Transmuted (Dark Landing Series Book 1)

by Robin Praytor

  She replaced her grin with an expression of stunned horror. “You’re joking, right? How is that even possible?”

  “She said she’s our boss. She placed her hand on my reader and the place lit up like a Caxparxt brothel.”

  Mattie paled, her jaw dropping. “Jesus, Drew, it must be true if she has access. I know we’re publicly traded, but the Kettering’s still have controlling interest, right?”

  All Dark Landing staff were employees of CoachStop Management, MWCorp., a company contracted to operate space stations, mining camps, and other remote outposts on behalf of the owning co-ops.

  “Yeah, maybe. Both of us have stock options and we should’ve gotten some kind of notice. Find out who the other stockholders are. Focus on the corporate shareholders.”

  “Why? I don’t understand. Can’t we just contact CoachStop and ask them? If she’s the boss now, isn’t it a little dangerous locking her up?”

  “Maybe. Probably. Mattie, there’s something else going on here. Access aside, as impossible as it is, I think this is some kind of con. She gave me a crazy story about her dad disappearing, and does she look like the head of the largest corporation in the Known Universe to you? Even if it’s true, what the hell is she doing here? Taleen Industries wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about a trading outpost on the edge of space with two-star accommodations. I don’t want to make a total chump of myself by contacting CoachStop before I know she’s who and what she claims to be. Just stay with me on this, okay?”

  “Okay. But, I can’t lose my job. It’s not just me—I got my folks to worry about too.”

  Mattie’s concern was legitimate, but her loyalty to him would trump it, at least for a while. “Yeah, I know. Work on the shareholder information while I look into this, and keep Kyle focused as well. Move someone up to handle the routine stuff.”

  Once she decided to trust Drew and follow his lead, she dropped her protest. She rarely dwelled on choices after the fact, a trait he admired.

  “How are we going to handle Curtis?” she asked.

  Curtis Walker was Mattie’s dayshift counterpart. He was steadfast, efficient, and a by-the-book company man who could quote policy like the Praetorians could quote prophecy. But Drew didn’t trust him. He sensed something snide and sleazy about Curtis that he couldn’t pinpoint. Drew wasn’t above cutting corners, but Curtis’s propensity to remark on the slightest lapse of protocol kept Drew on the straight most of the time. In situations like this, he presented a problem. If Taleen Industries controlled CoachStop Management and Letty Taleen was their boss, Curtis would suck up to her. Even on a long shot, he’d throw Drew under the freight loader at the first opportunity.

  “Okay, I’m giving Curtis the airlock incident. I’ll leave orders that you’ve been instructed to turn everything over to him and he’s to take the lead. That’ll puff him up like a Täsorian blow-wart and should keep him out of your hair for a couple days. To be fair, for an asshole, he’s not a bad investigator.”

  Drew rubbed the beard stubble on his chin, and went on. “Take him aside in the morning before you leave, and let him in on the big conspiracy: ‘There’s a VIP in holding, a suspected runaway. The chief is juggling eggs and doesn’t want anyone approaching her until he hears back from home office.’ He’ll love that, and it’s half true. I need to deal with the Taleen issue quietly until I understand what the hell’s really going on.

  “Now, where are we on the airlock explosion? I’ve got a breakfast meeting with Fitz and Doc in . . . damn . . . ten hours, and they’re going to want a rundown.” Drew liked Mattie’s reports; she could make the driest subject sound like a rousing campsite story.

  “Pretty curious, boss,” she started. “The deceased, Jonas Trammel, was working for passage here. The captain said he doesn’t usually take on crew under those circumstances, but he found himself short-handed just before departure. The guy was clean, well-spoken, and seemed to know his way around a ship. He did his job, got along fine with the rest of the crew, but kept to himself most of the time.”

  “What was his job?”

  “The ship’s carrying livestock. Nothing too exotic, your basic egg birds, some fishy-eely things in a shallow tank of water—waste of good water if you ask me—and a dozen grazers that look like a cross between a tall calf and a short giraffe. Their cookie said the livestock is for ship’s consumption. I doubt it. The paperwork leaves something to the imagination. Anyway, Trammel handled their care, feeding, and general picking up after.”

  Drew interrupted her report. “The tall calf/short giraffe is a cammeni. They raise them on Fehdeen like we raise cattle on Earth. I doubt they were intended for ship’s consumption. Why go to the trouble? Just butcher and flash freeze the meat. The eggers, maybe, but I’m thinking the livestock is being illegally transported to a colony somewhere.”

  Mattie shrugged and went on. “Anyway, Trammel told the purser he was going to take a walk-about and spend the night on the station. He’d be back onboard in the morning to collect his kit and clean the pens one final time before debarking.”

  “I don’t suppose you found anything of interest in his bunk?”

  “Actually, we did. He had a few pieces of clothing, an extra pair of boots . . . and a monk robe.”

  “A monk robe?”

  “Yep. What do you make of that?”

  Drew leaned toward her, his interest heightened. “Like the Praetorian robes?”

  “Just like them.”

  “I’ll be damned. Maybe he was coming here to join his three friends. They could be planning a demonstration. That might explain what the nitro was for, but it’s still an odd choice. The stuff’s unstable as hell.”

  “But Praetorian monks have never been violent,” Mattie said.

  “You’re right. I made inquiries when our brood first showed up. Mostly they’ve been cited for disturbing the peace, unlicensed demonstrations, trespassing, that kind of thing. The only violence came from spectators throwing things at them. If a situation gets out of hand, the Praetorians pack up and leave. I’m going to bring our three in for questioning. What about the airlock scanner log?”

  She picked up her report where she’d left off. “The scanner didn’t identify the danger until after the explosion. The initial log read clear about a second before it blew. Afterward it was identified as nitro.”

  Drew rubbed his eyes and stretched his neck, trying to relieve tired muscles. He had too many questions without answers. He needed a few hours of sleep before he could think it all through.

  “That’s all for now,” Mattie said. “The scanner technician is reviewing the data, and she’ll let us know in the morning what caused the explosive to ignite. Four passengers debarked before Trammel. I’ll run them as soon as we’re done here. I doubt there’s a connection to the explosion, but one is probably your gal, Letty.”

  “Miss Taleen,” Drew corrected her.

  Mattie raised her eyebrows and put on a playful smirk.

  He explained, “Okay, I may have indecent thoughts about Letty, but Miss Taleen scares the hell out of me. I need to keep my edge.”

  “I’m a little jealous.”

  “We both know that’s not true, Mattie. You keep me humble.”

  “Someday I may surprise you.”

  He watched her as she left the office. She was a few years older than Drew, but a fine example of womanhood. Unfortunately, he’d always suspected he wasn’t her type, despite their sexual banter. They’d never discussed it, but Letty might be more Mattie’s type. Great! He’d never sleep with thoughts like that rambling around his head.

  There was one more task to complete before he left. He checked the system time stamps for activity at his station between the explosion and his return to the office. He found nothing, but that didn’t mean much. If the Taleen woman had the level of access needed to enable his command station, she’d have the means to conceal her presence. He’d order a security diagnostic in the morning.

  He stopped by Mattie’s desk o
n the way out. “Anything else before I leave? If you’re smart you’ll say no.”

  “Well . . . ,” she said with a pained expression.

  Drew waited.

  “There’s a pigeon.”

  “A pigeon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m leaving now, Mattie.”

  “Yeah.”

  Chapter 4: Three Chiefs

  On his way to the weekly chiefs’ meeting the next morning, Drew surveyed the familiar surroundings, nodding occasionally to passersby. The dull metal struts and bolted panels always amazed him. The station was assembled from ships with pre-fabricated interiors that traveled to the construction site under their own power carrying supplies, equipment, and workers. Once unloaded, the ships were welded into place to become a part of the station whole.

  Each ship, or cell, retained its own environmental systems and, in an emergency, could be sealed off independent of the others.

  Conveyers of wide, corrugated tubes snaked horizontally and vertically throughout the station, serving as both air handlers and inner-station transport, giving the final design a surreal appearance.

  The outer bulkhead cells, strap bolted instead of welded in place, still maintained their plasma propulsion engines. With no small effort, they could be made travel-worthy and separated from the main structure. That was the theory anyway. To Drew’s mind, a plethora of variables made the process impractical in the event of a station-wide disaster. The thought comforted the populace nonetheless, Drew included.

  Dark Landing was anchored to a potato-shaped asteroid by an immense cradle complex. The engineers had unromantically christened the asteroid “Spud” when the station was still in the initial planning stages. Spud’s orbit, once every two Earth years around its small sun, ensured stability and the cradle allowed the centripetal acceleration necessary to maintain near-Earth gravity. During building, Spud provided much of the raw minerals used in the cradle’s construction, but the mining had stopped when the cradle was completed.

  Drew was in the second year of his third tour, and his first as security chief. All command staff signed for four-year tours, with a re-signing option of six months paid sabbatical or a cash bonus. Unlike his fellow chiefs, Drew had never taken a sabbatical.

  He’d just turned nineteen when he signed with CoachStop as a security grunt, fresh out of a grueling, quasi-military training program that he’d started at age twelve. He could have opted out at any time for more traditional schooling, but he was hooked from the beginning.

  CoachStop made their selection based on his impeccable cadet record and leadership potential. He didn’t disappoint. He’d excelled in his first assignment and moved up the ladder at record speed, making shift commander by his second tour. Fast, but not unheard of. CoachStop cut natural-born leaders from the pack early.

  Drew’s route took him past a bank of observation windows. As usual, several people stood, staring into the dark void. He averted his eyes. He couldn’t understand why so many people grew transfixed by looking at nothing. While he’d never expressed such feelings out loud, he held no appreciation for the beauty of space. That incalculable vastness left Drew chilled.

  Physical rules that had applied for hundreds of years, thousands in some cases, were rewritten or discarded altogether the farther they traveled and the more they learned. He’d admitted to himself long ago that he was no adventurer. He needed order—imperatives that couldn’t be broken.

  As he rounded the corner, he was slammed mid-center by a four-foot hellion with a mop of unkempt, black hair. Drew grunted and grabbed the boy by the underarms, lifting him to eye-level. “Toby Greenstein, I swear to God you’re going to seriously injure somebody one of these days. What did you do now?” Drew had no doubt Toby was running from something. The boy spent much of his young life waiting inside a holding cell for one of his parents to come get him following some piece of mischief.

  Toby squirmed to free himself, kicking his feet uncomfortably close to Drew’s crotch. “Let me go!”

  Drew extended his arms to avoid the kicks, but that only provided the boy better aim. Toby’s booted foot grazed Drew on the inner thigh, much too close. He dropped him unceremoniously. Before he could grab hold again, the kid bolted around the bulkhead.

  “You’re looking at twenty-years-to-life the next time I catch you, Toby,” Drew yelled after him, trying to sound serious.

  One of the bazaar merchants ran toward him with a furious expression. Drew didn’t ask, but inclined his head in the direction Toby had taken, hoping to avoid further arbitration between a merchant and the boy’s parents. The man stopped in front of Drew, hands on his hips.

  “Hi, Marcus, how’s it going?” Drew asked with a weak smile. There wasn’t a chance in hell the man was going to say fine and keep moving.

  Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “That brat was throwing things at the pigeon and knocked over my vid kiosk. What are you going to do about it?”

  “The pigeon?”

  “Not the pigeon—the brat!”

  “I’ll talk to his parents.” Drew sighed. “What’s the damage?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Send me a detailed list of damages, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Marcus spun away, imploring a passing woman, “Do you believe this? He’ll see what he can do.” She quickened her step, eyes straight ahead. Drew took the opportunity to escape while the man’s back was turned.

  His fellow chiefs already sat at their corner table when he entered the small executive mess, their faces deep in steaming mugs of coffee.

  ~ ~ ∞ ~ ~

  Drew looked forward to the weekly briefings with Martin Fitzwilliam, Administration Chief, and Dr. Tammy Jameson, Medical Chief. Along with Drew, they made up the triumvirate rule on Dark Landing.

  Nancy, the mess manager, topped his coffee mug before his butt touched the chair. “Morning,” he greeted them all, receiving three “Morning” responses in unison. Nancy hurried off to fill their standing breakfast orders.

  Without small talk, Doc asked, “Anything new on yesterday’s explosion? One dead, no injuries, the body just arrived in med-lab for autopsy. Could have been worse, I guess.”

  “Right,” Drew responded, “but you guys report first this morning. I have that and something else to discuss.”

  “Not much from my side,” Fitz began without further prompting. “As I predicted, we can increase water allotments through the end of the month. That’ll make people happy. Scrubber four is back up, but I don’t know how long I can keep it running. The replacement is still on back-order and the factory rep on Fahdeen keeps giving me the run-around. I can’t figure out what the problem is. We may need to order from Earth and pay the extra taxes and shipping. Anyway, since our backups have backups, there’s no immediate concern. Five and six are next on maintenance rotation. We start testing residential airlocks tomorrow.”

  A renowned space safety engineer, Fitz’s responsibility, along with keeping the station stocked, entailed a never-ending series of systems and maintenance tests. Reassuringly, his reports seldom varied. The need to ration any supply proved rare, which always amazed Drew considering the station’s permanent population of more than six thousand with another thousand transients, give or take.

  “Same old stuff in med-lab,” Doc began, “indigestion, cuts and bruises, and a couple of dockside broken bones. We’re having our annual common cold outbreak a little early, associated with a mild, atypical rash. About thirty treated so far, and I’m sure there’s more just soldiering through. Nothing to do but relieve the symptoms until it runs its course. The rash worries me a little. Everyone’s responded to standard treatment though. Isolation isn’t called for, and it’s too late anyway. That’s all I’ve got, except Nick Carter’s wife had her baby—a healthy, screaming boy. Your turn.”

  Drew made a note to pick up a baby gift. He liked babies.

  He started with the explosion and relayed what they’d learned so far, pausing
while Nancy delivered their breakfasts. “Anyway, I may have more information when I get to the office.”

  Neither Fitz nor Doc said anything. Drew wasn’t holding back and wouldn’t speculate without more facts.

  The few seconds of silence provided the right dramatic pause for Drew’s next report. “One Katherine Leticia Taleen is on board, also from the Temperance. She claims to be the head of Taleen Industries, but I haven’t seen the proof yet. And it’s possible she’s our boss. I’m checking that out as well. She has access to station systems. Of course, I locked her up,” Drew said matter-of-factly. He paused for a sip of coffee and a bite of eggs and fruit.

  Doc was the first to speak. “Okay, I’d pee my panties if I were wearing them.” She ignored their looks and went on. “When did Taleen Industries buy CoachStop? Is that why she’s here?”

  “I don’t know that they did. Even so, CoachStop would be the proverbial drop in a universally large Taleen bucket. Why would anyone even close to her level, if she’s who she says, and that’s a big if, come all the way out here?” Drew continued eating.

  “So, you locked her up. What now? Are we going to kill her?” Fitz asked, in a rare display of acerbity.

  Drew stared, eyes unfocused for a moment. “No,” he answered, hesitant, as if still undecided. “She told me her guardian, she considers him her father, disappeared a couple months ago. He left instructions she was to come here to me. Her guardian is George Speller of all people. Have either of you heard that Speller is missing?”

  “Not me,” Doc said. She looked from Drew to Fitz.

  “Me neither.” Fitz closed the circle back to Drew.

  “Me neither, and that’s my point.”

  “How long can you keep her locked up? What does CoachStop say?” Fitz asked.

  “If I believe she’s a threat to the station, and I do, I can keep her locked up as long as I want. I’d have to make it official though. Besides the fact she attacked me . . . ” Doc and Fitz exchanged confused looks but didn’t interrupt “. . . the only thing I can charge her with is traveling under an alias, which I think is the case. Once I do, and if she’s who she claims, legal advocates and judges will come out of the bulkheads.”