by E. R. Torre
“Fair enough.”
“The gentleman's name, as I'm sure you're aware, was Kelly Lang. His ship blew up on his way out of this system. My understanding is that it was good fortune he didn’t take the Displacer with him.”
“Isn’t the first time something like that’s happened.”
“Someone else told me the very same thing. Like you, he too was wrong. But you know that also.”
Daniels took a sip of his beer.
“In the past hour I discovered something else. Kelly Lang’s ship had a full check-up not a month before it exploded. Luckily for us, the company doing the checking retained their data analysis of his ship’s systems. It was running fine.”
“Obviously not that fine,” Maddox offered. He gazed at the ribbons on Daniels’ suit. “I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant.”
“Lester Daniels, EMC.”
“You think Lang was killed?”
“Twenty thousand credits were transferred to his bank account the day before he died.”
“Someone killed Lang to steal his money?”
“If that was their goal, they didn’t succeed. The money’s still there.”
“Why else kill him?”
“That’s an excellent question.”
“So, what? Was it an accident after all?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say the word ‘maybe’ quite like that before, Lieutenant.”
Daniels flashed Maddox a smile.
“You’re one of the very last people Kelly Lang spoke to before his unfortunate…accident. Funny how, in all this chit chat, you didn’t feel the need to point that out.”
“What’s there to tell? He came by, ordered a drink and food. He drank the drink and ate the food and after he was done he left.”
“And that's all?”
“There's nothing more to tell.”
“So many dead ends,” Daniels told his men before addressing Maddox. “You know what I’m thinking of doing?”
“What?”
“I’m considering a section by section investigation of this station. Like we did at Freedom Twenty.”
Maddox stiffened. The Freedom Twenty was a space station near the Marron System. It was a floating mega-city that housed over three million occupants. Powerful business interests within the Epsillon Empire unsuccessfully tried to gain control of the station's lucrative concessions. The attempts were rebuffed by the station’s power brokers.
One day, a miner was found dead in his compartment within the station's lower decks. This proved the opening the rival business representatives needed. They used his death to get the Epsillon army into Freedom Twenty to investigate. When the miner’s death was ruled a murder sixty-five individuals, including forty five concession stand owners, were imprisoned.
Now free to do what they wanted, the outside business interests literally walked into Freedom Twenty and took control of everything they were unable to get their hands on legitimately. It was no wonder small business interests feared any military presence in their area.
Maddox leaned close to Daniels.
“What exactly do you want to know?” he said. His eyes glowed an unhealthy red.
“Simple,” Daniels replied. “Tell me what Kelly Lang told you the day before he died.”
“Look, we talked, all right? I don’t remember details, but it was gossip, stuff about other scavengers.”
“What did he find in Erebus?”
“Garbage.”
“You know what they say. Your idea of garbage might be someone else’s idea of treasure.”
“Far as I’m concerned, all that’s left out there is junk.”
“Who buys this junk?”
“That depends on what you’ve got. There are at least one hundred buyers in this part of the station alone.”
“Who did Lang deal with?”
“Come on, Lieutenant. He talked to all of them, just like the other scavengers did. When you’re in that business you feel your way around, always looking for the best deal.”
“He must have had his favorites.”
“I’m sure he did. But I wouldn’t know which of them actually bought things from him.”
Daniels drank what remained of his beer. He laid the empty glass on the counter and exhaled loudly.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that,” he said. His voice rose above the others within the bar, silencing them. His icy gaze was on the bartender. “A lot better.”
Several people quietly exited while others stole glances in the direction of the bar’s counter. In the middle of this nervous silence, one man rose from his chair and stepped up to the bar. He stopped beside Daniels.
“It’s my experience that threats are a poor way to gain information,” the man said.
“Welcome to Titus, B’taav,” Lieutenant Daniels said. His eyes stayed on Maddox. “When I heard your ship arrived, I wondered how long it would take before you showed your face. Four hours.”
“Three and a half. But who’s counting?”
“Have you been avoiding me?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because it’s been my experience that broken down Independents like you tend to hide in the Borderlands rather than stick their noses into Epsillon government business.”
“I wouldn’t know much about the Borderlands,” B’taav said. “Though ‘broken down’ might apply better to you than me.”
Even as the words exited B’taav’s mouth, a frigid wall of tension shot up between the two men. Daniels’ face flushed and he fought back a volcanic rage. There was old blood, very bad old blood, between the platinum haired Independent and him.
“You’re referring to my ship, not me,” Daniels quietly said.
“The ship under one’s command is an extension of its senior officer. That was quite a case we had back in Evalba, wasn’t it Lieutenant?”
“Yes, quite a case,” Daniels agreed. “Just as things were heating up and I had you in my sights, my ship malfunctions. Very fortuitous. For you anyway.”
“I’m truly blessed.”
“On the other hand, the boys and I came out of that looking like incompetents,” Daniels continued. “I took the ship into dry dock to get her checked out. You know what the mechanics said?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“They told me her coolant coils were ruptured, that someone cut one of the main lines. I didn’t think there was anyone –anyone– with the balls to infiltrate a Capital Guard ship and do something like that.”
“It would take quite a bit of nerve.”
“Especially when the penalty for this is a quick trip to the firing squad.”
“Perhaps,” Maddox interrupted, in the hopes of cooling things down. “We could all use another drink. On the house?”
“That's a good idea,” Daniels said. “You boys enjoy your drink. B’taav and I have some catching up to do. Come with me, Independent.”
“Is that an order?”
“A request.”
“A friendly request?”
“Why not?”
B’taav followed Daniels to one of the now many empty tables in the rapidly emptying bar. Daniels motioned for B’taav to sit.
“What are you doing here?” Daniels asked.
“Taking in the sights of Erebus. It was time for a vacation.”
“Good. In that case I’m sure you won’t mind if we inspect your ship and cargo.”
“I have no problem with that, as long as you do so accompanied by a neutral party. Say, the Titus police. I wouldn’t want your boys finding something on my ship that wasn’t there in the first place. Not that I don’t trust your good intentions.”
“I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t care,” Daniels said. “But I’ll give you fair warning: Get back to your ship and stay far away from me and my men. Am I clear?”
“Very.”
Daniels got to his feet.
“The only reason you’re stil
l alive is because you covered your tracks well back at Evalba. But I’ve seen your handiwork and I don’t make the same mistakes twice.”
Daniels returned to his men. He told them a few words and the group exited the bar. When they were all gone, a scowl appeared on B’taav’s face. He could no longer hold back the disgust he felt for the Epsillon officer.
It took a while to compose himself. When he did, he noticed a lady sitting at a table on the opposite side of the bar.
She had long yellow hair wrapped tight in the back of her head. Her face was as smooth as porcelain and her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. She wore a shiny black body suit and a heavy black jacket.
She was watching the Independent. Of that there was no doubt.
B'taav leaned back in his chair and looked her way, but by that point her interests had shifted. Or at least she made it look like that was the case. She didn't linger much longer in the bar. She paid her tab and departed only minutes after B'taav first noticed her.
The Independent made no move to approach or stop her, although his instincts told him he should. When she was gone, B’taav walked to the bar’s counter. Maddox raised his hands.
“I don’t need trouble,” he said.
“Too late for that. Lieutenant Daniels wouldn’t be here unless there was something that needed fixing.”
“But there isn’t anything—”
“Whatever it is, it’s none of my business. I just need a little information and I’m gone. Can you help me out?”
“With what?”
“Accelerant. You know some suppliers?”
“I have no reason to talk to Daniels and even less reason to talk to you.”
“At least I asked politely.”
“So far.”
“Look, I’m not a cop. I’m following a path of Accelerant sales, looking for a supplier who probably isn't even on this station anymore. I'm guessing he left to Salvation about four months ago.”
“You’re kidding,” Maddox said. He sighed. “Look, friend, I'd be hard pressed to remember what happened yesterday, much less four months ago. Suppliers come and go just like everyone else in Erebus. If you want to find a specific supplier, your best bet is to get access to the Displacer’s databanks and find the space craft traffic logs for the past four months. You check up on every flight coming in or heading out and maybe you’ll find what you need.”
“Daniels’ boys aren’t letting anyone access to the Displacer’s computers.”
“Then you wait patiently until they’re gone. Either that or ask your buddy Daniels really nice if he can let bygones be bygones and maybe, possibly, give you access to the computer. Who knows, it might just work.”
B’taav laid a two hundred credit piece on the counter.
“You know what I need,” B’taav said. “If you hear anything, give me a call. I’m in dock 23.”
Maddox’s took the credit chip and whistled.
“You’re easy with your money.”
“Easy enough, as long as I get what I need.”
When B'taav was in the outer corridors, he spotted three figures lurking nearby. They were dressed as civilians, but their posture gave them away as Daniels' men. The trio hung back and slipped in and out of the sparse crowds heading to their various destinations. B’taav knew the Lieutenant's game. The men would follow from a polite distance and bid their time until B’taav was alone.
Then, and only then, they’d attack.
B’taav considered his options as he walked through the corridors. There were few. The Independent sighed.
The show must go on.
After a few minutes of walking, the Independent abruptly stopped. His eyes settled on the closest of Daniels’ shadows, a muscular man in his mid-twenties who looked like he could take a few punches. The man pretended scanning through a pile of used electronic games a corner merchant was selling.
B’taav approached quickly.
“Tell Daniels whatever he’s looking into here doesn’t involve me,” B’taav said in voice loud enough to be heard by all those around.
“I don’t think he cares,” the young man replied. His lips cracked and he showed a perfect set of sharp white teeth.
The target proved too good to let pass.
B’taav slammed his fist into the young man’s face. The man fell, hard. His mouth was a bloody mess. Several of his beautiful white teeth littered the floor. The game seller approached the downed man.
“What have you done?” he wailed.
The Independent helped the merchant pick the unconscious soldier up. He sat the man between piles of games and out of the way of pedestrians before offering the merchant a twenty credit piece.
“What’s this?”
“For your troubles,” B’taav said.
B’taav eyed Daniels’ other men. They lingered some thirty feet away and did not approach. Instead, they glared at the Independent. One stood by a computer repair shop, the other by a synthetic food center. This man talked into his communicator.
B’taav knew who he was talking to. He figured now was a good time to walk away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The two remaining military officers followed B’taav through a maze of floors on the upper deck of the station. At times they came very close to the Independent, but never close enough. Soon, B’taav grew worried.
It seemed Daniels’ boys were content to hold back and give the Independent his space. As if—
B'taav felt a sudden urgency to get back to Docking Berth 23.
When the Independent arrived, he found a crowd of onlookers just outside the usually sparse area. Docking Berth 23, the berth leading to his spacecraft, was locked down. A flashing red light over the door indicated a catastrophic loss of pressure.
B’taav elbowed his way deeper into the crowd until he reached a side window. Floating just outside the station were two workers in environmental suits. They were doing heavy welding outside the docking door. B’taav looked past them, past the point where his ship should have been, and farther out into space itself.
Some five hundred meters away floated the Independent’s ship. She had a large gash along her port side. Like blood from a mortal wound, her insides drifted into space.
“What happened?” B’taav asked no one in particular.
“I don’t know,” a woman standing beside him replied. “Emergency lights came on and the exit tunnel was sealed. Someone said a meteorite hit that ship.”
“She’s a goner,” another person said. “The owner will be lucky to get scrap value.”
Onlookers continued their conversations, offering speculation about the cause of the ship's destruction, but B’taav ignored them. The workers outside finished their welding job. One of them pressed a button on his arm pad and, after a few minutes, a rugged towing vessel drew in to pick them up. Gravimetric clamps drew out of the towing vessel's compartments and clamped onto the remains of B’taav’s ship. It was towed away and out of view.
The show was over and people scattered. B’taav moved with them.
He didn't walk far before spotting Lieutenant Lester Daniels and the two men who were following him. They waited for him at the outer radius of the crowd.
“You know what I think?” Daniels said when B’taav was near enough to hear him. “It was sabotage.”
Lieutenant Daniels leaned in close to the Independent, so close that his next words could only be heard by him.
“Nowhere to run. Now the show really begins.”
With a laugh, the trio of Epsillon military officers walked away. After a while, so too did the Independent.
B’taav took a circuitous route through the main body of Titus. He had no specific destination in mind, but the trip allowed him to check for anyone following. No one was, of course. There was little reason for them to. B’taav was trapped.
The Independent spent the remains of the day finding and talking to transport pilots. He searched for anyone willing to fly him out of Erebus. But word spread quickly o
f the military's interest in him, and most pilots were unwilling to offer him passage. The few that were interested demanded a hefty fee.
B’taav told these pilots he would give them a call the next day, after he finished his business within Titus.
Afterwards, the Independent checked into the Titan Hotel on the main deck of the station. It was located only two hundred meters from the Jackal Bar and offered all the amenities of a lightly stocked broom closet.
B’taav’s room, though it could be more accurately defined as a square cubicle, had enough space to fit six people standing next to each other. A stiff bed was folded up into the wall and, once pulled out, there was no longer space to stand.
B’taav grabbed the room’s single towel and exited. He walked to the end of the hallway, where the other hundred and some odd guests within the hotel’s floor shared a communal bathroom.
B’taav waited his turn outside. When he finally entered, he found showers capable of fitting thirty people at a time. His fellow inmates kept to themselves. Like B’taav, their eyes never lingered on any one person, yet a base survival instinct made them weary of any and everyone within their proximity.
B’taav removed his clothing and showered. The water was cold so the turns proved quick. When B’taav was done, he headed to the dressing area. He was on his way out when the rusty wall speakers came to life.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Titus administration speaking,” the female voice began. “As many of you know, a small transport ship exploded near the Erebus Displacer a little over a week ago. At that time, our technicians examined the Displacer and felt she sustained no serious damage. However, out of an abundance of caution, we notified Epsillon authorities and were told EMC technicians would arrive to conduct a more thorough examination of our Displacer. A group of technicians arrived aboard the EMC craft Wake. They have concluded their more detailed examination of the Displacer and determined it is experiencing irregular energy fluctuations.”
“These fluctuations are not, I repeat, not serious. However, they are a cause of concern. Lieutenant Lester Daniels, commander of the Wake, has for the time being cancelled all use of the Displacer. There will be one, and only one, exception: The battleship Dakota was called in to come to our aid in effecting repairs. Despite the risk, I’m pleased to say she arrived a few minutes ago. The Dakota’s full complement of technicians is now looking over the Displacer’s energy cells. If all goes well, they estimate she will be fully functional by the end of the week. We’re sorry for this inconvenience. We will keep you informed and report the moment the Displacer is ready for use. That is all.”