Armstrong Station

by D. M. Pruden

  I look at the ransacked cabinet. It is curious that they took the time to find her antidote. Surely Cabot’s people have access to the drug and didn’t need to search for it.

  I realize that the useless twats in the security team know nothing of Chambers’ addition of Maggie to the ship’s systems.

  “Maggie, I’m presuming you have a visual record of what happened here?”

  “Of course, Doctor. Would you like to review it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  A holographic projection materializes showing a view from a feed just inside Requiem’s airlock. A man wearing a mask that obscures his face enters, eyes focussed on a palm-sized device. He stops to look around, his gaze eventually stopping at the camera that is recording him. He presses a button on his pad, and the hologram winks out. A second later, the image rematerializes, except now it shows paramedics entering the ship.

  “What just happened?”

  “There is a fifteen-minute gap in my record.”

  “Shit. Can you access external security feeds from the docking authority?”

  “I’ll try.... There is a corresponding missing time interval in that system’s record as well.”

  Before I can ask, Maggie displays the feed, which shows a similar sequence of events outside the ship.

  “Damn it.”

  “My visual systems were compromised, but they did not disable my audio record.”

  “Play it for me, beginning at the point where the guy killed the video.”

  What follows are sounds of hurried, heavy footsteps echoing throughout Requiem’s corridors. Chambers’ shouts are followed by sounds of a brief altercation, then silence.

  More footfalls, then Chloe’s screams and more struggle before a man’s voice grunts in pain. A smack, and Chloe is quiet.

  Some muffled words are exchanged.

  “Stop! Play back what they said.”

  Maggie dutifully replays the same, indistinct voices.

  “I can’t understand them. Can you filter and augment that?”

  A moment’s pause, and then the segment replays. This time the recording is clear.

  “What language are they speaking?”

  “Russian.”

  “That doesn’t sound like any dialect I’ve ever heard.”

  “They are conversing in a dialect common in the Kazakh region of the Terran Asian continent.”

  “Can you translate it?”

  After a pause, a gruff male voice comes over the speaker. “Why did you hit her? “

  A second voice, slightly higher in pitch, says, “The bitch scratched me.”

  “We were told she was not to be harmed. How do you expect me to explain the bruises on her cheek?”

  “Don’t be such an old woman. Who is to say she did not get that while she was still with Vostok?”

  “Hmph, fine. She damaged your mask. Pull up your scarf when we leave the ship until we can move her in the truck.”

  There are some additional rustling sounds, followed by the crashing when they tear apart the medical bay, but no more speaking.

  “Maggie, access the public surveillance near the docks. Can you locate a truck or van departing in a hurry shortly following this time stamp? Account for how long it might take them to carry Chloe to the vehicle.” I hope I’m not overestimating the AI’s capability.

  Seconds tick by, and I begin to think I’ve hit a dead end.

  Then a holographic image is projected, showing four men hustling a bundle into the back of a van. Anticipating my request, Maggie zooms in and replays the snippet.

  Three of the men’s faces are obscured by black masks, but the fourth one only wears a simple black scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose. For a moment, he furtively searches around to make sure they are not seen, almost looking directly at the camera. Then he joins his mates and they speed away.

  “Can you tie to any other feeds to follow their progress?”

  A longer pause ensues while Maggie searches the system. “They entered the Upper Tens district, where I cannot gain access to surveillance video.”

  “That sounds like a posh area for thugs to hang out.”

  I wait for the AI to respond and smile to myself when she doesn’t. She is learning. We might get along yet.

  My back straightens as an idea occurs to me. “Maggie, go back to the last video and freeze on the frame where the partially masked man turns toward the camera.”

  She dutifully locates the image. I study the augmented face and the cold, fearful eyes that stare at me.

  “Can you get into the government immigration database?”

  “That system is available to me, yes.”

  “Search iris scans on record for any match to this guy.”

  “I will require some time to decrypt those records before I can initiate a one.”

  I nod absently. “Okay, ping me on my CI when you find anything.”

  While she is doing that, I need to go to the hospital to check up on Chambers and Schmaltz.

  The brilliant blue orb hangs in the inky sky. I’m still not used to watching the Earth pass through phases. Presently, we are enveloped in the shroud that is a new moon, the peak of a month-long lunar night. The only identifiable features on our surface from Earth will be the lights of Luna’s cities.

  I’ve seen pictures and paintings of the Moon, made centuries before the human presence changed it. It appears so pristine in those images, like a bride dressed in white with no idea of how her intended will despoil her. Cast aside like a rejected lover, Luna watched as mankind moved on to other conquests in the solar system.

  I shake my head and rub my eyes as I turn from the window. I only get poetic when I’m tired...or drunk.

  A rustle of sheets catches my attention. Chambers stirs in the hospital bed. He is coming to, and I hope the man I knew will return to us, whole and undamaged.

  He moans and then panics. Thrashing, he reaches for the breathing tube.

  I hit the call button then advance to the bed to place my hand on his chest.

  “Easy, Roy. You’ve got a tube in you. Give us a minute to take it out.”

  Impatient for help to arrive, I decide to extract it. He is gagging and coughing as the nurse enters. The young man shoots me a dirty look before he elbows me aside none too gently and attends his patient. Rather than protest, I stand back and try not to be critical of his manner. I, too, probably would be annoyed with someone who interfered with one of my patients.

  Finally, when things settle down and Chambers becomes fully coherent, the nurse scowls at me and says, “I’ll give you ten minutes, then he needs to rest.”

  “Rest?” says Chambers hoarsely. “I just woke up.”

  The young man turns to him. “You need to be assessed.”

  He frowns.

  “For more brain damage than you had before your injury,” I say.

  “Hardy-har.”

  Shaking his head, the nurse leaves us.

  I study Chambers. “You had me worried.”

  “I’ve had worse beatings.”

  “It’s a good sign that you remember what happened.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Schmaltz took a whack to the head attempting to help you, and Cervantes got knifed in the arm—they’re both okay.”

  “What about the girl?”

  I shake my head. “They took her.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Keep it down. The nurse already doesn’t like me. I don’t want him to think I’m doing something to you.”

  A mischievous twinkle comes to his eye, and he whispers, “Help! Help! She’s trying to smother me and take over my command!”

  “Very funny, but I can think of more creative ways to off you.”

  When our laughter at the joke runs its course, we grow quiet for a moment.

  “They were Kazakhs,” I say. “They spoke Russian.”

  “Vostok’s men?”

  “I don’t think so, but they knew Chloe spent time with
him, and they took the time to locate my supply of pills for her.”

  “Then who? Willis?”

  I shrug. “Maybe; the guy seems to be hiding something, and he was definitely not happy she was beyond his reach. It might also be someone with a grudge against Anthony Cabot who learned she was on Requiem.”

  “If word reaches him that she was on our ship, he’ll put a price on our heads.”

  “That thought has already occurred to me. We have to find her.”

  “Any ideas, Mel? Otherwise, we’d better plan to high-tail it out of here and vanish—for good.”

  “Maggie traced them somewhere in the Upper Tens district.”

  “Shit, she could be anywhere in there.”

  “I think I’m going to pay Vostok a visit.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t think he was involved.”

  “I don’t, but those guys spoke Russian, and I can’t imagine why he won’t have an idea who they are.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Carson Willis impatiently watches the numbers change on the display. Despite its generous dimensions, he finds the elevator confining; the walls press in and threaten to crush him.

  He involuntarily reaches into his pocket. Stopping himself, he shuts his eyes and regulates his breathing to slow his heartbeat. He already took two tablets in the ground car and can’t afford to dull his senses any more with another dose.

  Askar’s message reached him during the night. Despite his increasing dependence on medication, Carson wasn’t asleep. He’d tossed in his bed, barely able to control his anxiety, and despite his expectations, the news he received did little to calm his tattered nerves.

  He needs this to be finished before he can sleep well again.

  The doors part, and he strides down the corridor, confident that the Kazakhs have disabled the security feeds.

  A quiet knock on the door gains him entry to an all too familiar apartment.

  “Is she secured?” he asks the tall, swarthy man who admits him.

  “She is in bedroom,” replies the man with a heavy Russian accent. Garlic and the man’s halitosis assault Carson’s nose.

  He scans the apartment’s central room, pleased to see that no sign remains of his encounter with its previous occupant, Bentley Ferris.

  “Where are the others?”

  “They are eating.” He turns to show Carson the way.

  In the well-appointed kitchen area, two men sitting at the table look up from their plates of fried eggs.

  Carson frowns. “Where is Askar?”

  The missing man emerges from the toilet, zipping up his trousers. He dips his head in acknowledgment but says nothing as he takes his seat and resumes eating.

  “Were any of you seen?”

  “Nyet,” says Askar around a mouthful of eggs. “Nazer’s mask was damaged, but he hid face with scarf. No one can identify us.”

  “Did the woman see any of you?”

  “Nyet.”

  “And the vehicle you used?”

  “Abandoned and burned with the masks, as you instructed.”

  Carson permits himself a smile. He casually reaches into his breast pocket. “All that remains, then, is your payment.”

  He pulls out a snub-nosed flechette pistol. Without hesitation, he shoots two silent rounds through the temple of the man who met him at the door.

  Before the others can overcome their shock, he fires off a succession of rounds. Each of them falls with two needles in the chest and one between the eyes.

  The assault requires only eight seconds, and four men are dead at his feet. A thrill rises in him as he admires his handiwork.

  After permitting himself a few seconds to enjoy the suppressed emotions he finally let out, he slips the gun back into his pocket, composes himself, and goes to the closed bedroom door.

  Opening it, he finds the room dark. There is a rustle of fabric and a dull thud of something falling to the floor, followed by silence. Amused, Carson locates the switch and turns on the light.

  At first glance, the room appears empty. Except for rumpled sheets on the bed, there is no evidence anyone occupies it.

  “Chloe?” he calls out softly. “You’re safe now. The men are gone.”

  No response from her, but he hears her rapid breaths.

  Cautious, as though approaching a cornered animal, he moves along the wall until he finds her, huddled in the corner, clutching her knees to her chest. Her dull eyes are wide with terror.

  She looks like a different person than the semiconscious woman he dropped off at this same apartment only a month ago. Her once lustrous black hair is now dull and her skin sallow. She will need to be nursed back to health before she can be delivered to her father. He wonders how much of her condition is due to the nanites ravaging her system. She’s likely not been given the necessary medication. He admonishes himself for not asking her captors whether they’d acquired it when they recovered her.

  Returning to the central room, he searches for the pills but finds nothing. A check of the bathroom proves fruitless, as does a search of the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen.

  He then pats down each of the corpses, becoming more frantic with every passing second.

  Finally, in Askar’s trousers pocket he finds the bottle of familiar blue pills.

  Sighing, he stands and turns, startled to see Chloe at door, watching him.

  “Are...are they dead?”

  “Yes,” says Carson as he advances toward her. “I...”

  The fear in her eyes turns to horror as she retreats from him.

  He abruptly stops and raises his hands to show her he only holds her medication.

  “These were on him. You need them.”

  He holds out the bottle for her. When she continues to back away, he places it on the kitchen counter. Hands raised in clear view, he steps away.

  Chloe eyes him suspiciously. Her wary gaze darts between the pills and Carson, each time lingering longer on the medication. Her tongue flicks over her dry lips, telling Willis she is only moments away from letting her need overcome her fear.

  She dashes forward, seizes the bottle, and retreats to the lounge to sit on the couch and pry it open. Carson cautiously follows her into the room, taking care to keep his distance.

  He waits for her relax as the medicine takes effect.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asks, making sure to speak softly.

  She studies him momentarily before nodding.

  He goes to the kitchen and returns a moment later with a glass of water. She cowers when he tries to hand it to her, so he places it on the coffee table and steps back.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  Chloe shakes her head. Without breaking eye contact with him, she reaches for the water and downs it in a series of greedy gulps.

  “My name is Carson Willis. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Are you from Requiem?”

  “No, but I am helping them to find you.”

  “Is the captain okay? They hurt him—”

  “He’s fine.” Askar neglected to inform him about any altercation with the ship’s crew. He mentally kicks himself for not debriefing the Kazakhs. Perhaps his inner demon is not as under control as he believes. He makes a mental note to resume his mediation when this is resolved.

  Her brow furrows. “How did you know I need the pills?”

  His breath catches momentarily. This woman is smart.

  He tilts his head toward the kitchen. “These men told me.”

  She looks at the bodies. “Who are they?”

  “They work for a notorious gangster, Oskar Vostok.”

  She appears to consider his reply. “I’ve never seen them before. Why did they take me? Mel paid out my contract with Vostok.”

  “Perhaps he decided to go back on his deal with the doctor. He is a criminal, after all.”

  She scowls. “If you’re not with Requiem, how do you know Mel is a doctor?”

  Damn it! “I’ve met her
. Since she is a member of Requiem’s crew, I just assumed she is who you referred to.”

  Chloe nods then raises the empty glass. “May I have more water?”

  Grateful for the change of topic, Carson leaves to refill her cup. On his return, her gaze lingers on him.

  “You seem familiar,” she says. “Do you work for my father?”

  His blood freezes.

  There should be nothing familiar about him to her. He was meticulously careful when he took delivery of her. Even though she was heavily sedated, he made sure to wear a mask when he brought her here to Bentley Ferris.

  “I’m a friend of your father’s. You and I have never met before.”

  “Oh? Your voice sounds familiar. Perhaps I once overheard you talking to him.”

  His heart races, and a heavy stone settles in the pit of his stomach. Until recently, his communications with Anthony Cabot were via encoded script messages. They never spoke directly until the day he called in search of his daughter.

  He swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to smile. “That’s probably the case.”

  She nods and considers her glass, seeming lost in thought.

  Carson tries to control his breathing and slow his pulse. How much does she know?

  She’s already started to pick apart his story. Given time, how much will she deduce or even recall?

  If she implicates him in her abduction, he is a dead man. A shared conversation about him with her father might be all it takes. Anthony Cabot has murdered people for mere suspicion of betrayal. If she mentions recognizing his voice, how long will it be before she recalls where she heard it? Cabot will not hesitate to put her under regression therapy to learn everything possible about what happened to his only daughter.

  His thoughts turn to the bodies in the kitchen. The easiest solution to head off any personal danger would be for him to kill the girl and blame it on the Kazakhs. Their involvement will also provide an excuse to shut down Vostok’s operation. That would guarantee his promotion.

  His hand creeps toward the pocket holding his pistol.

  No! What am I thinking? I can’t shoot her. Strangulation, then?

  She took the blue pills. Based on experience, he realizes a forensic pathologist can establish her time of death based on cellular decay, nanite concentrations in her bloodstream, and probably a host of other indicators he can’t imagine. There is no way to conceal that she died after the men, not before.