Relic Tech

by Terry W. Ervin II

  “Do you really think your pals will be able to commandeer the tug for their escape?”

  “If it’s still in orbit,” reminded Guerrero. “It’ll be manned by a CGIG crew.”

  “Once the pilots know the truth, they won’t want to stay here. Tug crews are small, and they won’t be expecting it.” Boyd scratched on the ice floor. “In the hangar, there’re two shuttles capable of condensed space. Not fast but capable. We’ll take one. Anybody else who has an itching to depart can take the other.”

  I grinned and winked to McAllister. “Like the depressed scientists, once our friendly engineer trashes their system and files, and I do whatever I can to increase the mayhem.”

  “You sure you can do it?” asked Guerrero.

  McAllister turned a little red, but controlled her temper. “Even incorporated some of Odthe’s programming obtained from the Shiggs. That should provide some additional assistance, along with Boyd’s access codes.”

  “Assuming the codes are still active,” I said. “If not, we play it by ear.”

  “They’ll still have the backup files on the orbiting platform,” warned Guerrero.

  “Our escape will be bad enough,” I said. “Any damage we do down here will be icing on the cake. Even if we could fire on the platform, they’d be on us that much sooner.”

  “We have to be on the move two hours before dawn,” Boyd said. “Let’s pack and sleep.”

  No one argued. No one mentioned the elephant in the igloo: The question of Pilot Boyd’s loyalty.

  We stumbled into a perimeter relay just before sunrise. McAllister’s techno-wizardry slid us past the first hurdle. The frigid weather held, and the wind worked in gusts. We utilized it to penetrate the perimeter, figuring the blowing snow would degrade motion sensor and the camera effectiveness. McAllister had torn equipment from the LLTV and reconfigured it to generate a short-range deflector. It worked like a glass shield to foil infrared detection. It was my job to pull along the chemical fuel cell that powered the device. Once activated, we had fifteen minutes of power.

  “Five minutes left and three hundred meters,” I estimated as we crouched behind a drift. I looked over the top. The dome was shut. “No launches imminent. Nothing moving outside.” I slid back down. “I’ll go first. Boyd, you help push the sled over this drift. Everyone close in line after me, and hope McAllister calibrated the motion dampeners properly.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t slip,” said McAllister. “And dump my deflector.”

  “Both are equal in probability,” I said. “Right, Skids?”

  He snickered. McAllister grumbled. Boyd and I climbed ahead.

  After a minute of steady progress, we dashed to where the dome connected to an above ground maintenance garage with one large elevating door overshadowing a smaller access door. We stood next to the access door and caught our breath before removing our winter gear. Boyd raised the automated access panel’s protective cover. She ran her hand over it and spoke a password before typing in a twelve digit code. A buzz and click sounded above the whipping wind.

  “Hope nobody’s home,” Boyd said, and led the way in. I followed with fixed bayonet. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer overhead fluorescent lighting.

  A deep, masculine voice said, “Who the? Pilot Boyd? Hey!” It came from a bearded man wearing maintenance overalls that covered his bulging stomach. His right hand clutched a large crowbar.

  I lunched forward, but Boyd grabbed my shoulder. “Wait,” she said. “Kalger, where are Weitz and Bruhmhaur?”

  The man stood for a second, deciding whether to answer, fight, or run. He squared up, eliminating retreat. He looked past me. “Who’s yer friends?”

  The other four were in. I pointed to a camera. “Bad place to stand.”

  “Not now, Kalger,” Boyd said. “Trust me.”

  Kalger shifted weight from foot to foot. “You, okay.” He lowered his bar and lumbered to a console.

  I followed, and leveled my shotgun. “Nothing fancy.”

  “Would ya care I don’t shut down the monitors for temporary maintenance?”

  I warned, “Just so you know where things stand.”

  “Keesay,” Boyd said. “Relax. Do it, Kalger.”

  McAllister moved to observe as the big man tapped away. He smiled down at her. “You wouldn’t be from that hostile shuttle that was shot down, would ya, sister?” He finished his task and eyed us again. “Usin’ a Chicher for a sled dog. Now that’s creative.” He wiped his hands on a shop rag. “What was yer first question, Pilot Boyd?”

  “Weitz and Bruhmhaur?”

  “Oh, breakfast. We heard you was dead. Explain that one.” He checked a wall chronometer. “Quick-like. The maintenance routine will complete in about six minutes, about two ahead of my breakfast. Weitz knows better than to be late.”

  “We can trust him,” assured Boyd. She explained to Kalger what she’d learned from us about the Crax invasion.

  After she finished he scratched his neck and beard. “This could affect my pension.” He looked at me. “You know how certain corporations are. Lookin’ out for C3 maintenance techs in our old age, eh, Keesay?”

  I figured his contract compensation was marginally better than mine. “Nothing is secure,” I agreed.

  “Not the trusting sort, is he?”

  “No,” I said. “But you know the score. Stegmars don’t draw pensions. If the Crax have their way, few surviving C3 maintenance techs will either.”

  “Hey, I’m convinced. Boyd’s word here is good as asteroid gold.” He eyed the chronometer. “This way.”

  We followed until Kalger stopped and keyed a panel. He opened two transport crates along the wall and stepped inside one. Pulling a power drill from his belt, he locked a bit and went to work. “Should be enough room and air for three to hide in this one, till Boyd sets things up.” He moved to the next.

  “No,” Boyd said. “That’s all we’ll need. Diplomat, Guerrero, Skids, in there.” They hesitated until I nodded.

  With the fur on his neck standing erect and his ears back, the Chicher said through his translator, “Not nest in box.”

  “What about the Chicher?” asked Guerrero.

  “Shelter in false tunnel,” the Chicher said. He pulled his small MP pistol and backed into one of the stacked conduits that ran parallel to the wall.

  “Good enough for me,” McAllister said, and strode over to the transport crate console. She tapped away before holding her finger over the pad. “Guerrero, say something.”

  Nodding with approval, Guerrero stepped forward. “Open crate.”

  “No sense getting locked in,” McAllister said, stepping back. “Give us forty minutes.”

  “Stay here, Skids,” I said. “I’ll be back for you. Until then, stick with Guerrero and the diplomat. Understood?”

  “Understood, Specialist,” he said in a weak voice before checking his laser pistol’s cross-draw holstering. Guerrero pulled him close.

  “What’re the rest of you doin’?” asked Kalger, as he ushered Skids and Guerrero into the crate.

  “Classified,” I said while he closed it.

  “Sure.” Kalger lumbered back to his workbench. He was puzzled but dropped it. “I’ll distract my boys while you slide out. Then, I’m packing.” He regarded our expressions. “What? You think I’m stayin’ here?”

  “Of course not,” Boyd said. “Pack light. Be discreet. Nobody else.”

  He directed us to a recessed area. “You know how many friends I got.”

  “Do the cooks count?” Boyd asked. His belly shook as he laughed.

  “Kalger,” I said. “Internal security. Monitoring. How tight is it?”

  He shook his head. “Scientists run the place. Except in their labs, they don’t want to put up with hassles and delays. Not on an uninhabited quarantine planet.”

  I tore his CGIG patch from his shoulder. “Mind if I borrow this?” I dumped a tool case and handed it to McAllister. “Here, put your laser
carbine in this. I’ll carry it.” I grabbed a tube of adhesive and replaced my Negral patch with the Capital Galactic one. Wear a logo bearing ‘CGIG’ across a glittering Milky Way background agitated me.

  Boyd asked, “How many Crax on the ground?”

  “Three dozen,” said Kalger. “Mostly Selgum. There’s two Gar-Crax, but they mightn’t be planetside.”

  “Know what’s orbiting?”

  He shrugged. “Sorry, Pilot.” He checked the chronometer. “I’ll swing by the cafeteria and make a quick meal. Otherwise might raise suspicion. I’ll be back here and deal with my boss and Weitz. Retrieve your friends.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Hey, any code word so I don’t mix up anybody?”

  “Relics rule,” I said. “Nobody should say that by accident.”

  “Bayonet?” asked McAllister.

  I sheathed it and we hid until two maintenance men entered. Kalger led them to the far end of the maintenance area. Boyd, McAllister and I slipped out.

  “Interesting friend,” I said, winking. “But then again, look at me.”

  “Forty minutes,” Boyd replied. We walked together down uniformly cream-colored hallways for about fifty yards before she split off. Every hall looked the same except for the bold black numbering system painted on conduits, doors and intersection floors.

  McAllister walked a half pace in front of me. “Remember, I do the talking.”

  “Understood,” I said, knowing she could talk us past better than I could. We ignored several maintenance techs, a white-coated scientist, and an engineering tech. The latter turned and stared at us as we passed, but said nothing. We came to the area Pilot Boyd had described.

  “Next hallway, center door,” whispered McAllister. “Let’s keep it quiet.”

  “Understood, Engineer,” I said, following McAllister into the system maintenance room.

  Inside stood an engineering tech with his back to us. McAllister walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me, Engineering Tech. I need to utilize that work station.”

  The tech turned. He didn’t recognize McAllister, but did observe her dull orange engineer coveralls. “Engineer, there are several other stations. I’m engaged in a project.”

  McAllister turned to me. “Specialist, please explain it to him.”

  I stepped to the side, out of view of the security monitors, and beckoned him toward me. “I know it’s a hassle. This should only take a second.”

  “I haven’t seen you before,” said the tech. He approached anyway, eyeing my slung shotgun.

  I rested my left arm on his shoulder. “Just transferred.” I looked him in the eye. With an uppercut I slammed my brass knuckles into his chin. I caught the dazed tech, held him against the wall and gave him a left to the stomach. When he doubled over, I held his head and drove my knee into his nose. “Quiet enough?” McAllister was already at work and didn’t respond.

  I stood beside the door. Three minutes passed. “Progress?” I asked.

  “This fellow has better access than Boyd. I just finished his project. Won’t raise any flags that way.”

  Time dragged while my heart raced. Waiting was hard.

  “Thirty more seconds,” McAllister said, before the door slid open.

  Two people dressed as Capital Galactic engineers entered. The first missed me and focused on McAllister at the console. The second had scales the color of green bananas beginning to ripen. The bulbous forehead identified it as a Selgum Crax.

  I caught the Crax’s eyes. They widened, and its dangling chin flap retracted. The door slid closed and a round from my revolver dropped the alien before it could hiss.

  The engineer heard the dampened sound of my revolver and the alien hitting the floor. Instead of addressing McAllister, who hadn’t bothered to acknowledge his presence, he turned and asked, “What is this?”

  I thumbed back the hammer and took careful aim. “Unless you desire a hole in your cranium as well, I suggest you shut up and place your hands in the air.”

  He complied after seeing the bloody pool at my feet.

  “Kneel.” I moved behind him and pulled an anesthetizing patch from my pocket. I slapped it on his neck. He reached for it, so I slammed my revolver butt against his skull.

  “Finished,” said McAllister. She looked at the bodies. “Only one dead?”

  “I noted your confidence in me. Security’s sure to have picked this up.”

  “Sort of,” she said. “I scrambled the content and the origin. They may have seen you waste the Crax, but monitors will have shown it happening in the corridor outside Security, and the system tag should indicate the waste incineration complex.”

  I pictured a surgery occurring on a dining table. “Anything else I should know?”

  “The system should be slowing, especially if the writers aren’t familiar with Shigg code. I wasn’t.” I stepped over the dead alien on the way out. McAllister stepped on it. “Access 3344 A, B, C, lock,” she said grinning. “Keyed access commands to our voice patterns.”

  She led me to the left, down the main corridor. “McAllister, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “You’re R-Tech,” she said. “And I wasn’t one-hundred percent certain it would work.”

  Some personnel moved along the corridors unaware. Others proceeded with concern and purpose. I leaned toward McAllister. “This is where we’ll find out if Boyd—does everyone else know about the access commands?”

  “Is anyone else R-Tech?” She picked up the pace, mimicking those with striding urgency. “I think we’d be dead if we were betrayed. Keep up.”

  Next stop was an administrative supply office. McAllister walked in and announced, “System troubles.”

  A sky-blue dressed S2 information specialist stood next to his console. “Yes, Engineer.” He started to say more but spotted me. He raised his eyebrows at McAllister. “Who are you?”

  “Doors lock,” said McAllister.

  I leveled my shotgun. “Hands up. Away from the consoles. Anybody speaks out of turn will regret it.” All four info specialists complied. “Okay. Line up against that wall. Hands straight up.”

  They filed toward the wall. “I don’t know—,” began the supervisor.

  I slammed the butt of my shotgun into his kidneys. The others observed their supervisor grimacing on the floor. I reached into a pocket and tossed four patches to one on the left. He looked the meekest. “Apply one of these knockout patches to your boss’s neck.” He hesitated. “The other options are for me to beat you all to unconsciousness, or kill you.”

  The meek C3 complied. Then he applied patches as directed to his other associates and himself.

  “You’re most efficient,” McAllister said. “I only heard one in pain.”

  “How goes it?” I asked. “And what are you doing?”

  McAllister didn’t look up from the screen and her oversized computer clip. “Their system is running at 4.88 percent normal speed. I’ve just launched an attack on communications.” She shifted from clip to console and back. “Their systems engineer is competent. Problem for them is, most defense and firewalls are focused on securing their research information.” She disconnected her clip.

  I picked up the case with her carbine and spare equipment. “Next stop, reactor control?”

  She nodded. “I’ve avoided the internal transport system as much as possible. Main access door, open, then close and lock after three seconds.”

  We hurried to a busy shuttle access and waited. The arriving shuttle looked like an oversized golf cart with facing seats. And like virtually every other piece of equipment, it was cream colored. Its eight seats filled immediately. The next was only half full with us sitting across from a scientist and a C2 maintenance tech.

  “Reactor control,” said McAllister, causing the shuttle to accelerate down the tubular route.

  “Must have fixed that glitch,” said the C2.

  “Must have.” McAllister grinned. “Specialist?”

 
I drew my revolver. “Hands up.”

  McAllister giggled. “Hand over all your credits.”

  Puzzlement stretched across both faces.

  I didn’t bat an eye. “You,” I said to the C2. “Slowly extend your right hand.” When he did, I slapped a patch on it.

  He sat stunned. Within three seconds he slumped.

  I thumbed the hammer of my revolver. “Care to tell me anything about your research?”

  “I, ahh,” the scientist muttered. “It’s classified.”

  “And probably over my head. Correct?”

  Hesitant, he nodded, staring wide-eyed down at the C2.

  “I’m out of patches,” I said. “Shuttle stop.” As it slowed I asked, “Do you have any, Engineer?” When the scientist’s eyes darted to McAllister, I caught him in the chin with my brass knuckles. I removed both men’s collar communications and then dumped them in a maintenance alcove. I checked my watch. “Time’s running out.”

  McAllister studied her clip as we sped on. “System speed is up to 12.41 percent. They should defeat the communication attack in twelve minutes. Security system remains scrambled. Shigg code is very effective.”

  “I really am out of patches.” I replaced the used round from my revolver. “This next one we’ll have to be a little more aggressive.”

  “Violence is your style, Keesay. Remind me to tell you what I’d planned to do to your files on the Kalavar.”

  “You say that after noting my violent tendencies?”

  “Keesay, you may be able to intimidate others. Not me.” She wasn’t lying.

  I shrugged. “I can see why you and Gudkov worked so well together. I’ll never match him. But I can sure try.”

  Her face grew dark. “I’ll never like you, Relic.”

  I hid my surprise. “McAllister, the feeling’s mutual. But together we get the job done.” The shuttle slowed. “What else is there?”

  She set the opened case beside her, hand inside on the laser carbine. Two sec-specs stood posted outside. “Keesay, you take the one on the left.”