Haze, page 18
“Tell me something,” Devit says. “Those two hostile sapes in the terminal. What do they have against the Fleet?”
“Imaginary grievances, mostly. Foreigners on Leptic soil! They’re forgetting the last war. How would they have liked Hoppers bouncing around town instead?”
“It could have happened. The H’Allevae have a planet—what? Only two shunts away.”
“Yes. Only an outpost, of course. A trading venture. No military build-up under treaty terms. Yeah, sure, of course. Varg!”
The med tech returns to the counter with a large soyskin bag that’s lumpy with bottle shapes.
“One of you’s gotta sign for this. In a couple of places.”
As a senior chief warrant officer, Devit does the honors. As a plain CPO, Mata carries the bag. By the time they get back to the terminal, the punks are gone.
Santreeza has finished searching the enormous Fleet deep layer archives. After she received the necessary security codes, she enlisted Orb’s help as well as what time FleetOps A and B, who do have their normal work to do, could spare her. The Fleet archive staff helped her in every way they could. Various memory systems, some so archaic as to be practically unusable, contain over a thousand years’ worth of every possible type of report, from daily ops to combat records. No one, including Santreeza, can believe what her search discovered. They are continuing to comb the records for misfiles, even though the organic sapients are beginning to give up hope.
All records concerning the closing of the Pinch shunt have vanished, as cleanly and completely as those from the Pilots Guild.
What remains are tiny traces of code, a few characters here and there, to indicate a series of illegal entries into the area where the records should exist. If Santreeza can trust her cyberjock intuition, the first one of the series occurred just over a solstandard year ago. The Pilots Guild has confirmed that their illegal entry happened at about the same time. Just as with the data on Dan Brennan, all the forms are checked and initialed and turned into dead ends.
No more can she find who sent her the deep archive access codes. Why release them? To taunt her and the system AIs, maybe? Or in a futile attempt to hide the action by returning everything to normal? She intends to find out.
Rear Admiral Harra Stine calls Santreeza into her office to discuss the situation face to face, evidence of the importance of these breaches. Stine, one of the top officers in the Bureau, reminds Santreeza of Captain Evans with her gray eyes and unreadable facial expressions.
“You’ve done a good job, Lieutenant. I can see from the summary reports that you’ve done everything possible. Do you think there’s any reasonable chance of finding the material we’re looking for?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t. FleetOpsA puts the chance at half a point. That’s miracle territory.”
“So I thought. The command level of Special Ops is pushing to send Fleet ships to the Repositories. Quite frankly, I think that’s for the best. We should be able to misdirect the vid people somehow so they don’t raise hell.”
“If I may make a suggestion? You might want to consult with Captain Evans and CWO Devit. They had some sort of contingency plan for reaching the research hospital at the Repositories.”
“Excellent! I’ll do that. And I agree with Captain Dal. It’s ridiculous to waste your time on these early-stage trainees. With your qualifications? If you were going to teach at all, it should be advanced math at a university level. The way things are going, I want you to be free to do security work full time.”
“It appears to be necessary, ma’am.”
Stine looks at the far wall and says nothing for a few minutes. Santreeza assumes that like Evans, she doesn’t need a PL to read and transmit.
“I’ve started the process here at Special Ops,” Stine says eventually. “One small problem. If Evans keeps getting coded messages through the Fleet, it’s going to look suspicious. Well, if anyone’s watching them, and we can’t be too sure that no one is.”
“Right, ma’am. A suggestion. Chief Devit and I could send messages back and forth for personal reasons.”
Stine raises a sly eyebrow. “I see. Yes, the Fleet’s always indulged its personnel about that. Keeping in touch with sapients who matter.”
Santreeza has already left Stine’s office before she realizes, with a touch of irritation, that she’s admitted to herself that Peter Devit does matter. You idiot! You’ll probably never see him again!
Evans receives Stine’s transmit as soon as a Fleet ship arrives at Zoss-Ty. Stine orders the Mary to remain in orbit until they work out some sort of operational plan. Zosstown’s a transfer station port, where shunt message packets can go back and forth with ease. Evans has Wang send a message to the merchant dockmaster that the ship’s hazmat bays are being upgraded, which will require additional dock time. Wang also orders enough raw material to make the delay convincing.
“While we’re here, ma’am, we might as well do the upgrade. Mata and I can handle the job. He doesn’t need to sit around and play Space Defenders all day.”
Mata looks Wang’s way and opens his mouth just enough to show a fang. Wang doesn’t notice. Evans decides to ignore it.
“Mata, you and Wang can start by evaluating the condition of the bays we have now. Devit, we need to discuss another matter.” She pauses, looking around. “Where’s Brennan, by the way?”
“Drugged on schedule, ma’am.”
“Just as well. It’ll keep him safely here. I’ll need an escort to the guild office.”
Once Wang and Mata have left the bridge, Evans sends Stine’s transmit through to Devit’s PL. She watches him read it with his usual grim expression until he suddenly smiles at the screen with more pleasure than just admiration for a good idea.
“You’ve reached the bit about the message exchange.”
“Yes, ma’am. Fine with me, of course.”
“Good. Now what’s this plan the admiral refers to? Delivering hazmat cargos to the Repository hospital?”
“Yes ma’am. I’ve done some research. The Morrison Line wouldn’t take them, and Consolidated won’t, either. I’ve figured out some ways to make the trip safer.”
“Good. But we can’t count on being able to get that kind of cargo to that destination.”
“If the admiral agrees, ma’am, we can. I’ve got some ideas about that.”
Since the ruse has given him permission to add notes to the transmits, Devit sends Santreeza two items. The first comes from letting his sentinel intelligence work on the data he’s gathered. “Look into the old Speed Shunt records, before CL bought them. There’s a chance that the rumors come from something they were doing or looking for.” The second is strictly personal. “When this mission’s over, if it ever is, let’s see if we can get an R and R leave together.”
Her answers arrive in the next transmit return. “I’m following up on your tip about Speed Shunt. We have a lot of their data already from the search for the mole. R and R with you sounds great.”
It’s a four-shunt journey from Zoss-Ty to the Repositories. Once Admiral Stine and Devit work out some details and the hazmat bays are upgraded, Devit escorts the captain to the Merchants Guild in search of cargo. Fortunately, the Fleet base at ZeeTee just happens to have a small shipment for RE92-3rd, too small for a Fleet ship to bother with, apparently, since it goes straight to the Mary along with two shunt message packets … also too few for the Fleet to carry, or so they say. When the Mary reaches spacedock at Nine-Two, it’s three shunts away from Morrison’s Star.
After the enormous orbital complexes at Roon and Zoss-Ty, the geosync docks at Nine-Two look scrappy and primitive, but in their meteor-flecked shells they house a Merchants Guild office as well as a small Fleet post. If the crew want shore leave for anything fancy, however, they’ll have to take the shuttle down to dirtside. Devit agrees when the captain decides the fuel’s not worth the trip.
“There’s a lounge area,” Evans says. “I’m not sure what that means, but it’s here on this module.”
“Chief Mata and I can take a look at it, ma’am. Let’s hope we’re not here long.”
The lounge area turns out to be a scatter of chairs and a pair of unsanitary-looking sofas arranged around a robobar. At the single table by the module wall, two Kar-Li enlisted Fleet personnel are playing some sort of card game. Their folded ear flaps and narrowed eyes make it clear they don’t want to be disturbed. To justify their presence, Devit and Mata buy small bottles of a brown local liquor and find chairs with a good view of the vidscreen.
The town directly beneath the spacedock provides the local news. Sewage problems dominate the current segment.
“Vid!” Devit says. “Sector news.”
The screen changes to a schematic of the six planets well connected by jumpshunts. A Human voice-over is repeating, “Full update in twelve solstandard minutes. The news on the possible outbreak is still sketchy. No emergency procedures necessary at this time.”
In twelve minutes, a Kar-Li reporter appears on the set. His ear flaps are fully extended rather than folded over. He does his best to sound reassuring. A possible new disease, maybe an epidemic, spreading through the sector? Rumors, only rumors. “We’re investigating, and we’ll keep you up to date.”
Devit smiles, and Mata’s crest swells. The plan’s proceeding.
“We might as well go back,” Mata says. “There’s no one here to gossip with, and that sofa behind us? I don’t like the way it smells.”
“I don’t either, and the captain needs an escort.”
This Merchants Guild office turns out to be a cramped little space at the far end of the dock segment. A poster screen hanging on the door warns sapients not to spit some kind of chewing leaves called “bleet” onto the floor. An AI unit sits in a protective cube on a scuffed wooden counter. When Evans transfers the credits for the dockage fees, a Human woman comes out of a side room.
“Looking for cargo, captain?”
“Always. Do you have any?”
“We do. Lucky you got here. The damn Fleet won’t take it, and here it’s for their own damn personnel. Snotty bastards.”
“Really? You don’t get a lot of merchant ships through here? I’m surprised.”
“Not a lot, but some. Once it gets up here, this cargo’s got to go out fast. Don’t want it rotting in the crates. It’s dried sardonix fruit. Oh, and there’s a shunt message packet, too. That’ll cover your refuel.”
“Good. We’ll take both. When will they be ready to go?”
“About eight solstandard hours.” She glances at the onscreen readout. “Huh. Destination is Sweat City.”
“Um, where?”
“Sorry. That’s what they call that planet. I’ve got a husband stationed there. Serves him right, the bastard.”
“Husband troubles, huh?”
“With both of them. No damn good. Ah well, so it goes.”
By the time the new cargo arrives, the Haze has worked its way out of Dan’s system. For a few minutes he stays in bed while he tries to remember the last time he had a shower. Since he’d have to use the sonocleaner, he decides against taking one now. His PL beeps at him. Message from the captain. “We can exit orbit once the cargo’s stowed.”
Up on the bridge, Evans is watching the newsvids on the comm screen.
“Ma’am, I’ll set up the exit route now.”
“Very good.” She studies him for a long moment. “Brennan—Dan—be honest with me. Can you make this jump safely, or do you need more time?”
Temptation steals his voice. He could have a second tab of Haze if he tells her he needs more rest. It would be a lie. Lying belongs on Nowhere Street. He swallows hard and grabs his voice back. “I can do it, ma’am.”
“Will you be able to make another jump soon after? We can’t lay over long at our next destination.”
Dan puts a few minute of serious thought into his answer. “I can, ma’am, because of PrimeOne. It’s unusually proactive for an AI. If I run into trouble, it’ll take over on its own initiative.”
“Very good. We need to keep to schedule in this sector for a good reason, but it’s not so urgent that we need to take big risks.”
“This won’t be any more of a risk than it usually is.”
Evans considers him, saying nothing, revealing nothing by her expression, for so long that he begins to feel like a young ensign again, about to be put on report for breaking some rule he didn’t know existed.
Finally she speaks. “I don’t know how actual merchanter pilots manage this kind of strain. I suppose they spend far more time between jumps than we can.”
“As far as I know, they do. Back when I was regular Fleet, we always carried two pilots.”
“And three during wartime, when the captains could get them.” She pauses, suddenly distant, as if at a grim memory. “Very well. If you’re sure you’re capable, we’ll get underway. I’ll get you at least two solstandard days off once we reach Harad. That’s our last destination before the Repositories.”
The elevator doors slide open. Devit, Wang, and Mata have returned from the cargo hold.
“Crates stowed, ma’am,” Wang says.
“Good. Lieutenant Brennan, take us out of here.”
The message packet and the crates of fruit arrive safely at the remote Fleet base on 94-2nd—or Sweat City as it’s known—just two shunts away from Morrison’s Star. Both polar zones are tropical, and the equatorial zones, uninhabitable. Evans suspects that most of the Fleet personnel stationed here have done something against regulations that’s not serious enough for the brigs or a discharge. Heavy doors separate the merchanters’ portion of the small spacedock from the next module. When the dockmaster comes on the communication screen, Evans asks him about the doors.
“They separate off a neutral trading zone. We get Hopper merchants through here now and then. The officers tend to be decent enough. Keeping their crews isolated saves trouble for everyone.”
“I see. Very well. How are we going to transfer cargo?”
“We’ve got a robovan. We’ll send it in with a couple of reliable personnel. Let me check the roster.” He checks. He frowns. “Damn. The van’s in use.”
“You only have one?”
“ ’ Fraid so. I know you want to get out of here. Everyone does. Tell you what. I’ll send in my men, and they can help yours off-load. Just pile it up on the dock by your sky tunnel airlock. No one else is berthed on that side of the curve.”
While they wait for the longshore help, the captain switches the main comm screen to the newsvids. After a few minutes of local news—mostly weather reports for the planetary surface—an image appears of a sleek white building set in the middle of green lawns. The caption reads, “The Fleet Medical Center on Harad.”
“The medical director has confirmed the appearance of an unknown virus in one of their patients, a Human male, being kept in strict isolation. Their laboratory facilities, some of the best in the sector, are running detailed tests to analyze and assess the danger. So far only the one case has appeared. There is no reason to suspect that the virus will spread.”
“Huh!” Wang says. “They always do.”
“Not this one.” Evans smiles a little more broadly than usual. “It doesn’t exist.”
“It’s our ticket to Morrison’s Star,” Devit says.
The vidscreen changes. The voice-over returns. “Update. There is a second patient now in isolation at the medical center. The Fleet is refusing to release further details.”
“How far does this vid channel reach?” Wang asks.
“To all six systems in this sector, at least,” Devit says. “Maybe beyond if a story turns out to be important enough.”
The newsvids disappear for an incoming message from the dockmaster. The men have arrived for the cargo.
“We can discuss this later,” Evans says. “Chief Devit, go show them how to off-load those crates. That will be one less thing to worry about. Brennan, go rest while you have the chance. How many hours will be enough?”
“Nine, ma’am.”
“Very good. Orbital exit in nine solstandard hours. The rest of us can go off duty once the cargo’s on the dock.”
“Ma’am?” Mata says. “Is there anyplace for shore leave here?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Chief Mata, escort me to the guild kiosk. Lieutenant Wang, you have the bridge.”
The guild interactive kiosk looks like a pile of cargo crates leaning against a wall of the dock. One of them houses an AI access screen. Although the screen appears dead, as soon as Evans says her name it flickers into pale gray life.
“How do I input my password and account number?” Evans says. “I don’t see a safe input device.”
“The safety screen only appears when there are cargos on offer.”
“Then there are no cargo offers.”
“That statement is true.”
The screen goes dark.
Evans has picked up the energy fields of several Ear surveillance devices nearby. She reminds herself that for a real merchant captain, traveling without a cargo could mean financial disaster. She decides to give the devices something to listen to.
“So much for that, Chief. It’s a good thing the docking charges here are so low. We never should have taken the damn fruit on. Live and learn, I guess. Huh. I suppose if Consolidated gets its way, this kind of crap’s the only cargo we’ll get.”
Mata picks up the hint. “Right, ma’am! Are we going back to ninety-two?”
