“Time to head for the station over there,” Matt said, blinking to convey an image of the globular station festooned by twenty-one tubular shaped starships. A small access hatch glowed in red. “Head for that entry point, George. And be certain you have told your suit’s CPU to shut down the rockets in your backpack! They will not be needed here. And anyway, I have my suit already performing a Defense survey of the surrounding hundred kilometers. It will go to Auto-Defense mode if someone powers up a laser dome just before taking a shot at us.”
George half-heard Matt’s words as he felt relief at finding the correct suit function icon. Using PET thought-imagery to activate the Repulsor block that lay just beneath his backpack, he tilted his head toward the Commerce Station and used blink control to tell his suit’s onboard CPU the message “I wanna go there!”
“Nicely done,” Matt Hari said in his mind as the red cloud presence cleared to show the high-cheeked face of her Mata Hari Spy persona. She smiled encouragement. “Matt has cross-linked his CPU to yours so that the weapons of both suits can work in synchrony in case there is some kind of hostile action. That is highly unlikely. All comlink and tachlink frequencies carry normal mercantile chatter and orders. So relax and enjoy your first outing in a Level One combat suit!”
“Thanks, Mata Hari. I’m working on it.”
Keeping the center of his faceplate clear since it was his first time to ‘cruise’ in deep space, far from the surface of any planet, George kept one eye on the white ceramic armor of Matt’s suit, admiring the Running Wolf motif that the Vigilante had long ago chosen as his personal icon. “You know, Mata Hari, it was amazing back there on ship how I hardly felt any weight as I picked up the currency cask.”
“Good,” she said, her smile looking relaxed. “That is just how you should feel in a combat suit with neural linkages to its exoskeleton, lasers, rocket shell launcher pipes, pulse-Doppler chest unit and all the other modalities now at your control.”
In truth George felt like some kind of superman. Then he recalled Matt’s lesson on the target range as George used the helmet’s sighting laser to place every blast from his shoulder pulse-cannon lasers right between the humanoid target’s eyes.
“George,” Matt had said as he’d felt exaltation at the ability to destroy any opponent. “Target shooting is fun. Killing other living creatures is necessary, but not fun. And remember that you are the primary mind in control of what your suit does. While the Combat CPU expert system will take over if you go unconscious, and fight to get you back to safety, it is your mind that selects among the dozens of combat options that your suit can perform. Always think first before thought-ordering an action. It will save on ammunition, and on missing a threat from an unexpected quarter. Understood?”
George thought of the intense lesson from two weeks ago and told himself to pay attention to stuff that Matt the Vigilante would not be watching. Stuff like the species and attitudes of every organic being they encountered after station entry. He’d learned to read the ‘body language’ exhibited by three dozen alien morphoforms while working on Omega. That was an essential tool for every bondServant at Omega since many species were not as talkative as humans. The stars disappeared as they coasted under the yellow striped overhang of the access lock.
“Stay behind me,” Matt said as they entered the access chamber, then felt the station’s gravplates pulling them to the floor with a sharp metallic ‘click’. “Station gravity is the common six-tenths Earth grav, as you know from your years on Omega.” Behind them the outer lock door closed soundlessly since they were in vacuum. Air whooshed into the lock. The inner lock door opened. Then an overhead speaker launched into its Visitor Welcome sales pitch.
“Visitors! Welcome to the emporium of Commerce Station, a place where the Central Aisle offers services and products for every desire, from Joypaks that link to the pleasure centers of every species, to drugs of exaltation suitable for inhaling, injection or imprinting on your mind, to food both alive and dead, to—”
“Provide the location of Trans-Galactic mercantile,” Matt interrupted loudly, his English words transformed into the Belizel speech recognized by all AIs and most merchants. “Transmit on frequency 1201 FM. Leave out the persuasion harmonics.”
They left the inner lock room as a three dee holo image appeared in the right quadrant of George’s faceplate, showing the merchant’s location. “May you find all the riches you—”
“Shut up!” Matt said. “Or I will leave behind a white noise microbot that will heterodyne your acoustic speech into a range beyond the hearing of any organic!”
“But, but . . . , as you wish, good sapient.” The overhead voice that had followed them out into a transit hallway shut up, thankfully, and George began his job of observing the comings and goings of the many space-traveling species that were allegedly intelligent.
“The office of Trans-Galactic is located two point one kilometers horizontal from here, and on upper level Gamma,” Matt said aloud even though George could see the green location dot on his right side faceplate quadrant. “Let’s roll.”
Roll? George was unfamiliar with the language idiom Matt had used. Perhaps it related to the ancient vidpic character ‘Paladin’ that Matt said he’d used for his Job Board listing? Earth was full of antique cultures, obscure nation states, three super-conglomerates of the corporate persuasion, and ten billion humans trying to survive warming of the planet, algae-based meals, polluted water, and ruling elites that saw the populace of Earth as a bother, versus an opportunity. Still, bond slavery had been outlawed by the antique United Nations, though its Security Council directorate now included twenty national identities. Eire was not a council member, but the EuroDem confederation was. He sighed, leaving behind archaic human cultural issues and focusing on the few aliens that moved alongside them, by walking, floating, slithering or galloping down this feeder hallway. They would enter the Central Aisle in another hundred meters.
“George, what are you thinking?” Matt asked with a tone of humor as the cyborg/combat suit duo clanked along the feeder hallway.
“Cataloguing the alien species now sharing the hallway with us,” he said, working at the mind-splitting of his conscious attention that Matt seemed to do effortlessly.
The Vigilante’s right shoulder laser pulse-cannon whirred briefly and set its green target dot on a lumbering six-legged alien that reminded George of an ancient auroch beast. “What species is that thing? I have not seen it during my travels.”
“It is a herbivore of the Dolmat species which calls home an M-type star on the far side of the Norma Arm, a location that is directly opposite our Sol star. Human astronomers did not know of it due to the intervening mass of the galaxy’s central star core,” George said, likely adding more detail than Matt needed. “Its front legs double as armhands, while its spike-tail serves for predator defense. The armor-plate hide and its dirt brown color give it decent camouflage against predators. They like games of chance, which is how a few Dolmats passed through Omega while I worked there.”
“Interesting,” Matt said as they reached the junction of the feeder with the Central Aisle thoroughfare. “Move the Standards cask to your left hand so your right is free to use your Magnum gun. In case of need.”
George did as directed. It was no bother even though he was left-handed. He’d practiced enough target shooting with his right hand, along with block handwriting, that his right side could do most of what he automatically did with his left hand. “Done. You visited many places like this?”
“Plenty of them,” Matt said tersely. “A lower class station called Hagonar is where I met Eliana. We linked up there and I went to help her planet survive its contract with the Halicene Conglomerate.”
“Halicene!” George said, feeling intense surprise. “Whatever possessed them to deal with—”
“Rapacious bastards like Halicene?” Matt interrupted. “My exact question to her. She got . . . ticked off by my comment, to use an archaic euphemis
m that the Paladin vidpic taught me. We eventually got along better.”
They must have, to become a Committed pair, George thought as he navigated the crowded Central Aisle. His suit’s onboard Combat CPU kept blaring loudly every time any sapient got within two meters of suit. He blinked to shut off the alarm, reset the proximity zone to a half meter, then began cataloging the weird shapes that someone called intelligent.
Two Mican griffin-tigers entered the hundred meter wide Aisle ahead of them, but fortunately they turned to walk ahead of him and Matt. The dirty brown feathers of their shoulder wings fluttered as the strong air circulation of the aisle moved exhaled carbon dioxide into ceiling filters while fresh oxygen and nitrogen brought in what ninety percent of the known species in the galaxy needed for life. George bit his lip as he recalled his battle with a furious Mican crewman onboard the harvester starship. His wrestling muscles had served him well. And the incident had taught him to activate a minitractor in the handle of the Magnum laser gun so it would return to his left hand even when knocked out of his grip.
Between them and the Micans marched, slithered, tumbled, flew and floated on Nullgrav plates six dozen aliens that belonged to the Spelidon, Dolmat, Loglan, Orko, Brokeet, Hashclick, Topean, Zam, and Hootnai species. He noticed only one Meligun bear-like alien, while no humans were to be seen. Most of the species were known as Ancients, longtime members of the Anarchate who had been in space for millennia compared to the two hundred years of humanity. In polite Belizel such new species were called Newcomers. In gutter talk they were called something else which George had overheard a few times as he did vacuum welding outside the casino dome. His work had been near the floater park where patrons rented Nullgrav vehicles for a tour of exotic places on Omega. If you could call craters, razor-sharp crags, steaming fumaroles, a few volcanoes and thousands of deep fissures tourist locales. Ahead, Matt slowed his pace, then gestured with a gauntleted hand to a ceiling flatscreen.
“Looks like an official announcement of the Anarchate,” Matt said, his tone tense.
George tuned into his suit’s external sound pickup as the translated Belizel statement began, wondering why Matt had been tense ever since their arrival inside the station.
“Citizens of the Anarchate,” sounded words right after the image of a galaxy crossed by a lightning bolt, “We advise merchants and travelers to avoid visiting the minor galactic sector known as the Orion Arm, a small stretch of stars lying between our two prime arms of Perseus and Carina-Sagittarius. Combat Command has reported a higher incidence of pirate attacks on commercial shipping and entertainment locations such as our wonderful Omega casino.” The Spelidon rat who spoke was dressed in a blue and yellow uniform that bore the sigil of Combat Command. “Of course our Nova battleglobes are tending to this disruption, which will be resolved within the next quarter-cycle. Feel free to contact relatives and business associates over the galactic tachnet to assure yourselves that all is peaceful and profitable within the Anarchate.”
The wallscreen image disappeared to be replaced by UV, infrared and yellow light advertising images that glowed side by side in order to appeal to the vision ranges of different species. George blinked to call Matt’s face into focus on his left faceplate quadrant.
“Does that refer to your actions on Halcyon, at Omega, and at the naval shipyard?”
“Probably.” Matt’s face matched his tense tone. “While the history of the Anarchate has had episodes of local rebellion, they have been rare. Very rare. Seems the work of me, Mata Hari and BattleMind has caused Combat Command to spit out this reassurance propaganda.”
“And you, Matt? What is worrying you?”
His combat partner’s face grimaced. “I prefer being in places where word of our actions is unknown. That is one reason our stops have been moving away from Orion, into star clusters and sectors most humans have never visited. I try to be unpredictable.”
George thought that was a smart tactic within their simple strategy of Hit And Run at Anarchate targets listed on the molecular memory crystal that Matt had stolen from the Intelligence base. Great thing that, to have a list of your enemy’s bases, fleets, globeship assignments, ID codes, names of local commanders, intelligence on harvester and resource pirate starships, and fuel supply locations. That was how they’d come to be here, at Galifray’s Commerce Station. No one, including him and Suzanne, had known where they were headed until they’d entered Translation. So why was Matt acting worried?
“Unpredictable is good. But everyone needs food and fuel. So aren’t we, to use a phrase, hiding in plain sight?”
“Yes, George, hiding in plain sight is often good. Until word of one’s behavior becomes known while you are visiting. The office of Trans-Galactic is just ahead, on the right,” Matt said, shifting to angle across the crowd of aliens. “Let’s pay off this merchant and leave here ASAP,” his friend said, using another archaic term that George had never heard.
The wide open arch that gave entry to the offices of Trans-Galactic offered access to a front line of cubicles where minor customers could sit, use the computer interface to order something, pay for it, and leave, never having occupied the time of the well-paid organic staff. That staff occupied low-walled office spaces to the left, with a distant rear wall to mark the separation between the working organics and the few elite managers who observed the front room business using one way vision windows.
As Matt headed for an organic-occupied sidewall office, with a gesture to George to bring the cask of platinum Standards, he let his suit exoskeleton walk him along after Matt while he used the helmet’s built-in telescopic lenses to examine the faces or bodies of every organic now present in the high-ceilinged room. Leaving aside the alien version of potted plants and captive pets, he counted forty-six aliens of various species sitting, hanging, standing and otherwise going about business, usually doing one-on-one business with other weird-looking customers. That made twenty-tree staff people dealing with twenty-three clients. His left quadrant showed a three dee graphic display of every level of Commerce Station and the docked starships, while the right quadrant showed his suit’s weapons status and sensory feeds that monitored station communications, local alien chatter and his mind-link with Mata Hari. His central faceplate he kept clear except for the telescopic monocle that had moved in front of his right eye. It allowed him to track the skin tattoos, ear movements, spine ruffles, chemical signatures, pheromones and repetitive movement patterns of every alien now present in the office.
“Hello,” Matt said to a Loglan alien who resembled an oversized crab. It squatted below a water mister as its front manipulators tapped on several datapads. “I am Merchant James Howard Robinson, currently in the employ of Clan Merimand of the Brokeet Autonomous Homeworld. I and my friend are here to render payment for the fuel and supplies which we ordered for our starship, ID tag Riches, Order Zi Beta 414. Will you accept our payment?”
Two antenna eyes of the Loglan swiveled up from the datapads to examine Matt even as George continued his telescopic examination of the people in the room. “Of course, Merchant James Howard Robinson.” It tapped briefly on one datapad. “Our Supply Tube is adjacent to your starship. It will transfer the supplies upon payment receipt. Your currency will be in platinum Standards, I believe?” the alien said in a clicking speech that their comlinks automatically translated into English.
“Yes.” Matt gestured to George. “Here is the cask containing our payment. There are 14,329 Standards inside. That is the payment amount your SupplyBot told us to provide.”
The blue-spotted crab alien increased the motion of its mouth palps. “Yes, our SupplyBot said that. But the price did not include the cost of personal service by myself. That will require an additional 427 Standards for the processing of—”
“No!” said Matt harshly as George put the open cask on the side of the alien’s workdesk, then turned his attention to the three elite work spaces at the rear of the office. “We pay what was stated. Or we leave. Now. Acc
ept or lose our business.”
George smiled as Matt exhibited Negotiation Strategy Beta Sigma 14, a lesson he’d learned in his first month on the job at Omega. Though his lesson had not been accompanied by neurowhip reinforcement, it had made sense when dealing with unknown lifeforms who, like everyone, preferred to be paid the most for the least product or service. In his view of the back office, the body language of the six organic staffers working nearby looked normal.
“Accepted,” said the Loglan crab, its translated voice managing to sound peeved. “There. The Supply Tube has connected with your starship and is even now delivering the supplies to your botsleds. The fuel is transiting via a cryogenic tube to your fuel bunker. Satisfied?”
George saw the right side of his faceplate fill with the image of Mata Hari as she acknowledged the supplies were being inspection scanned as they boarded and she expected the loading to end in five minims. A short time indeed.
“Satisfied,” Matt said over his suit’s external speaker. “And if you wish me to recommend the services of Trans-Galactic to my species conglomerates, then you had best—”
At the back of the office, George saw a Meligun bear exit the private office suite, wait in an access hall for a Spelidon rat who now scurried up, its black whiskers held tensely. The pink eyes of the Meligun peered closely at them, long enough for him to read the clan tattoo on the bear’s nose. And to read its stance of alarm as black fur slicked down close to its skin. The bear turned away and re-entered its private office, with the Spelidon following behind. Damn! He wondered briefly what he should do, then with a PET thought-image he unlinked from Matt’s CPU and activated his suit’s pulse-Doppler radar unit so as to penetrate the opaque window that faced toward the front office. In less than a second George saw the dark outline of the four-armed Meligun and two-armed Spelidon as the Meligun waved its upper arm pair, then reached down to touch its workdesk with a waist arm. Clearly it was aiming to communicate privately, by a touch link, or it would simply have spoken aloud to the room’s talkcomp. His memory took him back to Omega, to a memory of a former Owner. It was enough. He acted.
Vigilante Series 2: Nebula Vigilante Page 21