.” She checked the chronometer above the hatch. “Minute and a half and you can get them started.” She moved behind the two tables, hands on her hips, and waited.

  Janice caught my attention, so I walked over. “Expecting trouble?” she asked.

  I ran my thumb under the rifle sling to adjust my shotgun. “Expecting? No. Better to be prepared.” I stood next to the table and evaluated the crowd. Some were chronometer watching. The majority sat engrossed in their computer clips while the rest wore entertainment headgear. Most had the goggles, but a few sported the more advanced glasses. Very modern and very expensive. “Your team was running behind?”

  “Technical trouble,” she said. “Think any of them are terrorists?”

  “About as likely as shooting the moon with no face cards.” I tapped my watch. “As the chief would say, time to earn our keep.”

  With a mild sense of urgency she asked, “Will you have time for dinner? Benny says that they’re working you pretty hard.”

  “We’re short of personnel, but if things run smoothly, I should be able to meet you at eighteen-hundred hours.” Specialist Club signaled the go ahead. “Duty calls.”

  I walked forward about ten paces and centered myself between the red lines. In front of me was a four-foot diameter red circle. As soon as I began to speak, the holding circle and lines shifted to glow an emerald green. “First class may begin boarding.” I didn’t bother tying into the speaker system. “Advance to the check-in stations along the green lines.”

  Most of the first class passengers acted as if they had all the time in the world. I was tempted to issue the last call for first class, but knew better.

  Several had advanced through when an older couple leading two muscular canines caught my eye. Once they’d crossed the bay the graying man said, “Good morning, Specialist Keesay,” after reading my tag. His pet awkwardly sat when he stopped to talk. His wife followed, and smiled. She wore an imitation straw-weave hat with a long white and red-tipped feather. Her dog sat and began to pant.

  “Bulldogs?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Very perceptive, young man,” the gentleman said. “Natural conception, purebred English Bulldogs.” He stooped to pat the canine. “Both champions.”

  “And they’re certified for condensed space travel,” boasted the woman.

  I knew they desired to chat about their pets, but I had to keep alert and the line moving. “Exceptional canine specimens,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “I believe the left scanner is open.” The red section of the line in front of the couple leading to Specialist Club changed to green.

  “Thank you, young man,” said the gentleman. Without urging, his dog led the way.

  “Come on, Daisy,” said the woman. The dog ambled ahead. “See you on board, young man.”

  First class and R-Tech, I thought. The old couple should vex some of the passengers. Maybe some of the crew. I signaled the next passenger from the padded seating. The mid-level, well dressed, businessman had anticipated and deactivated a belt-mounted relay and pocketed his entertainment glasses. Waiting about fifteen seconds, he pretended he’d decided to enter the holding circle on his own initiative.

  That gave me an instant to think. The models of entertainment glasses I’d read about always advertised the fact that they didn’t require a bulky support box. The older model goggles did. Something about his stare before he got up. I decided to send him to Specialist Club’s post.

  The line to the left switched green. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, halting the man’s progress. “Please wait for the right line to open.”

  The passenger feigned politeness. “Is there any particular reason?”

  “Sir, you may wait here until the right line opens. Or you may return to your seat and I will signal you directly when it does.”

  “I do not appreciate this delay, Specialist 4th Class.”

  I glanced at the sec-bot, then back at the man. “On behalf of Negral Corporation, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  The right lane’s red faded and emitted green. Before I could say anything, the businessman moved on, muttering about being forced to travel on second-rate ships. “Club,” I whispered into my headset. “Special attention to the belt relay.”

  Two more passengers advanced through the left line before I heard a disagreement over my shoulder. “Sir,” Club said, “we will hold this device for further examination.”

  The man shouted, “May I have an explanation for depriving me of my property?”

  Hostile arrogance wouldn’t get him far with Specialist Club. “Sir, I believe your entertainment device contains questionable components.”

  I moved a passenger to the left line and signaled to a bearded, casually dressed vacationer. He seemed interested in the disagreement, and didn’t immediately respond. An anxious woman pretended I had signaled her and rushed forward.

  Club and the businessman continued the heated conversation off to the side. I sent the woman down the right line. The bearded man came forward. He acted extremely uptight for a vacationer. “Is there something I could help you with, sir?”

  I interrupted his concentration on Club’s diplomatic efforts. “No.”

  My idle sec-bot might be useful. “Lefty, go to Specialist Club and await any directives she might provide.” The little robot circled around the lines and took up station behind the irate businessman.

  The vacationer’s shoulders drooped slightly. “What is the problem?” His wording was smooth, but he continued shifting weight from foot to foot, ever so lightly.

  “I am not sure, sir, but I am confident it will be worked out.”

  “Didn’t you send the man down the right line intentionally?”

  “That is correct, sir.” I scrutinized his unusually fresh and crisp traveling attire. He waited, but I didn’t elaborate while formulating a hunch.

  The left line returned to green. The vacationer released a small breath. “May I, Specialist?” he asked, stepping forward.

  “Negative, sir,” I said, taking a step back to keep parallel, “I believe my superior would prefer you advance through the right line.”

  “This line is open,” he said with a tinge of frustration, or restrained anger.

  I looked back at Specialist Tahgs waiting. Our eyes met. The line reverted to red.

  The vacationer looked at the line, to Tahgs, then to me. “Why are you intentionally delaying my passage? I paid for first class. I expect appropriate treatment.”

  Tahgs hadn’t been quick enough, but I held my left hand to my ear and pretended to listen anyway. “Sir, the operator is running a diagnostic and recalibrating the system. It will only take a moment. Please return to the holding circle.”

  A tall olive-skinned woman came striding toward the holding circle. Her low cut, silver bodysuit could’ve been painted on, straining to contain her genetically enhanced chest. The matching satchel held closely against her hip was the only thing not responding to the rhythm of her determined step.

  The vacationer turned as the woman neared. He angled back, out of the holding circle.

  She halted inches from collision, but I held my ground and shot a glance to the gawking vacationer. “You, sir, do not leave.” I swung my vision directly into the tall brunette’s green eyes, something with which she was certainly unfamiliar. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

  “Indeed there is,” she said, with what might have been an exotic Latin American accent. “Why do you insist on unnecessary delays? The left line is open.” She pointed before shifting her stance with a jolt, sending waves of movement through her upper torso. Her right hand rested on her hip, but her eyes remained locked with mine. They were far
older than her skin and figure suggested.

  “Ma’am,” I began.

  “Ms. Jamayka Jazarine to you, Specialist.”

  Something clicked. These two were a working pair. The vacationer was probably the mule carrying some sort of contraband and the exotic dancer was the interference. “Ms. Jazarine, thank you for your concern over the boarding schedule. However, I suggest you return to the seating area, or your passage aboard the Kalavar will be revoked.”

  With a huff, she spun, slapping me with her satchel and stepped into her partner, bumping him aside. “Excuse me,” he said. She didn’t bother to acknowledge and stomped away.

  “The right line is now clear for advance, sir,” I said to the vacationer as he turned his attention back to me.

  “Might be an enjoyable trip,” he said, grinning and scratching his beard.

  “Club,” I whispered into my com-set. “Sending a possible mule working with the exotic dancer in silver.”

  “Acknowledged. The last fellow appears to have unauthorized V’Gun components running his entertainment system.”

  “Lefty,” I whispered. “Monitor and record the female who just departed the holding circle. Let me know if she passes anything to another passenger.”

  “Directive enacted,” responded the sec-bot as it edged toward the passengers.

  Banned black market parts, I thought. The V’Gun are highly advanced in biotechnology. Reportedly, components incorporated with their knowledge offer greatly enhanced sensory interaction. Research also indicates their use leads to mental addiction, unless used in extreme moderation, which was a possible explanation for the businessman’s stare and subsequent irate behavior. The offender’s equipment had already been confiscated and a substantial fine would follow, if the initial readings proved accurate. Maybe the fine would actually be enough to hurt. I waved forward an executive toting a large briefcase.

  “Smooth talking with the dancer,” teased Tahgs over my com-set. “So I guess we’re still on for dinner?”