Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles)

by Ervin II, Terry W.

  “Really, Chief? Ever consider that I’m comparing my information with the gap-ridden set you’ve provided. Takes some concentration.”

  “Security, Keesay.”

  “Correct, you’re concerned with my health so that I can safeguard two passengers whose protective custody has been compromised. Why not put them under twenty-four hour lockup with a dozen marines on guard?” I wiped my nose. It hurt. So what. “Instead, play some sort of shell game. Me and my career are expendable.”

  “Class 4 Security Specialist Keesay,” said Commander Devans. “You lack the big picture. It’s much larger than you think.”

  “Correct, sir. I’m only a C4 Sec-Spec. But good enough to place between Schultz and his pals, and Instructor—whoever and the youth masquerading as her son. I get that much of the picture.”

  The XO looked to the chief, then to Haxon, then back at me.

  Before he spoke, I said, “Don’t worry, sir, Chief. I will do my duty. They will be safe, or I’ll be dead before they are.” I looked at my watch and examined the chronometer. “Besides, I only need to do it for another four weeks until the ZQ Dock. I’ll have to recalculate your deception from there to the Tallavaster Colonies. Correct?”

  I held my wrist up to Gudkov. “Even relic equipment can provide data. How many seconds off is my watch? I’ll tell you, thirty-two from what it should be. Should have only lost about twenty by now. If a C4 can figure it, surely someone else can.” I slapped my head with my palm. “That’s right. I need to visit Medical to be sure I can think straight.”

  The chief leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “If you don’t want to go to Medical, Keesay, you could just say so.”

  Chapter 31

  Interstellar tugs, vessels with the largest engine-to-mass ratio, play an important if rarely utilized role as primary responders in rescue and recovery. More commonly, tugs are employed to haul ships from orbital construction platforms to distant planets or docks. It’s cheaper than on-site construction. Heavily armored and bristling with weapons for local defense, monitors are the most frequent hauls. Second, are strings of large pleasure yachts meant for intrasolar travel.

  Capital Galactic Investment Group contracted for a series of Behemoth class transports with an internal bay capable of carrying vast amounts of cargo or several ships for interstellar transport. Seven were built before the Behemoth class construction was discontinued. Too few orders resulted in unjustifiably high per-unit construction cost.

  Instructor Watts commented, “The Colonial Marines certainly have been ill tempered.”

  I tried to ignore her and focus on the relays the colonist children were running.

  “The students miss the games with them. Especially Michael.”

  “Don’t expect it to change any time soon,” I said. “One of their number was killed. I can’t imagine why that would alter their attitude and routine.”

  The race ended. Instructor Watts declared the winners and laid out the rules for the next competition. The colonist children began again, cheering on their teammates, except for Michael. This time, as he often did, he stood as if expecting to lose. I’d discussed the self-fulfilling prophecy with him in the past to no avail.

  Instructor Watts pushed back my thoughts. “You haven’t heard from the administration specialist in Medical?” she asked. “Has that placed you in an equally poor disposition?”

  “Actually, I have. Once.” I struggled to keep a sneer from my face. “She severed all communications. I’m a short-termer on the Kalavar. And not popular. Can’t blame her.”

  “You’re quite popular here. With the students. With the colonists, or most, despite your current bout of unhappiness.” She rested a hand on my shoulder. “Father Cufter performed an exemplary service. I miss Lowell Owen, too.”

  A tip of my head signaled her to follow and avoid surveillance. “If that’s what you believe. I’m confined here for reasons not of my own design, or directly of my own devices.”

  “And for that many of us are thankful. Even Stosh Meadows envisions you as a peer. Outwitted Senior Engineer McAllister. You were reprimanded for, as he says, ‘Brawling with Champ Gudkov.’ As such, he affords you respect instead of contempt.”

  “Fleeting. Soon as he decides he won’t prosper. Give it another week.” I shook my head. “You don’t get it, but it’s not your responsibility.”

  Trying to change the tone, Instructor Watts said, “It’s my understanding the Chicher diplomat has learned to play dominoes, and proposes a tournament. Seven colonists have shown interest.”

  I shrugged, not really interested in dominos or much of anything beyond being effective in my assigned duty.

  “Specialist Keesay, to remain bitter will benefit no one. Least of all yourself.”

  “Are you one of the seven colonists?”

  “If you’ll be the eighth, I’ll be the ninth. I’m confident your participation will inspire more to compete.”

  “Why, to beat me?”

  “Maybe. But we’ll need more than just your one set. Maybe you can use your connections?”

  “We’ll see if I still have any. Think I’m still owed a pint of blowing bubbles.” I couldn’t help but return her smile.

  I removed my riot helmet, winded. It doubled well for fencing gear. My durable uniform coveralls fit the bill for the rest. I walked back toward my quarters and pulled the curtain aside, allowing the Chicher diplomat to enter first. The rat-like alien, half my size, scampered past on his hind legs. I set the epee aside and poured two cups of water.

  The Chicher removed his protective gear after setting aside his pair of triple-pronged hand blades and plucking off the four-edged tail weapon. He removed the sparring sheaths and scrutinized the razor-sharp blades. He chattered satisfaction before stowing them in an ornate wooden box. The metal of his tail blades reminded me of the alloy that jacketed my shotgun’s barrel.

  I removed the thin sheath and blunting device from the epee and hung the weapon on a peg before offering a glass of water to the diplomat. He signaled, “Hold.” I did until the diplomat attached the circular translator to his leather harness and fitted the wired earpiece.

  After chirping and chucking sounds, “Thank for ending thirst, Security Man,” crackled from the Chicher’s translating device. His mouth wasn’t formed for drinking from a cup, yet through practice he’d mastered it.

  “You’re welcome, Diplomat. And thanks for lending me such a fine epee for fencing. Good exercise.”

  It took a while for the Chicher’s device to translate and for him to interpret. I could’ve spoken more plainly, but he’d insisted I keep to standard speech patterns so that he might become more proficient.

  “Good you do not use chop blade,” he said. “Your point blade nimble.”

  “Yes. I agree. But I’m not used to combating one opponent’s three weapons. And I am rusty. Not in practice.”

  “Like hibernation stiff, familiar movement journeys back.”

  I wondered at the Chicher diplomat’s translation device. At their tech level, it was quite an accomplishment. Translating between the different human languages wasn’t a problem for computers decades old. But humans think alike, or at least have a common point of reference. Human cultural differences affect language and thought, but are minor compared to aliens.

  “Spirit Man said you, Security Man, ordered nest bound? First time task, make like under orb for you, Security Man?”

  I scratched my head and hand signaled using the Official Galactic Sign Language, “Not understand.” I’d gained some experience in it and simple one or two word concepts went smoothly enough.

  The Chicher sign replied, “Satisfied?”

  “Yes,” I signaled, then pointed to my watch. “I’m back on duty in twenty minutes.”

  The Chicher spoke and his device translated. “Security Man task now. You watch. I return to temporary nest.” He pointed to the epee. “Your hoard now. From my hoard.”

  “Thank y
ou. We shall practice fencing again?”

  “Yes. Not many orbs will cross the sky before we scrape metal.” He attached the weapon case to his back and walked out on two feet, then dropped to all four and scampered past an approaching marine.

  “You’ve built up a sweat, Keesay,” Private DeLark said. “You’re not romantic with that critter, are you?”

  DeLark was one of the few marines who’d regained a sense of humor since Private Fleishman’s death. “No more romantic than you are with that old couple’s bulldogs.” He laughed. I handed him the epee. “We were fencing.”

  “Really?” he said. “Even for a Relic this is an archaic weapon.” He tested the blade for balance. “Tell you what. I cover for you an extra twenty minutes if you show me a little about this pointed stick some time.”

  “Anything to report?” I asked.

  “All quiet. They should be getting up for breakfast in about thirty minutes.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

  I was cleaning my duty revolver when a pair of shuffling feet stopped in front of my quarters. I pulled my backup from the ankle holster and set it on the blanket.

  “Specialist Keesay,” called a winded voice. “You in there?”

  “I am,” I said, and pulled back the curtain.

  Mer stood there in his faded-black uniform holding a small crescent wrench. “Just making my rounds, checking. Haven’t been this way in a long time.”

  “I try to make sure Maintenance keeps things in order around here.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Your ship,” I said, and stepped aside.

  “True enough. Heard I missed a dominoes tournament.”

  “That is correct.” I began to reassemble my single-action revolver. “Sorry, I didn’t think to invite you.”

  He walked past my opened cart, sighed and took a seat near the head of the cot. “I miss the card games. Benny said you don’t hear from Janice anymore.”

  “Correct.” I shifted the contents of my cart and slid the cleaning kit inside. “I’m confined to this area.”

  “So I understand. What’cha still carrying all that water in your cart for?”

  “Brought it on board. Probably will try to sell it when we get to the ZQ Dock. The chief cut my contract compensation.” I slid my revolver into its holster and checked my equipment. “I’m not holding my breath for promises made. Perform my assigned duty. See what turns up.”

  “Would ya rest a minute?” Mer asked, patting the cot.

  I locked my cart. “I’m back on duty in about three minutes.”

  “Been taken care of. Corporal Smith assigned Private DeLark to watch for a couple hours.”

  “Not quite fair to him.”

  “Life isn’t fair. You’ve figured that out already?”

  “Equitable then.” Before I sat down I pointed to the pitcher. “Drink?”

  “As long as it’s on the Kalavar’s tab.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I never told you how I came to own this ship, did I?”

  I poured him a cup. “No, you didn’t.”

  “We’ve got a few minutes.” He took a sip and set the cup on the crate I used for a table and shelf.

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “If we do, you can consider it part of your duty.” He rubbed his hands together once then on his coveralls. “You know, I was married once, for thirty-one years. Saved all our money, Audrey and me, and took a once-in-a-lifetime cruise to Mars. The Kalavar’s maiden voyage. She was a luxury transport then.”

  He sat, silent. Then cursed. “Tragic accident. Negligence. The captain ignored routine maintenance.” Mer looked off into space. “Took my Audrey. Took her from me.” His gaze refocused on me. “Sued’em and won. Capital Galactic was just startin’ out and having trouble. Paid me in stock, half a percent of the company. My lawyer advised against it. Said the company was bound to go belly up.”

  “I took my savings and gambled. I’d never owned part of anything big before. And if I could own enough, I could fire the corporate heads who allowed my Audrey to die. Stock rallied after five years. I kept working as a maintenance man, kept investing everything and wouldn’t sell. Really took off during the Silicate War. Owned four percent of CGIG and made it on the board of directors. Got rid of those responsible for my Audrey.”

  He reached over and took another drink. “Pretty soon the fellas I knew left or were bought out, leaving a new, secretive crowd. I wasn’t part of their circle. I’m not business smart, but knew they’d get me soon enough if I didn’t leave. They were happy to see me go. Traded my stock for CGIG assets. Spent a lot of credits on lawyer fees,” he huffed. “A major research and development lab, a couple of asteroid mining ships and rights to three lucrative asteroid fields, and loads of credits. I made them throw in the Kalavar for free. Don’t like lawyers,” he spat. “Especially the ruthless ones I hired. Do you?”

  I sat, leaning forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Can’t say that I’ve found a likeable one yet. Haven’t been looking long as you.”

  He licked his teeth and smiled. “Got together with a couple of my ousted buddies and formed Negral Corp. Capital Galactic really hates us.” Mer’s eyes became dead serious, matching his voice. “Never trust’em. Even less than lawyers.” The old man placed his hands on his knees. “If you decide to end your contract with Negral, don’t offer your services to Capital Galactic. If for no other reason than to avoid their lawyers.”

  “I’m not happy with Negral right now. But the chief hinted I should ride this through.”

  Mer leaned forward and tottered as he drew himself up. “Too much walkin’ today.” He rubbed his hands. “Why don’t you come with me to a church service?” He saw the debate in my head. “Kra, won’t any trouble come of it. Besides, Lori Watts and, what d’you call him? Skids? They’re comin’ too.”

  “Haven’t been to one for a while, Mer. Thanks for setting it up.” I pulled out my Bible and adjusted my com-set. I slid my backup revolver into place before locking my cart.

  “It’s been a rough run thus far. And not just for you,” Mer said, elbowing me in the ribs as I drew the curtain aside. “Besides Security Specialist Nist, you’re the only one who manages to get under Gudkov’s skin. And he doesn’t do it often enough.”

  I was going to ask Mer why Gudkov put up with Nist, but Instructor Watts and Michael stood waiting outside their room. Both were dressed in agricultural worker brown pants and collared shirts with brass buttons. It appeared my attendance at the missionary’s service was preordained.

  Mer and Instructor Watts walked ahead while Skids and I followed. Skids spent most of the time relaying the details of a fight between Little Elvis and Chopper. He described the parental punishment and said what the parents yelled at each other. Eventually he switched to asking about chess, and whether I played it, but I never got a chance to answer. He began describing a game he’d played against one of the other children. I gathered it was the sharp girl I’d nicknamed Athena.

  “Beat by a girl, were you?” I asked, knowing the answer. “You need to take your time before moving. Concentrate.”

  “I do,” he said. “I’m ready, so I move.”

  I recalled watching several of his games from afar. Skids moved without hesitation, but not randomly. He responded to his opponent, sometimes having eyed the piece he intended to move long before his adversary showed any sign of intent. “Don’t let it bother you,” I said. “I don’t win all the time either. Even against girls.” I knew his attitude about girls would change as he got older. But now, to him, girls were strange, annoying and weird.

  His frown turned to a grin. “Really?”

  “In some things.”

  A small group had gathered outside the meeting room. Benny stood next to Maintenance Tech Segreti. Next to Segreti stood the old couple with their bulldogs and Ensign Selvooh talking to them. I spotted the Chicher diplomat skittering from the opposite direction.


  Michael asked, “Mom, can I go greet the Chicher diplomat?”

  “Yes, you may,” she replied. “Be brief. Don’t annoy the diplomat.”

  Skids practiced the greeting hand signal before running forward. The two bulldogs also noticed the Chicher. A simple command from their master returned them to what their muscular bodies defined as sitting. Panting consumed their thoughts.

  Someone came up behind and slapped my shoulder. “Specialist Keesay, heard you might be attending this small gathering.”

  “Corporal Smith,” I said. “Didn’t expect you. But I guess Colonial Marines are known to rise early. Unlike much of the crew.”

  The marine nodded to Instructor Watts. “What’s the sacrifice of an hour sleep now and then, Keesay? Hope your singing doesn’t set the canines to howling.”

  “Excuse me,” said Instructor Watts as she slid toward her son.

  Mer asked the marine, “Did ya request Battle Hymn of the Republic again?”

  “Always do,” Smith said. “My favorite.” Corporal Smith crossed his arms and then put one finger to his chin. As a matter of fact, it was one of Winston Churchill’s favorites. Had it played at his funeral about twenty years after World War II. You remember?”

  “I studied history too, Marine.”

  “Sure, old man. Anything you say.” Smith’s grin was wide and teasing.

  “If that’s the case,” Mer said, “I’ll see to it it’s sung at yer funeral. By your relatives and any other mutts I can round up.” Mer slapped at the air, dismissing Smith and shuffling over to Benny.

  “No black eyes or fat lips I see.” Corporal Smith said with a wink.

  “He’ll give you one,” I said. “Oh, me. Correct. Been quiet and boring.”

  Smith shook his head. “Such is a long transport through space. Right, Ensign?”

  Ensign Selvooh stepped over. “I should say. This run’s been more eventful than any I’ve been on.”

  “And how many is that?” He looked up and down the young ensign.

  “A little edgy, Corporal Smith?” I asked. Specialist Nist approached while studying a computer clip. “Something up?” I asked Smith.