Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  While I listened for any hint of his presence, it took Agent Vingee several breaths to recall. “Him? Are you sure.”

  I checked down the corridors again, seeing a pair of maintenance techs with a dolly bot toting conduit. That was all. I even tried to sense his cologne and breath mint odor. No luck.

  Nodding stiffly, I said, “Ms. Long, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to relay a few words to him.” Shrugging stiffly, I continued. “He might’ve recognized me and already knows what I’d have said anyway.”

  At that point there was nothing to do but return to the elevator and hope he hadn’t recognized me. Once we reached the ninth level and stepped out of the elevator, Vingee said over her shoulder to me, “If Mr. Chaney has everything set up, show him your ocular’s downloaded data so that he can troubleshoot the problem you mentioned this morning. Corrupted files shouldn’t be tolerated.”

  “I will, Ms. Long.”

  We approached the scheduled private conference room. My thoughts vacillated between anger and frustration. I tried to tell myself the delay caused by Vingee wasn’t the reason Hawks got away. “Engineer Axin might be more efficient than Mr. Cheney.” Most of my agitation didn’t register in my voice. It wasn’t true but it’d give me a chance to move about the space dock.

  “I believe not, Specialist. Remain with me until after the meeting.”

  I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists. It was better than giving Vingee a brass knuckle sandwich. Lucky for her, Intel agents aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing to their partners.

  After eighty-seven minutes, the conference room door slid open and the Bonnisbin Orbital Colony representatives filed out. I’d stayed outside the meeting room, doing my ‘job.’ It’d given me time to think. What was Hawks up to? Preparing to leave? Whatever his plan, it now included contacting CGIG loyalists and putting them on my trail.

  For eighty-seven minutes I’d been tempted to abandon my responsibility as Ms. Long’s personal guard and hunt for Hawks, or at least assist Guymin. I knew it wouldn’t take lawyer Falshire Hawks long to send anyone who might be effective—bounty hunters, CGIG loyalists, or security officials to arrest me on trumped up charges so that I could be dealt with later. He’d done it before.

  Tempting as it was, I worked for Intelligence and, as an agent, my responsibility was to the assignment, to picking up trails that led to Deputy Director Simms and others. Guymin was on it. He could track Hawks better than me, better than any R-Tech. Better for me to continue with our Mayfair representatives ruse.

  Such justifications didn’t satisfy me, or the urge to take action. But they kept me in place, anger and frustration brewing.

  The three men and two women ignored me as they left the meeting room, smiling and chatting among themselves. Odd behavior for I-Techs, unless they felt they’d made a breakthrough in the negotiations.

  I stepped into the room. “Door, lock.”

  Vingee looked up from her computer clip, detaching the display projector. Her smile fled as she met my gaze.

  “Is this room still secure?”

  She glanced where Guymin had placed the sound wave disruption devices on the walls and floor, one on the ceiling, and in one of the recessed lights. And, she carried one that scrambled electronic espionage measures. The rooms were supposed to be secure, but what if that proved inaccurate? A competing corporation might learn something. Lodging a complaint if that happened? Who’d bother to listen? Just part of the way corporate entities worked.

  “Good,” I said, “because I’ve got a thing or two to say.”

  “Oh?” she responded, a bit of condescension in her voice.

  “Listen, Agent Vingee—”

  “Ms. Long,” she interrupted.

  I strode forward and stared up at her from across the meeting table, polished black with matching chairs, all pushed in. “How about,” I said, pointing a finger at her, “you listen.” Before she could say anything, I continued. “What’s our mission’s objective? It isn’t selling hydroponics equipment. That’s the cover. And you are not my corporate superior.”

  She eyed my finger as I jabbed it her direction. “Being a team member means following my lead,” I said. “Not countermanding it. And this team is here to find—”

  She tried to cut me off, saying, “Not here, Bleys.”

  I kept talking over her. “…leads to captives. Remember? Might not Falshire Hawks, a mover and shaker in the Capital Galactic hierarchy—or at least he was. Bagging him might prove to be a giant step in that direction?”

  “If he believes you didn’t recognize him,” she said, hands on her hips. “Following through on our established schedule will keep that illusion in place.”

  “You thought of that afterwards, Vingee. You had no idea why I stopped the elevator and ordered it to return. You, without knowing my purpose or reason, countermanded me. Took away my initiative. Why?”

  I switched hands pointing at her. “Because you had a meeting. Because you don’t think of me as anything more than a grunt bodyguard. Do that again, and you’ll be spitting teeth.”

  She smiled, showing me her perfectly straight, white teeth. It was a fake smile, exactly what she intended. “Are you finished?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Didn’t take long for that Relic chip to reappear on your shoulder.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes, first, and laughing, second. “Think what you want.”

  “It was you who insisted on remaining yourself. No effort at even the most basic of disguise. If you would’ve done that, the situation would be different. Don’t try to lay the blame of being recognized at my feet.”

  “Justify your warp screw-up however you like, Vingee. Your action, delaying my reaction after recognizing Hawks. Your insistence on following through with your scheduled meeting, insistent on maintaining the corporate ruse—which would’ve remained. Meetings are delayed all the time.” I shook my head. “Bad judgment. No, inept judgement.”

  That got her. She stepped around the table, closer. “Make your move, Keesay. Try it and we’ll see who’s spitting teeth.”

  “Intel knew what it was getting when offering me a contract,” I said. “Did Intel know what they were getting when they moved you from analysis to this job in the field?”

  “You weren’t so critical of my decision-making process when you were flat on your back, Keesay.”

  “Right. I was busy dying. That sort of thing happens when you fight the Crax. You only know a fraction of what I do about that.” She started to reply but I continued. “If I recall, you didn’t really understand what I’d survived.” I shook my head. “You still don’t.”

  Agent Vingee spoke into her collar, “Mr. Chaney, our meeting is over.”

  Her collar mic didn’t have the strength to reach Guymin, so her message had to be relayed through the orbital dock’s com system. It was encrypted, but it still told anyone listening in that she was speaking to her assistant. It pinpointed where she was and where he was, presumably on board the Pitchfork.

  Her hand went to her ear. Receiving through her ear’s microchip receiver, attuned to penetrate the electromagnetic scrambling field, I couldn’t hear Guymin’s reply.

  She picked up her computer clip, and pointed for me to detach and deactivate some of the wall mounted sound transfer dampeners. “Let’s go, Specialist Bleys.”

  Instead of immediately moving to do as she directed, I pulled my revolver and switched out three of the hollow point rounds with armor piercing. “Where to, Ms. Long?”

  “The shuttle.”

  While adjusting my bandoleer filled with a variety of shotgun shells, I reverted to my cover. “May I choose the route?”

  “Expecting trouble?”

  I pulled the MP pistol from its spot along my back, including the holster. Holding it out to her, I said, “Yes.”

  “That fast?”

  “It’s Falshire Hawks. He hates me—all of Capital Galactic hates me for bringing them down. Wha
t do you think?”

  She took the sidearm and holster, and affixed it to her belt, leaving it concealed under her jacket.

  “If they come for me,” I said, “make a break for it. As far as they know, I’m just a hired gun.”

  “Bleys?”

  “If they’ve come for me, it means my appearance has flushed them. Should provide buckets of data.” I walked over to the far wall. “A panacea of leads to follow.”

  “You’re sounding awfully morose.”

  I’d stood for an hour and a half, thinking about it. “I hope I’m wrong, Ms. Long. But I doubt it.” Venting my anger at her was pointless. It was my fault for thinking and not taking action.

  “You should’ve said something,” Vingee said, her eyes momentarily wide.

  Analysts are rarely rushed and have time to examine possibilities. Vingee was smart. Smart and methodical, and used to the paced paradigm. It reminded me of a dead marksman assigned as a bodyguard for a hunted politician. She hadn’t learned to redirect her skillset for the new conditions. I watched the reassigned marksman die.

  Me? Was I cut out to be a special agent, working in the field? Maybe not. And in a short while, maybe I would no longer be.

  I wanted to say to Vingee: Would you have listened? Remind her about the surveillance in the elevator and hallways. Instead I said, “That moment’s passed. Let’s get moving.”

  Chapter 15

  Why Vingee didn’t object when I took the lead, I wasn’t sure. We had to make it through two modules added to the main dock section, traverse it, and then complete the jaunt through the old section of the Bonnisbin Orbital Colony that led to the Nuclear Pitchfork.

  I planned to stick to the most populated sections on the theory that if Hawks’ compatriots intended to make a move on me, they’d hesitate doing so in front of witnesses, especially if violence ensued. The Capital Galactic Investment Group wasn’t outlawed on the newly independent Bonnisbin Colony, but CGIG’d been broken up and auctioned off to mostly hostile competitors. It was no longer a functioning corporation, lacking both significant assets and its former influence.

  I strode down the unoccupied, narrow corridor. Metal grating ran down the middle of the floor, allowing easy access to conduits encasing wires, carrying water, waste and other things I didn’t have time to care about.

  Trying to fit the mold of an Intel agent, sticking with the cover, with the plan was a bad move. My gut told me that. I should’ve listened to it.

  The alternate stairwell was closer than the elevator, and a better choice. We didn’t even make it that far.

  “Bleys,” Vingee said as I checked my com-set.

  “Cheney, Code 14F,” I spoke into my mic, not sure the message transmitted before the energy damper took full effect. I’d faced a damper powerful enough to shut down my com-set before on the Mavinrom Dock. A-Tech equipment. Probably meant Crax shields, maybe more.

  The lights faded to darkness. I pulled the double-barrel shotgun and placed my back against the wall. Whoever cut the power would have functioning dark-vision gear. Knockout gas came to mind. Switching out the slug and buckshot for flare shells, I whispered, “This is going to be loud.”

  Blam! Blam! I sent one shot each way down the hall, broke open my shotgun and reloaded the previous shells. “Down on the floor, Ms. Long.” I said. “They’re after me.”

  Being a moving target was preferable to being a stationary one. The forward flare round’s spattered paste shed a flickering yellow light. It revealed a man stepping out of the elevator, laser carbine leveled and ready. I loosed both barrels at him, turned, and ran. Ahead of me a man rolled on the floor, caught between cussing and crying out, trying to smother the orange flare round.

  Still on the run, I pulled my duty revolver and sent a hollow-point round into the burning man. He didn’t have a shield, unlike the man behind me who did. A laser blast struck me in the back just above my left kidney. It must’ve been a light duty laser because I felt the searing heat, but my protective coveralls kept it from penetrating.

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw Vingee on the ground along the wall, hands over her head. The man, wearing narrow pants and jacket came on. With the yellow light flaring behind him I couldn’t see much more than that.

  I dodged left as the shielded man fired from the hip, grazing my right shoulder. Back pedaling, I fired another round his way. He flinched but kept coming on, ignoring Vingee.

  The corridor ran straight for at least fifty yards. With a powerful damper going none of the doors would open. I hurled my shotgun at him. That forced him to duck. It gave me time to reach the smoldering dead man and lift him just in time to catch the next laser blast intended for me.

  Vingee was up, behind the closing attacker. I shouted, “Who hired you?” to keep his attention and raised my revolver, thumbing back the hammer.

  He stopped, shouldered his laser carbine, and took aim. He never got the chance to fire. Vingee struck him from behind. The way his head snapped to the side before he crumbled to the floor said her blow must’ve broken his neck.

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping she heard me. My ears were ringing from my gunshots in the confined corridor, my sound dampener having been disabled.

  She checked the man at her feet, picking up his carbine before unclipping something from his belt. I couldn’t tell for sure with the flare’s remaining light, but I guessed it to be his shield generator.

  “The damper?”

  She shrugged, then checked pockets and felt along his arms and legs. “Check your man?”

  He had an MP pistol with what looked like a crystal barrel shroud attached. I pocketed it. With much of his chest burned I couldn’t find anything else except a small clamshell computer clip. I pocketed that too. “No damper.”

  “That means it’s nearby or someone else is controlling it.”

  I nodded to Vingee. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Which way?”

  I was about to answer when a voice from down the corridor, near where Vingee’s meeting had been, said, “It’s Kent, Kra. Kent O’Vorley.” I saw a shadowy form approach with arms held away from its sides.

  The voice, I knew it, but wanted to be sure. “Stop,” I said. “Field rations.”

  “What?” the voice asked. “Conscript Potts’ worn out joke?”

  That was it. Only O’Vorley, who’d shared a bunker in the trench line, along with me and salesman Moorsheen and Colonist Carver Potts would’ve answered as he did. Someone who’d seen the Documentary might, but not that fast. Kent had actually lived it.

  “Come forward, Kent.”

  “Actually, Kra, we should leave the area before Colony Security shows up, or power is restored.”

  “Or both,” I agreed. “Do you have a plan?”

  Vingee came up next to me, holding my shotgun. I holstered it and my revolver. Flashes from my dying flare round caught a doubtful frown across her face.

  “I was told you were out here,” Kent said, extending his hand for a brief shake. He had on a gray green set of coveralls and jacket. It identified him as a security specialist, but no corporate affiliation. Just his name patch. Not even a ranking. “Quick, this way.” His short-cropped light brown hair reflected some of the flare light.

  “I saw you not long after we arrived,” I replied. “Who told you about me?”

  “My partner,” O’Vorley said. “The engineer that brought the admin specialist to visit you and reprogrammed our company’s tank bot.”

  We were heading down the corridor. McAllister, I thought. Vingee would certainly know who O’Vorley meant.

  “Whoever recognized and reported you,” O’Vorley said, “stirred up an ant nest of communications. Fleshed out the skeletal connections.”

  There was so much I wanted to know, but there wasn’t time to get a detailed explanation. “Hawks spotted me,” I said to O’Vorley. “Falshire Hawks, Capital Galactic lawyer.”

  At a trot, we made a turn and stopped in front of a maintenance access door.
Lights further down the corridor were beginning to turn on.

  “No more talking now. Not here.” He flicked open a clamshell computer, tapped a few times, examined it. He punched a code into the panel next to the door the instant it lit up. Power was coming back on everywhere.

  Vingee and I followed O’Vorley in. The maintenance room housed a hub where conduits split off from main ones that continued up and down. It was like a long, narrow walk-in closet, dark and cramped except for tiny LED lights and several monitor screens. As we watched, they shifted from yellow to green, indicating renewed electronic traffic.

  O’Vorley climbed around two maintenance shafts. I clicked on my pen flashlight before Vingee and I followed. He paused at the third shaft, looked up and down, and descended using the plastic-coated aluminum ladder.

  One level down, we stopped. O’Vorley pulled out an electronic communication’s scrambler. “This is where we split up,” he said. “Long, is it?” When she nodded, he continued. “Step out next level. As far as you know, someone took Bleys. You escaped.”

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “We’ll be in contact.”

  Vingee cocked her head skeptically. “Who are you working for?”

  He paused before saying, “An ally. Who are you working for?”

  I glanced up at Vingee. She said, “We’re with Intelligence.”

  O’Vorley’s eyebrows shot up and looked to me for confirmation.

  “New data point, they actually hire Relics.”

  He smirked. “Who’d’ve thought?”

  Vingee asked, “By ally, you mean?”

  “The ones who she, his partner, was with,” I said, meaning McAllister. Vingee’d know from the Documentary. “Think about it.” I handed her the clamshell computer clip I’d taken from the fallen bounty hunter, and the faceted gun barrel shroud.

  Vingee handed me the shield generator she’d taken from the other dead bounty man. “Has only twenty percent power. It’s not Crax. Probably Troh-got. Not as effective.”