by E. R. Torre
With that she walked to the door leading out of the office. Merrick’s secretary, who remained silently in the back of the room, opened the large doors to let her out. When she was gone, Merrick motioned for the secretary to leave as well. Without saying a word, she too departed. The large door closed, leaving Merrick and B’taav alone.
“You shouldn’t have brought her in,” B’taav said. “This could have been resolved without further bloodshed.”
“Sometimes the solution to your problems is the most drastic one,” Merrick replied. “As it was, I did hold back. I only sent the one Independent in after you.”
“She’s untrustworthy.”
“This new generation of Independents isn’t to your liking?”
B’taav did not reply. Merrick let out a chuckle.
“You’ve been an Independent far longer than everyone else in the business. Most of them, like Latitia, are lucky if they make it five years before either stopping a bullet or venturing out to greener pastures. Not you.”
Merrick smoothed the ruffles on the front of his suit.
“There’s no way you can enjoy your work that much, B'taav. All these betrayals and death and blood…they'll rot your soul. After a while, you won’t feel anything at all.”
“Maybe I should take a vacation.”
“Might do you some good.”
“Goodwin said you were firing him. Why did you order Latitia to kill Goodwin if he was gone anyway?”
“A message needed to be sent. When I ordered Latitia to get rid of Goodwin, she told me to ask you if it was OK. Since you were the primary Independent on the job, she wanted to defer to your judgment in that matter. Never mind that I was the one paying for this whole fucking thing.”
“She has some redemptive qualities after all.”
“Perhaps. You did well, B’taav.”
“All I figured out was that Goodwin, Herbert, and Shepherd were part of some larger organization and were intent on deceiving, and ultimately killing, me,” B’taav said. “Gail Griffen and the Lewitt Catering boys were nothing more than a group of young fools that trio paraded before me. If I’m closer to the pirates, that distance can be measured in centimeters.”
“Maybe. But if their plans worked out, those three clowns would still be in place, rotting my company from the inside out. The people behind Goodwin, Herbert, and Shepherd will be taking some hard looks over their shoulders for the next couple of years.”
Merrick pressed a button on his desk and the blackened window behind him returned to its previous clarity. Salvation once again shone like a jewel below them.
“I’ll give the boys down there a few more hours to run around and tidy things up before arriving. Once I’m there, I'll raise holy hell. When I’m done, the place will run like new.”
“I assume you have replacements ready to take Goodwin and Herbert’s jobs?”
“Of course. Latitia wasn't too far off, you know. It is a game, and that’s the way the game goes.”
“You’re satisfied?”
“As much as I can be. My only worry is that the pirates have some backup plan, an alternative target somewhere else.”
“You can count on that.”
“And away we’ll go again,” Merrick said and smiled. “B’taav, our contract is at its end. Are you still interested in that extension?”
“That depends on what you’re offering.”
Merrick opened a drawer and pulled out a gold credit chip. He laid it before B’taav. B’taav picked the chip up and stared at its surface display.
“That’s…that’s most generous.”
“Consider it not only a bonus for a job well done, but an advance for the job you’re about to do.”
“I’m listening.”
“So am I. In my field you talk as little as possible and hear everything going on around you. You never know what you’ll learn.” Merrick again reached into his desk and produced a micro disk. He offered it to B’taav. “Give the disk a look. I’d like you to take on this job.”
“Only on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“No more babysitters.”
Merrick thought about that and nodded.
“Fair enough.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SALVAGE CRAFT SANDSTORM – on the border of Erebus
Kelly Lang slept well for the first time in a very long time. When he awoke, he felt like a new man. When he double-checked the balance in his bank account, he knew yesterday wasn’t simply a beautiful dream.
Today, on this bright brand new day, it was Lang’s intention to make the most of his new life. He showered, made a quick breakfast, and dressed for travel.
After checking all the systems on his ship, he settled into the navigator’s chair and activated the communicator. He directed a transmission to the Titus space station’s flight control.
“This is the Sandstorm. Requesting clearance for departure. Destination is the Displacer.”
There was a crackle of static followed by a lady’s voice.
“Departure clearance granted. Please maintain a path along coordinates 523 by 099. Use minimal speed until advised otherwise.”
“Yes ma’am.”
In minutes Lang’s ship uncoupled from the space station. After a very short burst of thrust, she drifted away from Titus and slowly turned until Lang had her pointed in the direction of the Erebus Displacer.
“Erebus Displacer, this is Sandstorm,” he said. “Request transit passage.”
“Acknowledged. Please provide destination point.”
Lang was silent for several seconds. In his eagerness to leave this place, he hadn’t fully considered where he wanted to go, and with all that money, he had the freedom to choose.
“Sandstorm?”
“The Castillo system,” Lang blurted. It was where he first met his wife. It was where he spent his youth. It was where he longed to return.
“That will be fifty credits.”
Lang pressed a series of buttons on his console. The fifty credits were transferred from his account and to that of the Erebus Displacer.
“Fee has been received,” the Displacer Operator said. “Please allow thirty five minutes for incoming traffic.”
“Will do,” Lang said. He slowed his ship to a stop a few miles for the enormous entrance of the Displacer. Freedom from his lowly salvage job lay so tantalizingly close.
Lang checked his sensors to see if any other ships were approaching. Though it didn’t happen often, once in a while a free rider would try to enter the Displacer alongside the legitimate traveler. Doing so was incredibly dangerous, as the only way this could be done and not be detected by the Displacer's Security was by traveling very close to the paying space craft. That type of proximity could lead to a collision, and no private pilot needed that kind of trouble.
His sensors detected no ships in the immediate vicinity.
Lang relaxed. He locked his ship down and exited his chair. He still had time to double-check his equipment and make some last minute preparations.
The scavenger stowed away all remaining loose gear and made sure his cargo containers were properly locked down. When he reached the decompression chamber he noted the reddish dust that still filled the area. It was all that remained of the Argus probe.
Lang looked at his watch. There were still ten minutes left before he could travel. Lang pressed a button on the wall and opened the compartment where he stored his cleaning gear. He grabbed a slender vacuum tube and ran it across the floor, sucking up most of the asteroid dust. Once done, Lang folded the tube back into the storage compartment.
As he did, he noticed a small black box sitting in the corner of the compartment and behind a pair of disinfectant containers.
“What the hell?” Lang muttered.
The scavenger bent down and picked up the strange box. It was light and measured no more than a square foot. Lang saw no seams or latches on its surface. When he turned it over, he found a single blinking white lig
ht at the box’s center.
“What the hell?” he repeated.
The blinking became faster, and faster...
The Sandstorm noiselessly exploded into tiny jagged pieces.
Only a few people in the upper lounge area of the Titus space station noticed the explosion, but they thought they were witnessing a meteorite collision or the peculiar twinkling of a distant star.
An hour later a group of fellow scavengers within the station pressed their faces against the lounge area’s tinsel glass walls and watched the police ships pick up fragments of the Sandstorm before they drifted away. When most of the pieces of the ship were collected and the police ships were gone, they lowered their heads and mourned for their fallen comrade.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The investigation into the Sandstorm’s destruction started strong, with promises to the public that the cause of this terrible accident, as it was originally labeled, would be quickly found.
Less than a week later, public interest in the Sandstorm waned.
Lang’s ship, like most used by local scavengers, was an older craft, and many assumed it experienced some kind of terminal malfunction. Those in charge of investigating the craft’s destruction focused more and more on what damage, if any, the Sandstorm’s debris might have caused the Erebus Displacer.
That device was, after all, the only means to get back into the Epsillon Empire.
In the control room of the Erebus Displacer, the day moved slowly. Interstellar traffic was low and the high tourist season was still a month away. Jeb Smitheen manned the communications station but his attention was on the latest transmissions from Segaru IV. His view screen displayed the forty-fifth World Cup Leatherball match, and Jeb couldn’t think of a better way to spend this quiet afternoon than losing himself in this game.
Halfway into the match, the lights over his display flashed on. Jeb scowled.
“What now?” he muttered.
He shut his monitor off and activated the communicator.
“Erebus Displacer, this is Aloida One. Please respond.”
“Aloida One, this is Erebus. How can I help you?”
“Craft incoming. Activate receptacles.”
“Incoming? We didn’t have anything schedu—”
“Code 53.”
The corners of Jeb’s mouth tightened.
“Code 53?”
“Yes, Erebus Displacer. Code 53.”
Incoming military craft. A chill ran down Jeb’s spine. What did we do to deserve a military visit?
Jeb Smitheen pressed a series of buttons. In seconds the screens before him flashed acknowledgement of all his requests.
“Aloida One, Erebus Displacer is active.”
He received no reply.
The Erebus Displacer’s hollow core came alive in a wall of shimmering energy. The gulf between millions of light years was negated as an artificial fold in space was activated. A large, sinister black mass appeared in the center of this gap. In moments it stepped from Aloida One, one hundred light years away, and into Erebus space.
Even those unfamiliar with Epsillon military attack crafts would recognize the Wake as one of the more modern ships of the fleet. Visible along the length of her body was an array of fearsome short and long range weaponry.
The craft moved out of the Erebus Displacer and into the ample space between the Displacer and the Titus space station. It turned starboard ever so slightly, until its nose was pointed at the station.
“Erebus Displacer, this is the Wake.”
“This is the Erebus Displacer.”
“By order of the Epsillon Council, we assume full control of Erebus space. Any requested use of the Displacer, both for incoming or outgoing traffic, must be forwarded to us for approval. Understood?”
“U…Understood,” Jeb Smitheen stammered.
There was a brief pause.
“Well?”
“Yes?”
An audible sigh was heard over Jeb’s communicator speaker.
“Would you be so kind as to forward us all incoming and outgoing craft requests? Right now.”
“Oh! Yes sir.”
Jeb tapped at the computer and the requested material was sent to the military craft. Jeb considered the information on the files. There was one scheduled departure and arrival for later in the day and a few more for later in the week. Otherwise, traffic was light.
After several minutes passed without a reply, Jeb keyed the communicator.
“Wake, this is Erebus Displacer. Did you receive the information?”
“Affirmative, Erebus Displacer.”
“Uh...what should I do with regard to today's schedule?”
“For now, no crafts may leave the area.”
“Acknowledged. What about the inbound ship?”
There was a momentary pause.
“Next scheduled entry is the Wanderer. She's a Class C small cargo vessel.”
“Yes sir.”
“A supply ship.”
“Supply or scavenger. We place all small vessels under the former classification.”
“Scavenging in the Erebus system is prohibited.”
“Sorry, that's just our local colloquial expression. I meant she might be on a scientific mission. You know, archeology.”
“Why classify her as a supply vessel?”
“The powers that be prefer the more neutral term.”
“So is this a supply craft or a...scavenger?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Why should we let her in?”
“Guys, that’s up to you,” Jeb said. “But it’s a meager business, sir. I’m sure the pilot spent all his, or her, funds just getting here. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt they'll try anything illegal with you around.”
There was another pause.
“Approval granted. We’ll present our recommendations about the other crafts shortly.”
“Yes sir,” Jeb said.
Eddie Robinson, the senior forensic technician on board the Titus Space Station, received the e-mail summons while in his office.
To: Eddie Robinson, TFT
Please proceed to Deck 52 for a meeting with Lieutenant Lester Daniels, EMC. Do not delay.
Robinson scratched his nose. Epsillon Military Command?
“At least they said please,” the elderly man chuckled. He shut his computers off and headed for the door.
Deck 52 of the Titus Space Station was an enormous, but mostly unused, docking space. Its purpose was to house ships that required repairs that could not be performed in zero gravity space.
Eddie Robinson found the Wake there, taking up almost the entire one mile of empty space. The sight was mindboggling. The few times he came down here all he saw was one cubic mile of emptiness, littered with one or two joggers who used the space as a track.
Several military officers walked around the base of the ship. One of them noticed Robinson and approached.
“This is a restricted area,” the officer said.
“I’m here to see Lieutenant Daniels. My name is Eddie Robinson.”
The officer’s stern tone softened.
“We were expecting you. Come with me.”
The officer motioned Robinson toward the stairs leading up into the Wake.
“You’ve got quite a ship,” Robinson said. He eyed the ships smooth surface as well as her modern, sophisticated thrusters. Try as he might, it was impossible not to also notice her fusion cannons and torpedo launchers.
“Step inside, please.”
They walked the metal plank up and into the Wake, then proceeded down several spacious corridors until arriving at a large metal door. On it was a plaque that identified the space beyond as a conference room.
During the trip, Robinson kept his mouth shut while taking in everything around him. He realized, after a fashion, that the route the officer escorted him on was semi-circular. More than likely he kept Robinson away from instruments and equipment civilian eyes were not permitted to see.
Within the conference room, Robinson found a single rectangular metal table. Around it were an even dozen chairs.
“Have a seat,” the officer said.
Robinson sat at the chair closest to him, which turned out to be the head of the table. The officer frowned at Robinson’s choice but didn't suggest he find an alternate seat. He disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room and left the elderly forensic technician alone. Robinson stared at the room’s walls and noted that, despite appearing plain, there were many small groves and subtle indentations throughout its surface.
From his days in the Epsillon military, he knew the room was likely equipped with the latest monitors, computers, and video/radio hybrids. With the flick of a switch, panels would slide away and hidden equipment would appear like magic. Despite the plain outward appearance, this room was probably an intelligence nerve center.
After a few minutes the door on the opposite side again opened. Out stepped a man in his mid-thirties. Like most military officers, his face was lean, his posture rigid. His eyes were dark and penetrating.
“Mr. Robinson? I’m Lieutenant Lester Daniels. I was ordered to the Titus Space Station to look into the destruction of the Sandstorm.”
“Sandstorm?” Robinson replied. “I thought you were here to check for possible damage to the Erebus Displacer.”
“Not at this moment.”
“Why would the military care—?”
“I require an examination of all recovered wreckage.”
“Certainly. When would you like to—”
“Right now.”
“Most of the wreck is in Cargo Bay 144,” Robinson said as he tried to keep up with Daniels’ brisk pace. The elderly man spent too much time writing reports and too little time exercising.
“Exactly how much of the Sandstorm have you recovered?”
“Thirty to forty percent,” Robinson replied. “Why is the Epsillon military so interested in this?”