Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles)

by Ervin II, Terry W.

  I logged off and looked around the austere room. I should’ve asked Mer to swing by the lavatory before dropping me off. Instead of focusing on that, I stretched out on the old recliner for a nap.

  A determined buzz followed by Mer’s voice interrupted my slumber. “You in there? Lunch time.”

  I checked my watch. Almost 1:00. It took me a second to get to my feet and open the door. “Just catching a nap,” I said, stretching my bruised body. “More comfortable than it looks.”

  “I know,” said the old maintenance worker, stepping in. “Benny keeps his place tidy.”

  “My roommate?” I asked. “Almost barren.”

  “Nah, Benny’s okay. I just think he wanted to make a good impression.”

  “Or wanted to be sure I didn’t steal anything.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t it.” Mer winked, before stepping back out into the corridor. “He’s pretty trusting. I kind of watch out for him. Lunch is in my room.”

  “Before we go anywhere, I need to hit the head.”

  “Thought you might,” he said, pointing down the hall. “Twenty paces that way. Door’s marked. I’m next door to you. But don’t go anywhere else.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried down the hall.

  The facilities were divided for men and women. A scan of my V-ID provided access. There were three showers and sinks along with two urinals and toilets. The sinks didn’t have timed shutoffs, but I was sure they were monitored. Despite the fact that all water was captured and recycled aboard an interstellar ship, it’s still standard policy to conserve. The alternative risks overburdening the system.

  Mer sat, waiting in his cluttered quarters. The room was twice the size of mine, and looked like he’d lived in it for decades. Memorabilia and knickknacks lined upper shelves. The lower tiers were laden with books. A standalone computer sat in one corner next to a pile of manuals, and below another full bookshelf. Six lit tanks set into a side wall caught my attention.

  I strode over to them. “Wow, they let you keep fish? These are guppies, right?”

  “Yep,” Mer said, resting in a chair and eating a cold-cut sandwich.

  “They’re not fluorescent,” I said, staring at the black-spotted males with sporadic coloring and the plain females. “What kind are they?”

  He swallowed before answering. “Just plain old common guppies.” He pointed to a tray and chair. “Sit on down and eat.”

  “Thanks. I don’t believe I’ve seen that type before.”

  “Wouldn’t doubt it. They’re probably rarer than any fancy type you can name.”

  “I thought interstellar transport of animals, pets especially, was restricted?”

  “It is.”

  I knew he was baiting me. “Are they sterile?” I didn’t think they were with the different sizes swimming about.

  “Nope.”

  “You have a permit?”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t want to break any law or regulation.”

  “You must have some pull, Mer.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “More than some, less than others.”

  “More than most.” I stared into the tanks, considering water I hauled in my cart. “Those tanks, that’s a lot of water.”

  “Yep. Aren’t you hungry, Kra?”

  “Yeah, but it looks like you’ve got young fry and adults.”

  Mer set his tray aside and stood next to me. “The top two tanks hold males and females, separately. The middle two are for breeding pairs. See the dividers?”

  I nodded. “You’re breeding them now?”

  He nodded. “And the bottom two are for fry and juveniles.”

  “They’re live bearers right?”

  “You know something about raising tropical fish?”

  “Not really. I had a few goldfish as a kid. But I read about guppies in science.” I walked back to my seat and picked up my sandwich. “Guppies were used to control aquatic parasites around the Glasgow Colony.” I searched my memory. I’d inspected a wheeled transport with guppies on its manifest just before the Riots. “They were common guppies. Now I remember where I’ve seen them.”

  “In your science book?”

  I took a bite of the sandwich. It was synthetic chicken salad. After a second, I nodded. “How do the developing young survive traveling in condensed space?”

  “Actually, mostly in the wash,” he corrected. “And not very well, but better than humans.”

  “Then why are you breeding them now?”

  “Breeding them for our final destination.”

  “Then,” I said, “those that do survive would be more apt to produce offspring resistant to the effects of condensed space?”

  “Could be. I’ve just been picking the healthiest. The rest go into cold storage.”

  “Are there parasites on Tallavaster, like the Glasgow Colony’s?”

  “Something like that,” he said, gazing at the fish. “We’ll need as many as can be raised between now and our arrival.”

  “Still, you’re selectively breeding them, right?”

  “Seems so,” he said. “Avoid inbreeding as much as possible.” He shook his head. “But the facilities, as you can see, are limited.”

  “A few tank-fulls won’t be much help, will they?”

  “No, a few tank-fulls won’t.” He sat back down. “We’ve been putting them in cold sleep for quite some time.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking about what he meant by ‘we.’ I finished half my sandwich and dug into the red gelatin. Six tanks couldn’t amount to much, unless it was a localized problem. “Do they do well in cold sleep?”

  “Tested it once. Near one-hundred percent.”

  “About the same as humans. Not bad.”

  “It’s pretty good,” he said, “considering humans receive better treatment than these little critters.”

  “So, common guppies are pretty hardy.”

  “A lot more than their fancy glowing cousins.”

  Something nagged at me. “Common guppies saved the Glasgow Colony, right?”

  “Well,” said Mer, “at least its profitability.”

  “Yeah, that’s where CGIG got its big start.”

  Mer frowned. “Yep.”

  He set his gelatin aside. I finished mine. After a moment I asked, “Must be decent profit in breeding the fish?” I gestured toward the wall. “A lot of water to be maintained. Kind of a joint venture between you and Negral Corp?”

  “Hmmm. Yes, Kra, you might say that.”

  “You’ve been on this vessel a while, and you have this big cabin,” I said, looking around.

  “Actually, I was on this ship’s maiden voyage.” Mer’s voice trailed off. He looked at the floor and sighed. “Seems more than ten lifetimes ago.”

  Most R-Techs are, to some extent, nostalgic. “It seems you’ve done well for yourself. Fish breeding must pay well.” Mer’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. “Confirms my belief that you don’t have to be an I-Tech genius to make it.” I finished the second half of my sandwich, sipped my juice, and relaxed watching the fish.

  Finally, Mer snapped out of it. After rubbing his hands and clapping them once, he levered himself out of his chair. “Picked up some of your equipment.” He shuffled over to a small shoulder sack hanging next to his tool belt.

  Just as he got there, the hand-held radio in his belt crackled. “Mer, this is Brold. Are you with Keesay?”

  Mer picked up the set and winked. “As a matter of fact, Chief, I am. We’re just finishing lunch.”

  “Did you pick up his communications equipment?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Have you delivered it to him?”

  “As a matter of fact, Chief, I haven’t. Have you been attempting to contact him?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mer, I have.”

  “Thought so.” Mer cackled. “Anything you’d like me to relay?”

  “Yes. After you hand over his communications equipment, tell him that all is clear. And that he’s to
report to Specialist Club in the Control Room.”

  “Mind if we finish lunch, Chief?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. But it might to Keesay, if he keeps Specialist Club waiting.”

  “Gotcha.” Mer replaced the hand radio and reached into the sack. “Here you go, Kra. One old-fashioned communication head set with belt attached light-weight power pack with send and receive booster adjustments.” He pointed to a wall terminal obscured by clutter. “Instructions are on line.”

  It was standard issue equipment to R-Techs. “I’ve had training on these.” I slipped it on my head, adjusted the earpiece and the mic around my cheek. “Has it been calibrated?”

  “Yep. All the frequencies set. Just state the name of who you desire to contact in your call. The communications network will do the rest.” Mer pulled out a security cap, an old-style baseball hat with the Negral Logo across the front. “Here, this will help hold it in place.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping on the cap. “Sturdy, hard wired. Secure, I assume.”

  “Secure? Yes. And it’ll get better reception than those microchip implants, and stronger broadcast than the collar mics.”

  “I’m sure of that. Let me try it out.” I clicked it on. “Mer? Can you read me?”

  He grabbed his radio. “Affirmative.”

  I adjusted the volume and gave him a thumbs-up. “Specialist Club, this is Specialist Keesay. I just received my communications equipment and will be reporting to you right away.”

  An immediate reply shot back. “Acknowledged.”

  “I’d better get moving, Mer. Don’t want to keep Specialist Club waiting.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, shaking his head and shuffling back to his chair. “Think I’ll catch a nap.”

  I had a hunch, so I asked, “Would you?”

  “What?” he said, turning back. “Keep Club waiting?” He chuckled. “Have you met her?”

  “Yes.” I had a better question. “Could you?”

  “What do you mean?” Mer asked, rummaging through his bag, apparently without success.

  I tried a different track. “What’s your assignment on this ship?”

  “I told you before. I just go around and fix what needs fixing.”

  “But you said you were on this ship’s maiden voyage. Are you a part owner?”

  “Me, part owner? Nah.” He tapped at his breast pocket before gently directing me toward the exit with his other hand. “You really want to keep Club waiting?”

  “Not really,” I said, turning. “Control is right next to the chief’s office?”

  “Yep,” he said, extending his hand. “Here, you might want these back.”

  “What?” I asked, as he slapped a pair of 12-gauge shells into my hand.

  “Now, time for my nap.” The door slid shut.

  I looked at the shells and headed toward the elevator. Twelve-gauge slugs. I looked closer. They were my popcorn nukes. How had Mer gotten them? How did he get authorization to return them? Maybe he was the owner of this transport? Maybe he was an associate of Field Director Simms? I was missing something. It was possible I’d been hit one too many times in the head. I pondered that as I hustled to meet with Specialist Club.

  Before reaching Security Control, I attributed Mer’s position on the Kalavar to three possibilities. He could be a relative of a Negral Corp board member. But that seemed less likely when his attendance on the maiden voyage was taken into consideration. He could be a retired officer of some sort, but that didn’t seem to fit. The last solution, that he worked for intelligence, seemed remote. His age weighed heavily against it. On the other hand, it’d be an excellent cover, and reason for access to the maintenance sleds and ability to return my popcorn nukes. After all, Chief Brold seemed to approve the sled use at least. A mystery that had to wait.

  The heavy-duty door opened after I nodded to the camera outside Security Control. Inside the deep, rectangular room sat Specialist Club, wearing what seemed to be her perpetual frown. The circles under her eyes had grown even deeper. I stepped in and she tapped a key, closing the door. She finished dictating log information into the nearest of the three computer consoles, summarizing the findings of the medical staff and clean-up crew. Basically, she established a hypothesis that supported Chief Brold’s suggested cause.

  Flat-screen security monitors covered every inch of wall space. Two stand-alone quantum computers covered the far wall opposite the door. Club swiveled her chair in my direction, briefly glancing at some of the monitoring screens before giving me a more studied appraisal than when I boarded.

  “Reporting as requested, Specialist Club.”

  “Club will do in here.” She pointed to a chair. “I see you have established security codes for your account.”

  “That is correct.” I figured to stay formal until common sense dictated otherwise.

  “The system rated them satisfactory. Better than I thought you’d come up with.”

  “Your point being?” I asked.

  “Maybe my expectations aren’t high, Keesay. But I’ll give you a fair shake.”

  “That is appreciated,” I said evenly. “I know how to competently implement proper security procedures.”

  “So it seems. That’s good,” she added. “With the shortage of personnel in our field, I had concerns the company might be less meticulous in recruiting.”

  “Maybe they were,” I suggested, “but even a fisherman with low standards occasionally adds a fine catch to his stringer.” She didn’t seem to follow. “You’ve never been fishing?”

  “Nope,” said Club. “But I think I followed your idiom.”

  “Idiom?”

  “Do you know what an idiom is, Keesay?”

  “Yes, Club. Like scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  “Excellent.” She almost cracked a smile. “Seems we might have gotten a good catch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you came recommended. The chief and the XO seem to agree with the assessment. Your response just indicated that you’re educated and that you’re willing to question any statement which is less than accurate.” She spun toward the console, tapped a key, and scanned several of the monitors as they switched views. “Think you’ll be able to learn this monitoring system?”

  “I believe so, with a little instruction. Looks similar to what I worked with on Pluto.” I inspected the terminals and readouts. “Maybe a little more up to date.” I scanned the walls. “More monitoring stations.” I reexamined the controls and readouts, before looking back into her fatigued eyes. “Basic trouble shooting if there’s a problem.”

  “We wouldn’t expect you to do any of the technical work and you won’t be spending that much time in here anyway. Negral contracted you to spend more time on the beat. Also, I requisitioned an ocular receiver-transmitter. It should mount on the brim of your cap just fine but we might get a more advanced one.” She glanced down. “Those leather boots comfortable? You’ll be logging a lot of kilometers.”

  “I’m up to the task, and so are they. You know, I have a second pair…somewhere.”

  She ignored the comment and instead followed a quick-moving figure across two screens. It resembled a kid in a brown jacket.

  “Let’s see what you know,” she said, spinning around and cracking her knuckles. Again, she surveyed the monitors. “Roll your chair on over.”

  Chapter 18

  Most alien races despise and avoid the Chicher, with similar sentiments accorded to the Umbelgarri. As such, the established relationship with the Umbelgarri and the growing contact with the Chicher makes a statement about the human race and its increasingly pariah status in the galaxy.

  My meeting with Specialist Club lasted thirty minutes. I’m not a computer genius, but her overview of the security monitoring system was a whirlwind. Fortunately, I had experience on an antiquated version of the system. I was also provided with files on each of the eighty-nine R-Tech colonists. They were scheduled for recovery from co
ld sleep prior to transfer. Finally, Club gave me a user manual, an actual hard copy, of the standard grade security-bot that would accompany me on my rounds. She assured me it had arrived and was being assembled as we spoke.

  We barely touched my list of questions. My request for an electronic note pad, and not a clam-shelled computer clip, wasn’t taken well. Club dismissed me to determine any special arrangements I deemed necessary for the colonists.

  After returning to my quarters to drop off the sec-bot manual, I discovered my cart resting inside. I snatched the keys hanging from the new padlock and checked my watch before leaving.

  As I strode out, I nearly tripped over a small figure hurrying by. The brown fur and chatter of surprise left no doubt it was a Chicher. “Pardon me for our near collision.” I said, before looking closer. “We have met before.”

  “Yes, Security Man,” the Chicher said through its translator. “Our relocation trails have crossed.”

  I tried to recall the phrasing. “We shall have to take the time to nibble together on this long trip.”

  “Your company will be welcome as a surrogate pack member on this journey.”

  It took me a second to interpret. “You are the only Chicher aboard?”

  “Yes. I will be without a pack member or a diplomatic counterpart.”

  “Well, you know where I am quartered when off duty,” I said, pointing at my door. “You are welcome to stop by.” I hadn’t thought how my roommate would feel about this, but the words were already out.

  Staring at my ID tag, he said, “I will transfer electrically to you my temporary nesting location.”

  “Good,” I said, holding still and wondering if he could read my name. “I must be on my way, Diplomat.”

  “Your chatter is welcome, Security Man,” the Chicher said before scampering away on all fours.

  I made my way to the converted cargo area slated for colonist housing. Along the way I thought about the Chicher diplomat. He must have pull to obtain boarding permission so soon after docking. I wished I’d read more on the Chicher. But I’d never had an interest, before.