Embrace the Passion: Pets in Space 3

by Smith, S. E.

  The lights flickered on briefly. The figure pulled on a hood and hunched forward, but he’d already recognized the face. Ferra Barray.

  She stepped onto the path and headed west. The lights came on and stayed bright. He watched until she vanished.

  Protocol said to report anything unusual to the security chief, but Kedron had repeatedly been told, politely but firmly, to stick to his own star lane.

  He wished he could come up with a more probable theory than suspecting that Barray was dealing contraband. A non-indenturee confederate would likely pick up the goods. Chems, pilfered equipment, and stolen raw metals were all likely candidates.

  He wouldn’t have tagged her for a thief. She’d been convicted of crashing a friend’s air-racing yacht into a Central Galactic Concordance government launch hangar that housed military orbiters. When she couldn’t pay the court-ordered restitution, the CGC arbiter remanded her to the CRIO system. The record implied she’d been chemmed to the gills.

  That didn’t sync with her comment earlier that day about avoiding drugs of any sort, but everyone did stupid things now and again.

  He wanted Barray to be the person he thought she was, but his experience with the theft ring situation taught him not to be swayed by what he wished to be true, and to look at the actual facts. He needed to know what was in the crate.

  He crossed to his closet and pulled out a dark jacket and wrist lights, plus a bigger flying light.

  On the way to the facility’s main ground gate on the other side of the complex, he tried to think of a reason to be trudging around in the swamp after dark. He was a lousy liar, so it had to be plausible. The best he could come up with was that he’d seen a potential problem with the perimeter fence but wanted to confirm it before reporting it.

  The gate guards checked his credential and biometric, then waved him on through without so much as a curious glance.

  He saw no one on the inside lighted walkway as he made his way carefully around the outside from the south. The compacted dirt had deteriorated into mud holes in some spots but was mostly intact. The glass-over-rock base would protect the facility for a while, but he had no doubt the swamp would eventually win, if left unchecked.

  Chilly water soaked the bottom half of his pants by the time he found the crate. He crouched beside it and checked his surroundings, then turned on his lights to examine it for traps or trouble. Finally, he opened the lid.

  Inside, a mother muskrat and three tiny, furry brown babies nestled in a bed of wilting water vines and rusting lettuce leaves.

  Relief flooded him as he quickly closed the lid. Ferra wasn’t dealing, she was rescuing. He’d once caught her vomiting after seeing the guards throw a stray animal to the hellhounds. He’d brought her towels and a water pouch and felt guilty because all he could do was help her clean up the mess.

  Since he was already muddy, he carried the crate farther into the swamp. He set it on a hillock near the water. The young muskrat had bred very early in the season, so her babies might not survive anyway, but at least now they’d have a fighting chance.

  He opened the lid and encouraged the little family to get out. The mother squealed in evident distress. He hated to take the crate, but its garish yellow color would attract attention if a patrolling guard saw it. He left the bedding and the lettuce on the hillock, then collapsed the crate flat and carried it back.

  Once again, the guards asked no questions, just pointed him to the cleaning jets and solardry so he wouldn’t track muddy footprints through the halls.

  By the time he stepped into the hot shower in his private fresher, his satisfaction at discovering the benevolent nature of Ferra’s secret had morphed into curiosity about a new mystery. How had she breached the fence?

  4

  Ferra’s exhaustion made her wonder if she wasn’t actually just dreaming about waiting her turn to pay in the slow-moving cafeteria line.

  After finishing her shift, eating late, and sneaking the young mother muskrat and her babies out of the compound, Ferra had gone straight to bed.

  Unfortunately, the dreams were more vivid than ever, with two distinct thought patterns in her head. One was lonely and worried, and the other was in pain and cried for help. It didn’t take a certified therapy telepath to figure out her subconscious was manifesting her fears the only way it knew how. If the medics couldn’t counter the allergen affecting her, maybe they’d give her a dormo patch. Seven uninterrupted hours of sleep would be worth losing the after-hours on-call bonus.

  She pushed her tray forward in the track, debating on splurging on fresh sweetfruit and caffeine to supplement her usual cheap mealpack and water pouch. No such thing as a free breakfast for an indenturee.

  A hissed argument and commotion behind her made her and everyone else turn to look.

  Too late, she realized it was a setup when indenturee Lambru cut in line in front of her with his tray full of expensive, freshly made hot dishes and premium real coffee. She’d trained herself to track and avoid his various confederates, who she thought of as remora, but in her fog of exhaustion, she’d forgotten to track the head shark himself.

  He might be wearing the same indenturee uniform as everyone else, but the details painted the image of an intersex who presented male and had a taste for stylish shoes, resilk undershirts, and pearlescent cosmetics.

  His mild and meek air belied his involvement with every illegal activity in Argint d’Apa, both indenturee and staff. He told everyone he’d been a low-level employee for a pharma blackmarketer, but his current restitution debt was an order of magnitude higher than hers, despite five years in the CRIO system. Luckily, a departing indenturee had warned her early on, or she might have been unwittingly sucked into his schemes.

  He gave her a pleasant smile. “Hello, Barray.”

  She nodded, allowing her eyelids to droop a little, as if barely functional and pre-verbal. Not far from the truth, actually.

  His expression transitioned into almost shy diffidence. “I wonder if I might ask a favor?”

  She gave him credit for his acting ability and for getting straight to the point. Ever since her first month in the tech department, his intermediaries had been looking for a lever to get to her. Thanks to having had to bail her brother out of trouble dozens of times, she knew the type, and knew how to play dumb or avoid them.

  She yawned to cover her glance toward the guard who was chatting up one of the food servers. No help there.

  Lambru smiled as he pushed his tray forward. “Up too early, or up too late?”

  She shrugged. No one moved into the gap in line behind her, so no help there, either.

  He pushed his tray forward, then grabbed hers and pulled it next to his fast enough to make its contents slide to the edge. “I’m so sorry.” He lifted the meal pack and pouch with exaggerated care and returned them to the center of her tray.

  She wasn’t surprised to see her tray now sported a hand-printed list peeking out from under the mealpack. Indenturees weren’t allowed personal percomps or unmonitored net access, forcing them back to the pre-flight Stone Age for communications.

  She knew how this went. If she accepted the list, she was on the hook. If she tore up the list or reported it, he’d make an example of her. Delay was her only option. She shoved her hands in her vest pockets and looked up, then back to him.

  His oily smile smacked of used flitter sales. “I’m sure we can come to a trade arrangement that benefits everyone.” His tone took on an unctuous quality. “You will find it very worth your...” He trailed off with a frown and a sniff. “Is something burning?”

  She waited until he noticed her mealpack’s heater had set the whole pack on fire.

  “Shit,” she said loudly. She pulled the water pouch off the tray, then fumbled to open it.

  The paper list under the mealpack caught fire and emitted dark smoke.

  She grunted with effort. Just as she got the pouch open, the overhead fire suppression system opened up and doused the fire, pl
us everything in a four-meter radius, with orange foam.

  Indenturees sputtered in dismay and outrage. Lambru backed up. He lost his footing and cracked his elbow hard on a nearby chair.

  A food server and two guards converged on their position, with more on the way.

  Between the acrid smell of the burned tray, the carbonized smell of burned food, and the cloying citrus scent in the foam, Ferra’s stomach threatened revolt.

  “What happened?” demanded a guard.

  Ferra pointed to the mess on the tray. “Mealpack heater overload.”

  The suppression foam made a soupy gelatin on the hot tray. Everywhere else, it turned to powder, causing several people to sneeze.

  “Third fail this month,” groused the food server. His thick Islander accent gave a musical cadence to his words. He opened a yellow collapsible crate to collect the mess.

  A guard peered at Ferra. “You look pale.”

  “I just need something to eat.” She pointed her chin toward the blackened tray. “Preferably not overcooked.”

  The food server chuckled. “I bring you one different. No charge.” He raised his voice and addressed the rest of the people with ruined food. “If you no pay, go back to kitchen. They fix again.” He repeated it in Mandarin, which was better than his English.

  Ferra sipped water from the pouch she was still holding. Her stomach gurgled.

  “What if we already paid?” whined an indenturee.

  The food server pointed to the woman just striding in from the office area. “Ask manager.”

  Ferra stayed with the guards when the affected indenturees headed toward the kitchen. Lambru’s irritated expression could have been for her or the mess, but he followed the others.

  She stood quietly aside while the guard subvocalized a quick report to the shift supervisor. The food server brought her a new mealpack with a different logo on it. She nodded her thanks, then turned to the guard.

  “Permission to take this with me for later?” She brushed orange powder off the front of her and didn’t want to think about what her hair looked like. “I have a medic appointment in ten minutes, and a CPS re-test after that.”

  The guard shrugged. “Yeah, go ahead. Just don’t leave it for the swamp rats or the birds to find.”

  Ferra ducked out the cafeteria’s side door and made a quick stop in her cell to stash the mealpack. She knew from experience that anything but water and maybe a little bread would make her nausea worse.

  At the clinic, the medic’s blood tests said no allergies, toxins, or weird spores. She’d described her dreams as vivid but not scary, and didn’t mention the nausea, which would go away on its own. They gave her generic advice and one mild dormo patch, then asked if she knew how to fix autodocs. The facility had six of them, to compensate for the distance to a full medical center, and one or another of them was always down. She had to profess ignorance and told the medics to contact the tech repair manager.

  The CPS representative apologized for the need for a re-test, but she’d discovered the equipment had been miscalibrated in the previous test. At least she didn’t ask for a free repair job.

  Ferra didn’t even bother to complain about this being the fourth time she’d been called in, each for a different excuse. It happened with all the indenturees, so she didn’t feel singled out. She dutifully submitted to the measurements and tests, which again failed to discover any minder talent.

  Non-minder indenturees assumed the rep was either padding her expense report or got a bonus for the number of tests. The fifteen or so minder indenturees got scut jobs and lived in segregated, higher-security cells and got mandatory disruptor drugs to dull their talents. No one wanted to be identified as a minder.

  In the tech repair office, she arrived just in time to be sent to the CRIO offices for an emergency call. Someone had breached their security to steal one of their deskcomps and smash the others. She salvaged what she could and replaced the rest with loaners. By the time she got back to Subcaptain Tauceti’s office, she had to apologize for it being mid-afternoon, and six hours after she’d promised.

  “Quite all right,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  She smiled, once again charmed by his thoughtfulness. “According to the medics, my immune system is ‘within acceptable parameters.’” She rolled her eyes. “They prescribed less stress, more exercise, and more sleep.”

  He smiled, and she felt like she’d won a gold star. Honestly, the man was dangerous.

  She pointed to her bag. “I have parts for your wallcomp.” Mindful of the multiple surveillance monitors, she frowned. “I have to put together a cart to bring the equipment I’ll need to figure out all the things wrong with your deskcomp. The lab manager has to approve me taking it out. And parts printers are chained to the lab.”

  “Why don’t I bring the deskcomp to your lab?”

  “Are you sure? Argint d’Apa rules say you military people can’t let your government tech out of custody. You’d have to stay.” She could even quote the policy to him because she’d written it at lunchtime and inserted it into the lab’s manual that no one had accessed in the last three years. Come on, Tauceti, take the bait.

  He tapped his wrist gauntlet and looked at a display. “How about right after you finish with the wallcomp?”

  “Sorry, I’m jammed until eighteen hundred.” She tilted her head. “How about after the evening meal? I’m on call, but only for emergencies. Fewer interruptions.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Unless the chief scientist ditches his prized sample collection drone into a sinkhole again.”

  He frowned at the deskcomp and rubbed behind his ear, then glanced at the clock display.

  She waved apologetically. “Never mind. You shouldn’t have to give up your free evening just to get your tech working.” She put her bag down and popped the faceplate off the wallcomp. She’d have to come up with some other way to lure Tauceti away from his fishbowl of an office.

  She wanted to rip out the whole wallcomp and start over, but that was just frustration talking. It hadn’t asked to be crippled by at least four different surveillance devices that tracked the sound, movement, power usage, and, previously, captured a video feed. “Poor little comp, you were just trying to do your job, weren’t you?”

  She used her company tablet to bring up a standard systems map for the wallcomp. She made the display big and visible to whoever was watching. Just a low-skilled tech, doing her job, cleaning out the non-regulation clutter.

  She slowly and carefully removed each of the sensors and dropped them into a shielded parts recycling bag. The sound monitor was the worst. Whoever installed it and its high-charge battery had been lucky not to flatline all the connected wallcomps in that wing.

  Maybe she could ask Tauceti to come to the indenturee gym to teach her how to use the ancient analog exercise equipment. Right, because that didn’t sound like a sleazy invitation at all.

  She’d been avoiding looking at Tauceti, because he deserved not to be interrupted, and she’d be distracted by the sinfully handsome scenery, but now she turned to him. “Try vocal commands for the wallcomp.”

  He paused the scrolling display of whatever he was reading. “Ceiling lights to fifty percent.”

  The lights dimmed.

  “Restore ceiling lights.”

  The lights obligingly brightened to the previous setting.

  He smiled. “I’ll try the other controls later.”

  She pointed her chin toward his desk. “I still need to test the touch controls.” By which she meant, clear the crap out of those systems, too. “Is now a good time to displace you for about thirty minutes, or do you want to set an appointment?”

  He glanced at the clock display. “Do I have to stay?”

  “Uhm, the manual didn’t say.” She wanted him there because he made her feel safe, but she needed to get used to him being gone. “It’s up to you.”

  Belatedly, she realized she didn’t know if she’d been talking to herself, as us
ual. She’d probably annoyed him.

  He stood and pointed to his deskcomp. “The search for the pertinent policies would take longer than it’s going to take you to fix it. I’ll stay.” He moved his deskcomp to the high, narrow counter that ran the length of the office’s far wall. “Use my chair if you’d like.”

  Twenty minutes later, she packed up her gear, including the three extra “bad parts” to be recycled. “Once I get the cart sorted, I’ll ping you for an appointment to work on your deskcomp.”

  He cleared his throat. “I could bring it this evening.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “That’s great. Nineteen hundred?” That should give her plenty of time to eat and clear the decks.

  “Yes.” He looked so serious that she wanted to ask what was wrong. Get a grip, Barray. Even if he told her, what could she do about it? She’d always been a soft touch for people in need, a trait her brother had exploited repeatedly until she finally wised up.

  She settled for nodding and striding out of his office. In her experience, messengers didn’t fare well when delivering bad news, and she imagined he wasn’t going to like what she had to tell him at all. She imagined he wouldn’t like this messenger much, after tonight.

  5

  Kedron’s quest to recover his usual decisiveness failed. He hadn’t found it in the military gym, the cafeteria, or his office.

  He’d accepted Barray’s invitation in a moment of weakness. He should have canceled. The idea of spending more time alone with her felt too damn good, even if it was just watching her fix his benighted slug of a deskcomp.

  On the other hand, he could return her rescue crate and tell her to be more careful.

  On the third hand, now that he was leaving, it didn’t really matter if the deskcomp got fixed or not. His successor would probably get a new one anyway.

  On the fourth hand—

  Enough, he commanded himself. He scooped up the crate with the deskcomp and its accessories, ordered his office lights to twenty-five percent, and marched himself to the tech repair depot.