“Yeah, but you understand me. You’re used to me. And our jobs don’t overlap. Security and administration have to work close together . . . collaborate even.”
He was finding his way as chief of security on Dark Landing. Drew Cutter, his predecessor, disappeared from the space station only six months earlier. He’d tidied up his office and left notes for the other two chiefs, but told no one where or why he was going. Though he didn’t give a crap, Curtis suspected that Doc Jameson stayed in touch with Drew.
“Poor Curtis,” Doc said, making a pouty face. “Is it too much of a struggle to be personable?”
“I can be personable.”
“I’m certain you can . . . when you want to. She comes in tomorrow on the Krasnikov? What time?”
“Ten hundred hours. I thought we’d meet up dockside and show her to her quarters. After an hour to settle in, we’ll go to lunch and then on a station tour. We can drop her off at the administration offices last.”
“Sounds good. Look, the company takes pains to match chiefs for their compatibility. I’m sure we’ll all get along fine.”
Curtis was unconvinced. He’d inherited his position, not been profiled for it. Except for medical—outside his control—he was running Dark Landing. Kyle and Jonesy, his day and night shift commanders, along with Nikko, Curtis’s assistant, handled the bulk of the security duties. That left Curtis free to oversee supply, maintenance, and the odd jobs that fell under the administration umbrella—like pigeons. CoachStop Management, contracted by the co-ops to operate remote outposts in Zeta Quadrant, should be happy to save script if the station could be run with two chiefs instead of the customary three. A new chief coming in now might muck up the works for Curtis’s side interests. Muck! He winced, remembering the other slated arrival.
“It gets worse,” he said. “Day after tomorrow we meet our new Muck representative, Charlotte Bronte—another Bahdaneian.” Their own language, consisting of non-syllabic hums, was impossible for others to speak. In consideration, Bahdaneians chose pronounceable aliases for each race with which they interacted. Expert linguists, Bahdaneians were favored by Muck. The Multi-world Coalition for Travel and Trade—more often “MCTT” or the diminutive “Muck”—was formed by the Planetary Alliance to enact and enforce travel and trade regulations throughout Alliance space. It also served as the off-world police force for each of the five member planets.
Curtis’s com implant toned for the second time in twenty minutes. He tapped the raised patch of skin behind his left earlobe to acknowledge the appointment reminder, then ignored it.
Doc sighed. “Muck is the one problem with which I don’t have to deal. I need to return to med-lab. Unless I see you sooner, I’ll meet you dockside in the morning to greet our new chief. And, for the record, Curtis, no one understands you.”
After Jameson left, Curtis grabbed another coffee and sat back down, pondering different approaches he might take with the Hargreaves woman. He wanted her to have no doubts about who was in charge. As he stewed over her unwelcomed arrival, his com toned yet another reminder of his meeting with the Dark Landing Audubon Society. He was ten minutes late. Why is there never a life-threatening emergency when you need one? And he’d forgotten to ask Doc about pigeon diseases.
~ ~ ∞ ~ ~
Curtis heard riled voices before he rounded the bulkhead to face a large group of station citizens carrying “Save Preston” signs and marching around the statue of Travis Barnes. The statue stood on a pedestal in the center of the bazaar. A good likeness of Travis, it was posed in an extravehicular mobility unit with the helmet tucked under one arm, looking very heroic. Only months earlier, Barnes had sacrificed his life to single-handedly save the Known Universe from invading Diaks.
A pigeon perched on the statue’s head, and the statue’s shoulders were frosted with pigeon crap.
“It’s about time!” The leader of the Audubon Society stepped forward, scowling at Curtis’s tardiness.
Curtis couldn’t recall his name, and didn’t care. Two live traps set by security the day before were tripped and stacked behind the man.
“You know that’s a misdemeanor,” Curtis said, nodding toward the traps. “The air handlers can’t handle pigeon dust and feathers. They’re vermin and they carry a shit-load of diseases.”
“Bull! The scrubbers can handle the pollution from one little pigeon, or we’d all be dead by now.”
“You tell ‘em, Darryl,” someone from the crowd yelled.
Darryl nodded and continued. “The only reason you want to do away with Preston is because you’re embarrassed he got in past the environmental scanners.”
Darryl was right. “We’re not killing it, we’re sending it to a better home—a pigeon farm where it can fly free,” Curtis said, aware his sarcasm was wasted.
Encouraged by his cohorts, Darryl persisted. “No one believes that. There’s no good reason we can’t keep it here. It’s not hurtin’ anybody, and you’re a little pissant.”
“Yeah, you’re nothing but a sneaping, swag-bellied, pissant.” The last came from a woman standing in the back of the crowd. She had white-blonde hair and scary blue eyes.
Everyone except Curtis laughed, their moods changing in an instant from challenging to good-humored. The level of noise rose as members of the crowd repeated the insult and applauded its author.
Curtis raised his arms and patted the air for them to quiet. “Okay, okay, everyone calm down. Marching and yelling abuses won’t solve anything. Darryl, I’ll have my office arrange a meeting between you and the new chief of administration.” He cast the woman a snide look, cracking the knuckles of one hand except for the middle finger. “It’s her responsibility anyway, and she can make the final decision. In the meantime, the pigeon can continue shitting all over Travis Barnes—the man who saved all your asses. Now break it up.”
The group broke, heading in different directions, congratulating one another on their temporary win. Only the woman remained. Holding a satchel and wearing a smirk, she leaned casually against the effigy.
Curtis pointed at her. “You! Come with me.” He turned and headed toward the transport conveyer without checking to see if she followed.
Neither one said anything as they entered the conveyer. She appeared to study the light map on the back of the door, watching the pulsing green dot move in sync along their route. Curtis’s chuckle disrupted the silence. The chuckle turned to a laugh. Then he laughed harder, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Sneap . . . sneaping . . . sneaping what? Sneaping swag-balled . . . did you really say swag-balled?” He bent forward, clutching his side and snorted. At that his laughter became howls.
She was laughing along with him now. “Not balled . . . bellied, swag-bellied.”
That sent him into further spasms, and he slipped to the conveyer deck in uncontrolled mirth. She tried to say something more, but managed only to spit down her shirtfront. With a choked scream, she joined him on the deck, rocking back and forth, arms crossed over her stomach.
When the door opened at Security HQ, Kyle Drubber, Curtis’s dayshift commander, stood framed in the doorway staring down at the two of them. This propelled them into further convulsions. Curtis gasped for air, giving Kyle a weak wave. Whether he was signaling for help or to assure him they were okay, Kyle would never know. The door closed once more, leaving him standing openmouthed.
When the conveyer stopped on the mezzanine, Curtis led her to Number 42, the mezzanine tavern. His breathing, and his disposition, now approached normal. Rarely one to smile, Curtis couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed out loud. In his lifetime, he’d never rolled on the floor from laughter before. It was the scene as much as her absurd insult. He stood on a deep space trading station, addressing an unruly group who’d formed an Audubon Society chapter to protect one fucking pigeon. And this apparition—and his co-chief—made such a bizarre slur.
“What’s your drink?” he asked.
“Whatever’s on tap,” the ap
parition said.
They found seats toward the back and he entered their drink orders. The bar was full of Earth Space Force personnel temporarily stationed on Spud, the asteroid to which Dark Landing was anchored. Upon completion, a joint military station under construction in Zeta Quadrant would accommodate combat brigades from each of the five Alliance planets.
Curtis extended his hand across the table. “I’m Curtis Walker, Chief of Security. Nice to meet you, Hargreaves.”
She shook his hand with a firm grip. “Good to meet you. Please call me Austin.”
“You weren’t expected until tomorrow.”
“I prefer the unexpected.” She winked.
Curtis didn’t get it, but he winked back anyway. “I’ll make a note of that.” Her early arrival might work to his advantage. “When we finish our drinks, I’ll show you to your quarters and take you to med-lab to meet Doc Jameson. My day commander, Kyle, can give you a station tour tomorrow. He was the guy standing in the conveyer door with his mouth open.” By pawning her off on Kyle, he could avoid schlepping her around the station himself, and it would establish her lesser command standing.
“Thanks, I’m looking forward to meeting Dr. Jameson. But I’ve been here several hours now, and I poked around a bit on my own. I guess by tomorrow I’ll have full access?”
Curtis nodded and added “sneaky” under “unpredictable” to her list of traits. “Yep, we can go to HQ and make your arrival official before heading to med-lab, if you’d like.”
“I would like. By the way, how did that pigeon get past the environmental scanners?”
“Well . . . I guess that’s your problem now,” he said, with an air of smug authority.
“At least tell me which came first, the pigeon or the statue.”
Curtis silently added “Must have the last word” to his list.
~ ~ ∞ ~ ~
Charlotte Bronte arrived two days later. After a brief introductory meeting with the three chiefs, Austin offered to show her the docks and warehouse levels. Though Austin was new to Dark Landing herself, neither Curtis nor Doc objected. They’d scheduled a meeting later in the day with Kyle Drubber to conduct Bronte’s first audit of traffic records and the collection of MCTT regulatory fees.
Pleased at how effortlessly she’d slipped into the chief of administration position, Austin suspected Chief Walker and Dr. Jameson didn’t give a pigeon-livered bull’s pizzle about how she did her job, as long as she did it. Walker exerted minimal effort to conceal his annoyance at her arrival. But they behaved as expected, based on her review of their psych evaluations. Jameson was self-involved and Walker was habitually annoyed.
After inspecting the two docking sub-levels, she escorted the Muck enforcement officer toward the warehouses. At that time of day those levels were hectic and noisy. No one would question them moving away from the bustle to speak in private.
Austin entered her access code and palmed the conveyer panel. Consulting the route map was unnecessary. She’d interned for a year on Deep Light station. Owned by the same co-op, all trade stations in Zeta Quadrant followed one blueprint. Constructed from pre-fabricated ships welded together, and crisscrossed by conveyer tubes doubling as air handlers, they could accommodate permanent populations in the neighborhood of six thousand.
She’d tapped ahead to let the warehouse manager know they were on their way. He greeted them as they exited the conveyer. Austin made a show of trying to speak above the din, and the manager took her hint and offered them the use of his sound-proofed office.
When the office hatch closed, Bronte asked in unaccented English, “Did I see an Earth bird in the bazaar?” Her question was underscored by a series of soft, pleasurable hums. Should anyone who spoke Bahdane be present, the hums represented a translation of the English words in the native Bahdane language. Fluted tongues and four active vocal cords allowed Bahdaneians to speak two languages simultaneously, as long as one was Bahdaneian.
Austin laughed. “How the pigeon got there and what to do about it is my first official act as chief of administration.”
The Bahdaneian’s snout twitched and whiskers ruffled in a smile. Covered in black, glossy fur with long drooping ears that brushed their shoulders, Bahdaneians appeared soft and cuddly to humans—at first. Their usually stern demeanor quickly dispelled such notions.
Austin opened the discussion, “From what I’ve seen so far, frequent communications between the two of us won’t be flagged as unusual. There’s no need for elaborate cloak and dagger devices. It’s normal for us to be chatting, especially since we’re both new to our jobs. We should develop a code though. It doesn’t need to be sophisticated. Walker’s a little paranoid and might snoop for a while, but I don’t think he has a long attention span.”
“Upon review of his file, I agree with your assessment. I will report weekly to our contact at the Earth Technology Oversight Commission, and relay the ETOC’s orders back to you. Do you expect difficulties interacting with the target?”
“None,” Austin said. “We’ve already established a cordial relationship. It won’t be hard to cultivate it beyond cordial to intimate.”
“Good. Then we should complete our tour and meet with Commander Drubber.” Bronte rose from the chair behind the warehouse manager’s desk, signaling the end of their assignation.
“Would you like to stop for lunch?” Austin asked.
The Bahdaneian’s snout wrinkled. “I don’t wish to offend, but I’ll wait and dine on my ship. Earth food does not digest well, and the results of your race’s attempts to prepare Bahdane cuisine have proved . . . disappointing.”
~ ~ ∞ ~ ~
Curtis was returning from lunch when he spotted Hargreaves and the Muck officer entering the conveyer on their way to Security HQ. With a shallow bow, Hargreaves gestured for Bronte to enter ahead of her. He wasn’t surprised at Austin’s deference to the Bahdaneian. No one wanted to cross a Muck enforcement officer. But when they’d made introductions that morning, he thought he witnessed something pass between the two. Mutual attraction? He’d seen some disturbing porn vids featuring humans with Bahdaneians. At the memory, his lunch soured in his stomach. He tapped Kyle to tell him he’d be out of the office until later, and headed to his quarters for a siesta, hoping to escape further exchanges of pleasantries with Hargreaves and Muck.
~ ~ ∞ ~ ~
Charlotte Bronte didn’t prolong her visit, departing the station upon the completion of her records audit. Since it was only late afternoon, Austin made a swing by the bazaar to check the traps. She’d met with the leader of the Audubon Society the day after she arrived, and agreed the pigeon could stay as long as Doc Jameson declared it risk-free. Walker hadn’t exaggerated. Pigeons carried a bucket-load of diseases.
She was in luck. Preston fluttered in one of the traps. He tipped his head and gave her the evil eye. “Gotcha—you dull-brained measle.” She picked up the cage and proceeded to med-lab, ignoring the nasty looks from passersby.
Transmuted (Dark Landing Series Book 1) Page 29