Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (28 page)

First class and R-Tech, I thought. The old couple should vex some of the passengers. Maybe some of the crew. I signaled the next passenger from the padded seating. The mid-level, well dressed, businessman had anticipated and deactivated a belt-mounted relay and pocketed his entertainment glasses. Waiting about fifteen seconds, he pretended he’d decided to enter the holding circle on his own initiative.

That gave me an instant to think. The models of entertainment glasses I’d read about always advertised the fact that they didn’t require a bulky support box. The older model goggles did. Something about his stare before he got up. I decided to send him to Specialist Club’s post.

The line to the left switched green. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, halting the man’s progress. “Please wait for the right line to open.”

The passenger feigned politeness. “Is there any particular reason?”

“Sir, you may wait here until the right line opens. Or you may return to your seat and I will signal you directly when it does.”

“I do not appreciate this delay, Specialist 4th Class.”

I glanced at the sec-bot, then back at the man. “On behalf of Negral Corporation, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

The right lane’s red faded and emitted green. Before I could say anything, the businessman moved on, muttering about being forced to travel on second-rate ships. “Club,” I whispered into my headset. “Special attention to the belt relay.”

Two more passengers advanced through the left line before I heard a disagreement over my shoulder. “Sir,” Club said, “we will hold this device for further examination.”

The man shouted, “May I have an explanation for depriving me of my property?”

Hostile arrogance wouldn’t get him far with Specialist Club. “Sir, I believe your entertainment device contains questionable components.”

I moved a passenger to the left line and signaled to a bearded, casually dressed vacationer. He seemed interested in the disagreement, and didn’t immediately respond. An anxious woman pretended I had signaled her and rushed forward.

Club and the businessman continued the heated conversation off to the side. I sent the woman down the right line. The bearded man came forward. He acted extremely uptight for a vacationer. “Is there something I could help you with, sir?”

I interrupted his concentration on Club’s diplomatic efforts. “No.”

My idle sec-bot might be useful. “Lefty, go to Specialist Club and await any directives she might provide.” The little robot circled around the lines and took up station behind the irate businessman.

The vacationer’s shoulders drooped slightly. “What is the problem?” His wording was smooth, but he continued shifting weight from foot to foot, ever so lightly.

“I am not sure, sir, but I am confident it will be worked out.”

“Didn’t you send the man down the right line intentionally?”

“That is correct, sir.” I scrutinized his unusually fresh and crisp traveling attire. He waited, but I didn’t elaborate while formulating a hunch.

The left line returned to green. The vacationer released a small breath. “May I, Specialist?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Negative, sir,” I said, taking a step back to keep parallel, “I believe my superior would prefer you advance through the right line.”

“This line is open,” he said with a tinge of frustration, or restrained anger.

I looked back at Specialist Tahgs waiting. Our eyes met. The line reverted to red.

The vacationer looked at the line, to Tahgs, then to me. “Why are you intentionally delaying my passage? I paid for first class. I expect appropriate treatment.”

Tahgs hadn’t been quick enough, but I held my left hand to my ear and pretended to listen anyway. “Sir, the operator is running a diagnostic and recalibrating the system. It will only take a moment. Please return to the holding circle.”

A tall olive-skinned woman came striding toward the holding circle. Her low cut, silver bodysuit could’ve been painted on, straining to contain her genetically enhanced chest. The matching satchel held closely against her hip was the only thing not responding to the rhythm of her determined step.

The vacationer turned as the woman neared. He angled back, out of the holding circle.

She halted inches from collision, but I held my ground and shot a glance to the gawking vacationer. “You, sir, do not leave.” I swung my vision directly into the tall brunette’s green eyes, something with which she was certainly unfamiliar. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

“Indeed there is,” she said, with what might have been an exotic Latin American accent. “Why do you insist on unnecessary delays? The left line is open.” She pointed before shifting her stance with a jolt, sending waves of movement through her upper torso. Her right hand rested on her hip, but her eyes remained locked with mine. They were far older than her skin and figure suggested.

“Ma’am,” I began.

“Ms. Jamayka Jazarine to you, Specialist.”

Something clicked. These two were a working pair. The vacationer was probably the mule carrying some sort of contraband and the exotic dancer was the interference. “Ms. Jazarine, thank you for your concern over the boarding schedule. However, I suggest you return to the seating area, or your passage aboard the
Kalavar
will be revoked.”

With a huff, she spun, slapping me with her satchel and stepped into her partner, bumping him aside. “Excuse me,” he said. She didn’t bother to acknowledge and stomped away.

“The right line is now clear for advance, sir,” I said to the vacationer as he turned his attention back to me.

“Might be an enjoyable trip,” he said, grinning and scratching his beard.

“Club,” I whispered into my com-set. “Sending a possible mule working with the exotic dancer in silver.”

“Acknowledged. The last fellow appears to have unauthorized V’Gun components running his entertainment system.”

“Lefty,” I whispered. “Monitor and record the female who just departed the holding circle. Let me know if she passes anything to another passenger.”

“Directive enacted,” responded the sec-bot as it edged toward the passengers.

Banned black market parts, I thought. The V’Gun are highly advanced in biotechnology. Reportedly, components incorporated with their knowledge offer greatly enhanced sensory interaction. Research also indicates their use leads to mental addiction, unless used in extreme moderation, which was a possible explanation for the businessman’s stare and subsequent irate behavior. The offender’s equipment had already been confiscated and a substantial fine would follow, if the initial readings proved accurate. Maybe the fine would actually be enough to hurt. I waved forward an executive toting a large briefcase.

“Smooth talking with the dancer,” teased Tahgs over my com-set. “So I guess we’re still on for dinner?”

“Remain alert, Specialist Tahgs,” I said. “She and the man who advanced along the other line are questionable.” She responded by switching her line to green.

The lean executive stepped into the green circle. “Interesting morning already.”

“Preferable to monotony, sir,” I said. His orange tie had only a few black splotches. “The left line is open to advance.”

“Contraband?” he asked.

“I have not been informed as to the results of the scanning.”

“Good security work.” H
e winked. “What did you use to spot him?”

“As I said, sir, I am not privy to the results.”

He looked me up and down. “Any special equipment?”

I pointed to my head. “Only what God has provided. Sir, the line is green.”

“Chokks Habbuk, Senior Vice President of Recruiting for the Chiagerall Institute.” He looked at my ID tag and pulled out a small clip. “Keesay?”

“Correct, sir. I am satisfied with my current contract.” I looked past him. “Mr. Habbuk, I must insist you advance. I wouldn’t want to offer credence to the lady’s suggestion that my actions are impeding passenger boarding.”

“Are you aware of the Chiagerall Institute?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Habbuk. Military think tank, research on extraordinary mental abilities, pioneering work on the Cranaltar Project.”

“Impressive, Specialist Keesay. Observant, and knowledgeable for an R-Tech.” Without warning, a surprised, panicked look washed over his face. Concern filled his eyes as he looked past me, toward the right line. “Specialist, prepare for trouble.”

His tone jabbed at my instincts. “Clarify, from where?” A cry from behind drowned his response. Spinning, I unslung my shotgun and chambered a slug round.
Ca-Chunk
.

“Take him out!” Club shouted aloud and over her com-set. “Emergency Code Red 5.”

I leveled my shotgun and fired on the vacationer. Lefty wheeled toward the back-pedaling target who was holding a pointed finger toward the downed engineering tech. My round was on target but failed to impact. Lefty deployed its stun net which discharged against an invisible barrier. I pumped and sent another slug as Club’s laser blast fizzled before impact. The man backed toward the wall, while attempting to manipulate a palm clip.

“Crax shield!” yelled Club over the rising cries of the passengers. “Only defends from the front!”

Lefty moved to flank as the vacationer pointed his finger and returned fire on Club. I shot again while Club kicked over the table and dove for cover. Lucky for Club his palm clip seemed more important, causing him to be off target. Still, nickel-sized holes erupted in the table, before expanding tenfold as the metal dissolved.

A med tech screamed. Club popped up and sent two blasts into the shield. Then everything went black. That, and the emergency hatches slamming down, stunned the passengers into silence. The backup lighting failed to kick in and only the fading glow of the holding circle and lines remained. “Energy disruptor,” Club yelled.

A-Tech! I waited for the gravity to fade before remembering the Mavinrom Dock, at its core, was military construct. I took a chance and sent a slug where I thought the bad guy should be.
Blam!
My dampener was dead. The area’s tiling absorbed most of the shot’s echo. Knowing the muzzle flash revealed my position, I dove left and came up kneeling. Clicking impacts, followed by fizzing, emanated from my previous position. “He lacks night vision gear,” I shouted over the again rising clamor.

I unbuttoned a breast pocket where I kept my special shells. Three flares. Too late to consider packing teargas or chemical shells. I loaded the multiple colored flare shells, swung to the left, and fired the first high above the main dock entrance. On the move, the remaining two were sent high across the hall. Each flare round slammed into a wall and cast eerie green, red, and yellow surges that intertwined with layered shadows.

I spotted the silhouetted bad guy hunched over and backing along the far wall. I pulled the pin on my grenade and yelled, “Fire in the hole,” hoping at least Club would react. The flash-stun grenade arced behind what had to be a terrorist. I fired a round from my shotgun just to cover the noise of the landing grenade, then rolled, covered my ears and closed my eyes while praying the disruptor had no effect on old-style grenades.

After the concussive blast I ran toward the terrorist. He was on the ground but getting to his knees. I fired my last loaded round at him. His shield was still up.

Above the ringing in my ears, I thought I heard Club yelling, “Shoot from the hip!”

Interpreting what she said, I moved closer, sliding several more shells from my vest pocket into my gun. The terrorist began to scramble forward.
Less than ten paces away from him I spied the clip’s glowing keypad.
Blam!
It skidded across the floor. I put another round of #8 shot into it, and the third at the terrorist who was glaring at me in anger. He didn’t even flinch.

A brave civilian charged the terrorist and paid the price, falling away, clutching his dissolving abdomen. The passengers sheltering on that side of the room, blinded or not, fled. I backed away, drawing my revolver. Maybe I could deflect a round off the floor and circumvent the shield. We exchanged fire. His went wide and high, mine struck the shield.

The emergency lights flickered to life. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Club toting part of a table while advancing along the wall. Her laser was holstered with its power cord dragging behind. I sprinted to the left to draw attention, and if not, flank him.

The terrorist backed against the wall and opened fire on Club. The floor and wall each took a round before he hit the table. Club backed away, then broke and slid behind the downed passenger. Before the terrorist-vacationer turned to me, the silver-clad exotic dancer emerged from the chairs behind the terrorist and threw a thin knife. It wasn’t balanced for throwing but still managed to pierce his thigh.

She hurdled into the seats and disappeared as he pointed his lethal hand and sent several rounds. The dancer screamed. I emptied my revolver into his facing shield, failing to distract him. How many rounds could his shield stop? Satisfied, the terrorist hobbled to the far corner.

I took position behind the front row of cushioned seats, holstered my revolver, and reloaded my shotgun. Movement on the other side of the chairs caught my attention. I peered underneath and spotted the silver-clad dancer awkwardly crawling along the floor.