"Just teach the engineers what they need to do and get back to your cell," came a voice from the door.
"Boss lady! I was just talking about you. Whoever told you to kidnap me must have hated you or hated me."
"Why would you think that we were told to kidnap you?"
"Because if you'd gone through the proper channels, you'd know that I pay top dollar for people willing to risk getting maimed in the pursuit of scientific progress. You would be drowning in bleeding edge technology right now. And potentially other things, depending on what it was you were testing. And I'd be drowning in feedback."
"You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"
"Remember that VectorCorp break-in last year? Who do you think gave that idiot his equipment?"
"You have no way of proving that."
Karter continued, ignoring her, "I gave him a tricked-out ship, programmable fingerprints, kinetic capacitor gloves, and a mental cloak. They all worked. And that's nothing compared to the crazy crap I used to give my last beta testing crew before they got locked up for... well, using the crazy crap I gave them."
"These would be the war criminals?"
"Jeez, you commit one war crime and everyone starts calling you a war criminal. It isn't like they made a career out of breaking interplanetary treaties. Except for the British guy. That was sort of his job. But that doesn't matter. The important part is that I am ready, willing, and able to deck you out with all sorts of untested concept equipment."
"This is just a trick."
"What part of this could possibly be a trick? I am flat out telling you that I want to give you things that may or may not kill you. My god, you have got to be the worst negotiator I've ever met. What, do you think I'm going to use this as an opportunity to slaughter all of you and make my escape? Because if I wanted to do that I'd say something like 'Execute sub-task thirty-one three thirteen.'"
Instantly some of the more vicious tools attached to the mechanical arms in the fabricator flared to life and the positioning motors began to groan, shoving them into motion.
"CUT POWER NOW!" Purcell barked.
A half-second later, the lights cut out and the sounds of machinery died away. The assembled guard staff fumbled for flashlights. As they flicked on one by one, they found that the mechanical arms had come to a halt in the act of reaching for those members of the staff nearest to the fabrication area. One arm, tipped with a still faintly glowing torch, was inches from the commander's throat. One of the flashlights turned to Karter, revealing a devilish grin.
"See?" he said, "Perfectly trustworthy. I don't stab people in the back. I stab them in the face. And don't fool yourself. You may think that you're in control here, but I'm the one in control. You put me within ten meters of something with circuits, motors, or gears and I will always be the one in control. I've done things to this station you'd never even consider checking for. And you'll never find all of my tricks, because you can't check for something you don't know is possible."
Commander Purcell slipped her combat knife from its sheath and held it a whisper away from Karter's neck.
"You can kill me. There's never been any doubt of that. You can cut off my head, one of these men can pull a trigger, and I'm out of your hair forever. But you aren't going to, because you are following orders right now. I know you are, because no one who is smart enough to have avoided getting killed by some of the things I've tried on you would be dumb enough to make some of the choices you've been making. And even if you didn't have orders to keep me alive, you wouldn't kill me because you actually believe that nonsense you were saying about forcing society to adapt. So it is decision time. I don't give a damn about your agenda. Never did. But if you do, I think we both know what you should do. Make a wish list. Pick my brain. See what I can offer you. Consider the antimatter warheads we've already finished a demo. Watch one of those babies go off, then tell me you aren't hungry for anything and everything else I'm capable of. We were made for each other. If you're building a religion around unstable prototypes, then I am the goddamn messiah."
Purcell gritted her teeth, weighing the words.
"Take him back to his cell, take his arm away, and sedate him. Evacuate the fabrication lab, power it back up, reboot the system, and give it a complete security sweep, hardware AND software."
The guards hauled Karter out of the room.
"I'm confident you'll make the right decision," he said as he was dragged out the door.
"How many of those warheads are finished?" Purcell asked her engineer.
"We have finished two that are troop portable. And we have the parts for one missile. The rest are awaiting raw materials."
"Finish the missile, give it to one of the assault squads, and split the other warheads between them, and send them on their way. Then get the parts for the rest of the warheads, and for the rest of the CME Activators, and load them into storage. Once we are fully supplied, we are moving the station to our primary target. No more sitting around. It is time for this operation to complete."
#
Garotte flipped through the list of items he'd needed to acquire. Only one remained, but it was significant. He needed a ship that could handle himself, Silo, Karter, and any equipment that they would need, and he would need it quickly. The good news was that New Caldwell had a reasonably well stocked spaceship dealership. The bad news was that it was the only one in the area, which put would-be consumers in a rather poor bargaining position. He hopped onto a hover tram that would take him to the dealership, which was at the very southern tip of town. The place was primarily a massive, sandy storage lot covered with ships ranging from little one seat recreational vehicles to what looked like a defunct cargo hauler. Dust storms had covered everything with a layer of dull tan soil. The sales office itself had clearly been designed by someone upon whom New Caldwell's resemblance to historic Las Vegas had not been lost. Despite the fact that the building was barely large enough to accommodate a maintenance garage, a reception area, and a few refueling hubs, the roof bore a towering neon cowboy and a sign declaring it "Southern Jack's Ship Shack." At some point the cowboy's arm, its thumb extended, had been intended to move up and down. Time and a particularly poetic piece of equipment failure had instead left it in permanent thumbs down position.
As a final wild west affectation, there was a handful of hitching posts along the sidewalk out front, despite the fact that nothing even resembling a horse had likely been anywhere near the planet. Garotte tied Ma's leash to one and pushed open the doors. Air conditioning was thankfully being employed to the very limits of its ability, rendering the small reception area almost chilly. Behind a counter that was heavily laden with complementary knickknacks bearing the dealership's logo and bowls of salty and sugary snacks was a round, friendly looking woman. She was wearing a very pink pantsuit with the name "Margie" embroidered on one corner of her expansive chest and the company logo on the opposite corner. Garotte hadn't made it fully through the door when she turned away from one of the pair of large screens on the far wall and began the most aggressive assault of hospitality he had ever experienced.
"Well hello, there, stranger! Welcome to Southern Jack's Ship Shack! My name's Marge Lancaster, but you can call me Margie, just like the shirt says. Please help yourself to a complementary bottle of mineral water or a handful of pretzels or hard candies. If you're feelin' adventurous you could give this here bowl of jerky a try. Local product, you know. Can't get it anyplace else. Once you feel nice and comfy, just like home, then you can let me know what it is I can help you with," she spouted in a single southern-drenched outburst.
"Well, Miss Lancaster-"
"Call me Margie, sugar."
"Well, Margie, I am in the market for a ship. A rather-"
"Well don't you just have the cutest little accent."
"I suppose I do, now-"
"Is that your dog outside?"
"Well, she belongs to my girlfriend, actually, but-"
"Well get yourself o
utside and untie that poor little thing. On a hot day like today that little thing's probably fixin' to burn up!" she scolded, teetering around the counter on tiny, high heel-clad feet.
"I was under the impression that pets would not be allowed inside."
"Well you just got the wrong impression, didn't you? Now shoo, git!"
At her urging, Garotte quickly made his way to the hitching post and returned with Ma to find Margie pouring mineral water into a plastic bowl. Ma quickly went to work draining the bowl while Margie crouched down and fawned over her.
"Well isn't she just the most adorable little ball of fluff? Oh, would you look at that tail? She's a little darlin', she is!" she proclaimed, standing up and waggling a finger at Garotte, "Shame on you leaving this little thing out in the sun like that! How would your girlfriend feel if she found out you left her little punkin outside and she keeled over dead."
"I imagine she would be rather put out," Garotte said in exasperation.
"I think you're the one who'd be put out, Mister. Right out in the dog house!" she countered, ruffling Ma's tail and muttering under her breath. "Ooh you little thing, just a big bowl of sugar."
When she'd finally recovered from the effects of Ma's cuteness, she straightened her clothes and adopted a more businesslike tone.
"Now, what can I do you for?" she asked, pulling out a datapad.
"I am in the market for a ship. Passenger capacity of at least four. Decent cargo capacity."
"Now when you say decent, you mean decent like enough for a picnic or enough for helpin' your neighbors move out of their house?"
"The second one."
"What sort of range and speed did you have in mind?"
"Interstellar. Speed isn't a concern, but I'd like to keep travel times under a month."
"Well alright, puddin', I think we can accommodate. If you'll just-"
She was interrupted by an alarming tone coming from the screens behind her. The words 'Special Report' flashed across them, fading out to reveal a local anchorman in a busy newsroom.
"Good afternoon. We have some breaking news regarding the unrest at a small VectorCorp transfer station a few days ago."
"Oh, yes, did you hear about that? Terrible thing. Some maniac blew a door off, I heard," Margie said.
"Mmm, I'd heard something about that. Now about these ships you've got-"
"Just a minute, sugar. This might be important."
The newscaster continued. "Prison directors are now confirming that the crisis was caused by a man-"
Suddenly Ma yipped a few times, drawing Margie's attention. The salesperson looked down to see the little creature laying on her back, all four legs kicking in the air in the closest approximation of playfulness that Ma could manage. Despite the fact the end result looked more like a windup toy that had been tipped over, Margie instantly dissolved into an incoherent sequence of coos of adoration, crouching down to tickle the invitingly furry tummy. Behind her, mug shots and descriptions of Garotte were listed, along with detailed instructions of who to contact and what to do if he was spotted in the area. When they had returned to regularly scheduled programing, Ma rolled back onto her feet.
"I could just eat that little darlin' up," she said, "Now what was that ruckus in that transfer station all about?"
"Some prisoner, or some such. Skinny fellow, ridiculous mustache," Garotte said, "Headed toward deGrasse, evidently."
"Humph. Never heard of the place. Better there than here, though. Now, come right this way, I've got a cart out back and I'll show you what we've got," Margie said, scurrying toward the back door.
Ma turned slowly to Garotte, who gave her a reluctant nod of appreciation. She returned it, and they followed the salesperson.
Half an hour of driving a shaded hover cart around their massive stock of ships had shown him quite a few vessels that fit the needs he'd listed, but not the ones he hadn't. In short, he needed something that he could modify to be a bit more aggressive and formidable than consumer vessels typically allowed. Generally he would have sought out one of his less legitimate suppliers to get his hands on something that had conveniently gone missing from a military storage depot, but contacts like that have a way of going stale while one rots in prison, so this was the more reliable choice in the short term. Finally they came upon just the sort of ship Garotte had been hoping for.
"This little baby came to us second hand, but never used, an odd lot from a sister dealership a few towns over. It's a Mobius Armistice C. That's a C class reactor, so she's not the speediest filly in the stable, but there's plenty to like. Unlike the single seat standard model of the Armistice, this little darlin' has seating for eight passengers plus the pilot and navigator. She's got these big drop down doors with integrated ramp for easy cargo loading, and another cargo door in the back. This particular model even has the manipulator arm and gantry to make moving those heavy crates into and out of the ship a breeze. At a hundred and twenty cubic meters of dedicated cargo space, she'll tote just about anything you want to bring along. You've got standard navigational shields, a fully updated computer system, and if you're in it for the long haul, you'll be happy to know that this particular make and model contains a fully equipped sanitation booth. Shower, bathroom, and clothes washer, all in one! We'll even throw in a complementary Southern Jack's Wash and Wax to make it look fresh and new."
Garotte grinned. The Mobius Armistice C was the consumer version of its military cousin, the Mobius Aggressor, and it shared precisely the same frame and structure. Wings for unpowered reentry, a big boxy interior, and oversized thrusters. Designed to be made quickly and repaired easily, pure practicality. That also meant that it was a new power plant and a handful of knocked out hull panels away from being fully compatible with a vast array of military hardware, and one seldom needed to look for long to find suitable options on the black market. In short, it was a do-it-yourself armored personnel carrier.
"This will do the job quite nicely," he said with a nod.
"I thought you might feel that way. Now for a pristine little beauty like this, honey, the price is 19.5 million credits," she said with a smile.
"Mmm. I was hoping to pay just a bit less than that."
"Well we at Southern Jack's always do our very best to work with our customers. What sort of down payment were you looking to give?"
"As a matter of fact, the realtor I work for just drew up a partnership with a bunch of builders. This is to be their renovation truck of sorts. As such, I've been given permission to purchase the ship in full."
Margie's eyebrows rose.
"Well, sugar, that changes things, doesn't it? Let's get back to the office, out of this heat. I think we can work something out."
The trio returned to the office where, over the course of an hour, background and credit checks were run, a contract was drawn up, and Margie stuffed Ma to capacity with jerky. Garotte was initially nervous about the thoroughness of the checks, but it would appear that when Ma prepares an identity, she is staggeringly thorough. Gervais Pilkington had a clean criminal record, except for three parking citations and a littering charge, he had a marriage certificate, a realtor's license, and a credit history. He even had a high school diploma. In no time at all, he had transferred over 14 million credits in exchange for a brand new ship. Handshakes were exchanged, a tummy rub was given, and after a trip through their automated wash system, the ship and its passengers were on their way.
"This ship is not equipped with artificial gravity measures. Please help to restrain me during the zero gravity portion of the trip," Ma stated as they lifted off.
Garotte ignored her. After repeating the request and failing to be acknowledged, Ma scrambled to the navigator's seat. With some difficulty, she managed to buckle one of the leg restraints against the chair, feed her leash beneath it, and tug out the slack on each. It wasn't ideal, but it kept her from drifting helplessly about the cabin once they were out of the gravity well. With judicious application of teeth and paws, she ma
naged to pin herself down to the chair and select a statement from her slidepad.
"Your lack of cooperation has been noted and will not be without consequence," she stated ominously, "You are now officially on my S-List."
"And what might that be?"
"The term 'S-List' is the censored alternative to a colloquialism that refers to a list of persons of extreme disfavor. The expanded form of the term utilizes a term for fecal matter generally considered to be vulgar, but sharing the indicated initial."
"Ah. Well then, please consider me suitably intimidated," Garotte said with little interest.
He began to punch in his course. Say what you will about that Lex character, he was willing to completely forgo the mapped transit routes. It took a daredevil, a virtuoso pilot, or an imbecile to risk that sort of thing with any regularity. Lex was potentially all three. Garotte liked to think that he was none of the above. If one had an adequate cover story and the right credentials, there was seldom any reason to avoid the main routes unless you were carrying cargo or passengers illegally. Currently, that was not the case, so VectorCorp's routes were carefully plotted and he flipped the ship to autonomous.
Aside from the significantly reduced risk of catastrophic collision, there was one other major benefit to using the traditional travel routes. Special communication pylons were scattered along the way that allowed communication even while moving at Faster-Than-Light speeds. This was extremely useful, since despite his earlier estimates, Garotte knew full well that he couldn't afford to waste any time removing Karter from the clutches of the mystery group. In the interest of expediency, multitasking would certainly be required.
"I certainly hope you've got another identity at your disposal, Ma, because we have a number of rather sizable purchases to make from a source that could well sully the name of the good Mr. Pilkington."
Ma fumbled at the slidepad. After it slipped from her grip a second time and had to be tugged back within her reach, Garotte heaved a frustrated sigh and reached across to secure her a bit more appropriately to the chair. Once a leg restraint was holding her down to the seat on its own and both of her paws were free, she selected a message.
Unstable Prototypes Page 17