by Thomas Webb
The old woman waggled a finger in front of them. “Language,” she warned.
Hale and Shane exchanged a look, both thinking the same thing—how the hell had the old lady heard what they were saying? Hearing aid technology was getting better with every century.
They continued on, the temperature dropping even further. Soon it would begin to resemble the literal icebox image Hale always associated with funeral homes. They passed a series of double doors, peristeel lined with rubberized seals and plastiscreen viewing planes on top. Most of the rooms were dark, but just ahead light spilled from one. The woman came to a sudden stop just before she reached it.
She pointed to the room. “Your AI drone has been at work for some time,” Mrs. Picante said.
Hale looked inside. He could make out what looked like half of an examination room. An empty peristeel table sat in plain view. Metal shelving lined one full side of the wall. Bright, fluorescent light filled the space, reflecting from white walls and polished tile floors.
The old woman pointed her cane at the room. “I’ll remind you that per our arrangement with Mr. Lima, you’ll keep the AI drone away from those specified areas that we discussed?”
“Yes ma’am,” Shane said, speaking up. “X37 is not to access the areas you indicated.”
Mrs. Picante nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Please see that it does not. We serve many life forms here, and we honor their faiths and customs. Some of them do not agree with the principals of creating Artificial Intelligence. So for AI, certain sacred places are strictly off limits. I trust I have made myself clear?”
Hale nodded, staring down at the woman. “Crystal clear, ma’am.” Even though she was shrunken and appeared frail, they were on her turf. There was no question in Hale’s mind as to who held the power here.
She sized Hale and Shane up for some time, as if deciding something, before she finally replied. “Very well,” she said. She offered a curt nod. “I’ll leave you both to it, then.”
She turned and departed, leaving Shane and Hale alone in the stone corridor. They looked at one another and shrugged, then pushed open the double doors and walked in together. To the left of the entryway X37 was hard at work, the AI drone’s multiple arms moving in a hypnotic, synchronous dance.
The AI stood poised over V’Trasta’s body, the Velusian woman’s chest flayed open. Her remains were displayed on a polished, stainless-peristeel autopsy table. Layers of green flesh were peeled back, revealing shining organs of varying shades of green, orange, and yellow, all covered in a slick coat of thick, blue blood.
The rest of the room, much like what Hale had seen through the clear plexglass opening, was a bright shade of white. For the first time he noticed the slight tilt of the floors, all descending to a centralized drain cover. The place was pristine—almost too clean, as if there had been a murder here and someone had worked double-time to remove the evidence.
“Greetings Captain Mallory,” the AI chirped. Five of the AI drone body’s six arms were occupied, each holding a different cutting instrument. “Greetings Staff Sergeant Hale.” The drone body didn’t miss a beat, neatly snipping a flat yellow organ free of the tissue holding it and placing it on a scale next to the table. The organ landed with a dull splat.
“Hey X37,” Shane replied.
Hale held his tongue, suppressing a deep belch that seemed to have come on all of a sudden. He was now very much regretting opting for that second omelet at breakfast.
“You are both right on time,” the drone said. “I am just finishing up here.”
Hale and Shane approached the autopsy table. They stood to either side of X37 as the AI continued to work.
Hale stared down at the remains of the former head of Interplanetary Accounting at United Les Space. A few strings pulled, and just the right application of pressure to the right people was all it took for Lima to get hold of her body. Right about now, V’Trasta’s family on Velus would be laying a genetic copy of the woman to rest. Somehow, Shane had made Lima promise to replace the genetic copy with the woman’s actual body at an as yet undetermined point in the future. She’d wrangled the promise from him, regardless of where the genetic copy was buried. Velusian custom dictated that anyone native to the home world be laid to rest at sea. It would be no easy task, as the planet Velus was over eighty-nine percent ocean. He had no idea how Shane had convinced Lima to do it, but Hale at least agreed with the sentiment behind it. Anything else would have been less than honorable.
Hale stared down at the woman’s body on the peristeel autopsy table and frowned. He stifled a second, wet belch.
“Never would have taken you for the squeamish type,” Shane said, noticing the greenish tint he’d taken on.
“I’ve seen my share of dead bodies.” Hale looked around the clinically-clean mortuary room the Picante’s had reserved for them. “Like I said, it’s the whole ‘funeral home’ thing that freaks me the hell out. I swear I’ll never get used to it.”
“Who are you trying to convince here?” Shane chuckled. “Me or you?”
“There is nothing to fear Staff Sergeant.” X37 still referred to them all by their military ranks, thanks to a hard-coded software error. It was an error Lima promised to get fixed but never had. If he were being honest, Hale kind of liked it. It reminded him of his old life. He suspected that Shane and Zombie kind of liked it, too.
Hale grimaced. “It’s not really fear, X37. It’s more like . . . distaste. Like I always said,” he added. “I’m a recon Marine—not mortuary affairs. Not if I can help it, anyway.”
“So what have you found?” Shane asked the AI. Hale was glad someone was getting them back on track.
The AI drone stood poised above the body, laser-sharp peristeel scalpel in her grasp. X37 shifted the woman’s’ flesh aside with the tool, pointing with one of her six arms at Talia’s throat.
“Do you notice the inflammation around Ms. V’Trastra’s gills?” The AI asked.
Hale leaned down and inspected the woman’s throat. It looked normal to him. As normal as a Velusian cadaver could look, anyway. “No,” he said. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s very slight,” the AI said. “Care to look Captain Mallory?”
Shane mimicked Hale’s movement from earlier, squinting for a closer view. After a moment, Shane too was forced to concede. “Me neither,” she said.
“Of course,” X37 said. “A human eye—even one trained for piloting interstellar attack ships—would probably miss it.” The drone body pointed to the neck. “This is a very specific reaction to a very specific toxin. I am sorry to report that Ms. V’trasta did not die of natural causes. The inflammation clearly indicates poisoning.”
Hale frowned. Poisoning? That figured. “What type of toxin was it?” he asked.
X37 used one of her free hands to bring up a holoscreen. The image of a vial of pale yellow liquid appeared before them. “This is triosium phosphate. It is a derivative of a common enough element. It has numerous non-lethal uses, but it is extremely deadly to Velusian physiology.”
Shane leaned in, looking closer. “You said the element it’s derived from is common? How common? And what are its uses?”
“I thought you might ask that Captain Mallory.” The AI waved away the holo image. “Judging by the extreme reaction and the state of the human equivalent of Ms. V’Trasta’s liver organ, I would say that this was a quite highly refined version of triosium. The chemical has numerous manufacturing uses, and on some planets it is even utilized as a popular dietary supplement.”
“Can we be sure that’s what this is?” Hale asked, happy to shift his focus away from the autopsy itself.
“No,” X37 replied. “Not until some of these tissue samples are fully analyzed, I’m afraid. But the initial signs do point to my original conclusion.”
“I’ll give you three guesses as to who’s behind this,” Shane said.
“Yeah,” Hale added. “And the first two don’t even count.”
“An
y way we can trace this poison?” Shane asked.
“Yes Captain—once we determine the original element, we can narrow the probable source down to 0.0009 standard deviations, simply by using the genetic markers inherent in the refining process. I estimate my initial guess to be at least seventy-five-point six percent accurate.”
A thought occurred to Hale. “Is that stuff even native to Luna?” he asked.
“No,” X37 said. “There are manufacturing facilities throughout UN controlled space, the Outer Colonies, and the greater Allied Planets. But the original version was initially discovered on Haven.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Haven? That’s an Outer Colonies world.”
“Do they have ULS processing facilities there?” Hale asked, following where she was going.
“They most certainly do Staff Sergeant.” If the AI drone could have nodded, it would have. “ULS is one of the biggest suppliers of triosium. And if I may be so bold as to anticipate your next question a second time, Captain Mallory, I would venture that there is a ninety-two percent chance that United Les Space is behind this.”
“What?” Hale chuckled. “No decimal point?”
“Ninety-two-point four percent,” X37 added.
“There’s our girl. Not that you need to be an advanced Artificial Intelligence to peg ULS for this.” Hale shook his head. “They didn’t even bother trying to hide it, did they?”
“No,” Shane said. “Why would they?” She clenched her small fists. “With the weight they can throw around in the UN, not even a near-direct connection between this woman’s murder, their corporation, and the Outer Colonies will be enough to nail them.”
Hale had to agree. He hated to admit it, but Shane was right. “Like Lima said, we need duracrete proof. Without hard evidence, we got nothing.”
Shane turned away, thinking. Then she looked up at Hale. They’d been working together for only a short time, but already Hale could tell by the look in her emerald-green eyes that something was brewing. The former Air & Space Command fighter jock had an idea.
“I might know someone who can help with that,” she said.
-4-
Shane lowered her altitude several thousand meters and broke through the cloud cover. The wisps of moisture dissolved, and the rolling hills of the southern part of the United States, continent of North America, came into view. The fields, forests, and lakes made up a patchwork of greens, browns, and blues. They spread out beneath her, like some beautiful, gigantic piecemeal quilt. She breathed in deep, imagining she could taste the Kentucky air through the airtight enclosure of her craft.
“I’m noticing changes in your endorphin levels Captain.” X37 was along for the ride today. This time Shane had brought the AI’s brain only, opting to leave the intimidating drone body behind. “Are you pleased to be returning to this area of the world?”
Shane smiled, taking in the panoramic view below. “I am.”
Despite her reasons for leaving the military, Shane missed a lot about her old life. Not the least of which was living on this beautiful part of Earth. She veered west, and the sprawling Fort Wentworth Air & Space Command base appeared in the distance.
Before Shane could switch over to the familiar wave frequency and key her comms, a female voice burst over the open channel. “Civilian craft—this is the Fort Wentworth tower. You are in military skyspace. Identify yourself.”
“Civilian craft tail number Alpha two-seven-six-niner to Wentworth Tower,” Shane said. “Request clearance and landing vector. Over.”
“That’s a negative,” the tower quickly responded. “No civilian craft are cleared to land. Please reroute to Louisville Regional Air & Space Port.”
Shane rolled her eyes. She wasn’t expecting a hero’s welcome, exactly. But she at least thought she was expected. “Wentworth tower this is civilian craft. Be advised—my callsign is Valkyrie. Over.”
“Civilian craft standby.”
There was a brief pause, as if someone somewhere was making a decision.
“Civilian craft this is Fort Wentworth Tower,” the same female voice said. “You are clear to approach. Vector ID for runway seven. We’re sending you coordinates now. Ground Control says to tell you welcome home.”
A smile crept across Shane’s face. Now that was more like it.
She glanced down, checking her holo display. A familiar set of coordinates scrawled across the screen. She adjusted course and headed toward the intersection of runways. She decided she’d do this the old-fashioned way, dropping down almost to the hard deck and flying straight in as opposed to a VTOL, or vertical takeoff and landing.
The bird—a civilian model of the military’s V-20 Starliner VIP personnel transport, only sans guns—was a top performer. The craft was capable of keeping up with the military versions and then some, only Lima’s bird was outfitted with a luxurious interior cabin and a beefier set of twin engines. Shane sighed. She’d take a cluster of mini-hellfires and a pulse cannon over Lima’s space limo any day.
Shane dropped to a scant three meters above the ground and slowed her speed, following the length of the runway. How many times had she landed here, on this same runway? How many practice sorties had she run on these same tarmacs?
Instead of heading toward the squadron hangers she veered the starliner left, toward the civilian sector. She taxied in until she reached the front of the designated hanger, then brought the fancy air and space craft to a stop. The hangar looked to be well past its prime—peeling paint, rotten wood, a metal alloy roof spotted with rust. Grass sprouted through cracks in the duracrete. They didn’t get many civilians landing at Fort Weston, and it showed.
A minute later an Air & Space Command issue-growler, painted up in desert camouflage, rolled to a stop. Shane smiled. Her welcoming party had arrived.
“Can you stay active X37?” she asked the AI. “If I need you on comms, I’ll want to raise you right away.”
“Affirmative Captain. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks,” Shane replied, already beginning her shutdown sequence.
The hydrogen engines powered down, whining to a stop. A few minutes later her post flight checks were done. Shane donned a set of aviators, actuated the stairs, and climbed out. She heard a roar in the distance and paused on the steps, a hand shading her eyes in spite of her dark glasses. Shane followed the sound and found herself gazing at two fighters as they took off. The same fighters she used to fly, not so very long ago.
While she’d been running through her shutdown checklist, a lone Air & Space Command Captain had exited the growler. He now stood, arms folded, leaning against the vehicle.
“You miss it?” he asked, noticing where Shane’s eyes had wandered.
“Every damned day,” Shane said. Captain Monty Montgomery extended his hand.
“What is this garbage?” Shane asked. “We served together for three years.” She batted his offered hand away, instead going in for a hug. “How’s my favorite intelligence geek?” she asked, giving the taller man a squeeze.
“I resemble that remark,” Montgomery laughed.
Monty Montgomery stood a lanky one point seven meters tall, hovering over Shane by almost a full ten centimeters. He had the pale complexion of many in the New England area of North America. His hair seemed to have a life of its own, spiking every which way on top and shaved military-short on the sides. The standard garrison uniform of synth-fiber green camo fatigues hung from his lean frame. Heavy black jump boots completed the uniform. Monty possessed a set of soft, honest eyes, and the velvet hands of someone who spent the day staring at reams of information for a living.
“It’s good to see you Monty,” Shane said.
He grinned. “Good to be seen.”
Shane snorted. “So how’s the 151st treating you?”
“We own the stars,” he said.
Shane laughed at Monty’s use of the unit’s motto. Her old unit, the 151st. The Star Stalkers had been and still was, the best SOSAR, or Special Ope
rations Space and Aviation Squadron, in the United Nations Military. It had been a point of pride for Shane to fly with them, and her time in the unit had been the absolute pinnacle of her career. The pain of no longer being a part of that surprised her. Like a missing limb that hadn’t been genetically replicated and replaced.
“I see they haven’t upgraded the transports,” Shane said, giving the beaten old growler a slap.
“Only the best for a VIP like the great Shane “Valkyrie” Mallory,” Monty shot back.
Shane grinned. “You always were full of shit.”
They hopped into the battered combat vehicle and Monty fired the engine. Soon they were rolling away from the abandoned hangar, headed toward the access roads skirting the runways.
“You know I was kidding back there,” Monty said. “About the whole VIP thing, I mean.”
“You know me better than that,” Shane said. “Would take a hell of a lot more than some light shit-talking to rattle me.”
“Yeah,” Monty said, drawing the word out. “I know. But seriously, though? You are missed around here. By those of us who know what the unit is losing out on by you not being here. Any chance of you coming back?” he asked.
Shane shook her head, taking longer than she thought she would. “’Fraid not, man. I don’t miss the meat grinder.” She at least thought she believed that. Either way, she was on to something huge now. Something with the potential to turn the tide of the Wars. Maybe even end them altogether. She stared out the window as a gunship headed in. She saw it had no missiles on its pods. Another practice sortie completed.
“Is Pyro around?” Shane asked. The gunship made her think of the young pilot. She’d only flown with Pyro once, on her and Gina’s final active duty mission. Just in that short time, the rookie had made an impression on her.
Montgomery shook his head. “No. She’s on training maneuvers out by Rylus. She’s really kicking ass though, Shane. She’s a hell of a pilot. She’ll be bummed she missed you.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “The feeling’s mutual.”