Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (5 page)

He thought a moment. “Getting back to your first question. Rumor has it the Crax frigate targeted an escape pod during the fight. I can’t confirm that. We got there near the end of the engagement, just before two destroyers.” He looked a little put out. “We did manage one long range shot, glancing hit with negligible damage. Still top of the line gunnery.” He looked from me to the monitors. “More than you probably wanted to know.”

“No. Actually if the records aren’t classified, yet, I’d like to review the action.” I figured combat data of the surviving ships would’ve been downloaded to create a holographic display. I figured the captain had already downloaded it to a personal file. “Loss of the
Iron Armadillo
. It’ll be one for the history books.” That’s if humans ended up on the winning side, I thought. A Crax frigate, undetected, this close to the center of humanity?

Captain Hollaway seemed distracted. Maybe he was having the same thoughts. “Yes,” he agreed. “She went down fighting.” He shook his head. “I’ve got something you’d probably rather see. After the physician has her time with you.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Also, Director Simms lent me a semi-automatic pistol. His personal one, pretty old and valuable. While I was out, it disappeared. It was my responsibility.”

“No, it’s not missing. I have it and will entrust it to Agent Vingee, to return to Director Simms.”

“Is he alive?”

“I read Mr. Guymin’s report. I’d like to think so.” He didn’t sound encouraged. “Guymin left a message for you. It’s short and that’s good. We’re nearing Io and will be shutting down the condensing engines.” He looked at me with penetrating eyes. “Son, I understand you’ve got quite an ordeal ahead of you. Looks like you’ve already been through hell. I’m told a lot of people’d like to see you euthanized in some pretty nasty ways. Director Simms isn’t one of them. I respect his opinion more than most.” He stood. “Good luck, Specialist Keesay.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As if rehearsed a thousand times, Captain Hollaway exited just as the doctor entered. She was an aging woman with short gray hair. She wore wire-framed bifocals, but all other evidence indicated she was I-Tech.

“I spoke briefly with Agent Vingee,” she said without introduction. “Not surprising. I have tried to keep the pain medication to a minimum.” With apparent deliberateness, she continued more slowly. “The Cranaltar IV will be more effective that way.”

Then I recalled Dr. Marjoree Goldsen was attached to the Cranaltar Project. I’d read about her heading up a number of projects in conjunction with the Umbelgarri.

Dr. Goldsen stepped around the bed and examined the monitors. “You are quite fortunate to have survived thus far. You were lucky to have had A-Tech medical assistance. Your internal injuries would have been beyond our ability to temporarily mend. As it is, your recent activity nearly caused fatal hemorrhaging.”

She was trying to be very simple in her explanations. I replied, “Couldn’t be helped, really.” Then I caught what she had said. “A-Tech?”

“Yes, A-Tech. Still, your long term prognosis, or outlook, is very poor.” She hesitated, and pursed her lips. “The cellular regeneration process does not appear to have been aimed at recovery.”

I slowly nodded. “I’ve read about your work, Dr. Goldsen. On the Cranaltar Project, and also your dissent to the Kipper-Hammer Study.” My last statement seemed to break her concentration. “Took a lot of convincing to get the corporate heads to agree that the Blaytech’s Longevity Serum did indeed have deleterious consequences. Your expertise is still in neural electrochemistry?”

“That was a long time ago, early in my career.”

The Blaytech’s Longevity Serum was a sore point for any I-Tech. Every I-Tech man, woman and child with the surname Blaytech, changed it. I figured that there was no sense pushing the issue, especially with a physician who was against it from the start—and who was taking care of me. “I understand you’ve been part of the Cranaltar Project since its inception.”

Her eyes widened as she nodded and continued her examination. She folded back the covers and removed some of the wrappings over my chest and abdomen. “They told me you read a lot.” She checked the tubes running in and out of my body. “You requested use of the memory replication application specifically?"

It was the first time I’d been able to see some of my injuries. Pink tendril scars radiated from a large mottled mass of scar tissue located over my ribcage, primarily on the lower right side. The seeping viscous fluid didn’t look healthy. “How long have I got?”

“I would estimate no longer than three to four weeks. The stabilizing measures will likely begin to fail within two weeks.”

“What did it?”

“I am not well versed in wound analysis,” she prefaced. “Appears to have been a Crax weapon. One of their multitude of caustic chemical rounds.” She replaced the bandages. “Curiously, it seems the Crax were also the ones who treated the wound to your chest. It should have been fatal. They would be the most adept in counteracting their weaponry.”

I winced when she removed the bandages over my bad eye. Giving a cursory exam she remarked, “Physical trauma damaged your eye,
appears beyond repair, although it appears unusual.”

Dr. Goldsen seemed to be holding back something in her last statement. I didn’t say anything while she replaced the eye covering. I was trying to correlate the charges against me and being wounded by Crax weapons.

Without an inspection she concluded, “Your leg has received multiple injuries. Some more recent than others.”

“Is there any chance of surviving the Cranaltar?” I asked. “I can’t recall how I got this way. Who is responsible? I’d like to know before I give up the ghost.”

“We have never had a volunteer subject. It may make a difference. We have improved our accuracy of transcribing the electrochemical signatures, memory, to virtually one-hundred percent.”

“So I understand,” I said. “It’s an intrusive process. How much of my brain, my cognitive functions will be scrambled?”

“You have done your homework.” She began thoughtfully, “Well, in layman’s terms, in transcribing, the Cranaltar takes an imprint of a memory. Normally the pathway to that individual memory is connected to many others. With each connection an additional transcription must be made. Even the simplest of memories can require thousands upon thousands of pathways to be followed and copied.” She stopped to see if I followed.

I nodded. “Like writing my name. The Cranaltar would have to trace back to the memory, recalling the formation of each letter, possibly the root of learning that letter. The skill to hold a pencil and the muscle control to use the instrument. Also the knowledge of paper could be tapped into. Recognition of color of the paper, pencil?”

“You are correct. And that is for a simple action,” she said with enthusiasm reflected in her voice. “And on very, very rare occasions the process slightly alters a chemical sequence or a synaptic connection, altering the memory. We have figured out how to recognize and correct the altered memory if the same pathway is crossed again. On the transcription,” she frowned. “Not in the brain.”

I didn’t need to do the math in my head. With the time frame I’d be exposed to the Cranaltar’s processing, statistically speaking it was obvious. “Odds are I won’t exactly be wired to code anymore?”

She looked at me questioningly.

“I won’t come out even remotely the same person I went in?”

“The anticipated required length and depth of the procedure. The complications associated virtually guarantee it.”

“Will I be effectively brain dead?”

“In all probability. And if you are fortunate,” she stated grimly.

“Do you know why I can’t remember what happened? Was it the Crax?”

She thought a moment as if weighing what to say. “Quite possibly. There is evidence of a...reconstructive procedure, that has altered some of your neural connections. Minor, delicate, but noticeable.”

“So maybe the whole thing won’t work?”

“Yes. That is a possibility.”

“Will the Umbelgarri assist you?” I was hoping. They’d already demonstrated an interest in me.

“I believe so. If needed, they might,” she said. “At least to reverse the tampering with your frontal lobe.”

“Dr. Goldsen, will you do me one favor?”

“If I am able,” she said warily.

“Can you implant a memory into my brain? Even if it’s scrambled, one that would tell me I was innocent? Or guilty?”

“Either way?” she asked.

I nodded

“I will try,” she promised.

It sounded sincere. I noticed a difference in the background noise. The disconnected feeling ceased as the condensing engines and the antigravity field shut down.

“We must be nearing Io,” said Dr. Goldsen. “I will leave you now to make final arrangements for your transfer.”

“I hope it’s less eventful than the last.”

With a serious look she responded, “It will be.”

As she turned to go, I asked, “Dr. Goldsen, can I have anything to put me to sleep? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather spend my remaining time that way.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot give you anything. If you can manage to sleep on your own, you are welcome to. Agent Vingee is waiting outside.” She turned and hurried out.

There was no way I was going to be able to put my mind at ease. Not enough to doze off. Maybe it was for the best. My mind and I were scheduled for departure soon enough.

Identifying an individual as I-Tech can be as simple as knowing their occupation. Programming analyst, electrical engineer, and ship’s navigator are excellent examples. However, occupations such as corporate executive, physician, or security specialist require closer examination of their clientele, responsibilities and education.

Identification of I-Techs through physical appearance is possible as I-Techs engage in limited genetic selection for their offspring if they can afford it. Traits such as eye and hair color can be reliably manipulated. Another common, but more difficult, characteristic to manipulate is stature. I-Tech parents value above-average height for their children as it is considered socially and professionally advantageous. As a result, I-Techs tend to have similar traits, distinguishing them from the more varied R-Techs.

Unfortunately, genetic engineering isn’t an exact science. Commissioning a reputable corrections lab to modify genes after fertilization is expensive. Altering the male genetic code after conception leads to infertility. Females, their gametes having developed at an early fetal stage, are less likely to encounter such risks. As adults, astronomically wealthy women use this to their cosmetic advantage.

Altering intelligence through genetic engineering turned out to be so risky that such efforts were abandoned. It has always been far more reliable to provide the proper learning environment. Thus, contrary to popular belief, high intelligence is not necessarily an I-Tech trait.

Other clues can be found in dress, accessories, and sometimes wealth. The most identifiable factor to a security specialist is attitude. It’s difficult to explain, but one knows it when one encounters it.

I did my absolute best to relax. I tried to clear my mind of thoughts on what was to come. I’d never been much for holo-cast programs, but any distraction would’ve been appreciated.

I never considered myself a coward, but I was getting mighty anxious. I’d made a choice. Inspired by confusion, desperation, and spurred on by hatred of a yellow tie and the man behind it, I was about to follow the narrow path my choice at pretrial had forged. Maybe I wouldn’t even make it to Io. I felt like a hapless guppy riding the currents in a piranha-filled river. Even if I made it to the end, all that awaited me there was a steep waterfall. One which fell upon jagged rocks, certain to ensure a tragic end. Sleep would have been nice.

“Specialist Keesay, your message.”

Startled, I looked in the direction of Agent Vingee’s voice. I stared at her blankly. “Sorry.”

She smiled. “I brought your message. Captain Hollaway told you about it? From Mr. Guymin.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

She handed me a computer clip. “Just tap the flashing red icon. I’ll be outside.”

“No. That’s Okay,” I said. “The captain said it was short.” Agent Vingee was still wearing her gray uniform, but had added a matching jacket. I spotted a bulge underneath, an MP pistol. “Expecting trouble?”

“No.” She smiled and stepped back from the bed.

I tapped the icon, hoping the message was indeed short. I lacked the strength to hold the clip long and I didn’t dare rest it on my chest. Agent Vingee’s hand appeared and steadied the clip.

The screen filled with what must have been the bridge of Loams’s yacht. I spotted him moving in the background as Caylar spoke. “Greetings, Specialist Keesay. My apologies for abandoning you but circumstances require it. I am traveling with Special Agent Loams to what remains of the
Iron Armadillo
. Available evidence indicates all crew and passengers were lost. As Diplomat Silvre’s personal assistant, I must be sure. I leave you in the capable hands of Captain Hollaway and his crew. They will get you to Io as Director Simms intended.” He paused. “We have faith that those who sacrificed will be vindicated. Agent Loams assured me of that. If you survive.” Caylar ran his hand across his chin. “You really have, guts. Good luck.” In the background Mr. Loams nodded in agreement as the entry ended.

Vingee took the computer clip. “Would you like it replayed?”

“No, no thank you. Just erase it.” I thought a moment while she tapped at the screen. “Mr. Loams was a mole?”

“Apparently,” she responded.

“Did you know of him?” I asked.

“No, my area isn’t corporate espionage. I specialize in records and information.”

“Can you use that firearm under your jacket?”

“I am very proficient,” she said, somewhat offended.

“Of course you can. In the back of my mind I guess I was hoping you couldn’t.”

Agent Vingee glared at me. Her head tipped and her jaw clenched.

“It seems,” I said, “that a number of people don’t want me to make it to Io, and get hooked up to the Cranaltar. As it gets closer, I’m tending more and more to side with them, but for different reasons.”

Anger and contempt spread rampant across Agent Vingee’s face. Even with my less than stellar vision, I viewed it more plainly than a local sun gone supernova.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I explained. “I have no intention other than to follow through.”

She just looked down at me in disgust.

I was getting a bit angry. “You don’t seem to get it. I’m no coward. I’ve faced rioting mobs, but this is worse!” My throat burned as my voice rose. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Than you’ve ever had to do. Have you faced death?” I didn’t wait for a response. “I don’t care if you have, this is worse. It isn’t like facing a firing squad or a lethal injection. I don’t even have a fighting chance.” My thoughts were all jumbled. I knew I wasn’t making sense. I felt my chest thumping.

I took several shallow breaths. Her hard face showed a small fracture. She shifted her stance, while I continued. “Do you know what the Cranaltar is? What it does? It won’t just kill me. It may not even kill me!” Breathing was harder. My chest was heavy.

Her eyes flashed to the monitors. I didn’t care. “Look at me!” I said. “I’m scared. You bet I am. That thing won’t kill me. It’ll take away who I am. It’ll grind up who I am like hamburger.”

Vingee called into her collar for Dr. Goldsen. I was sure the monitors had already done that. She looked back at me. Any accusation had abandoned on her face.

“They say I’ve committed appalling crimes, done terrible things. And I’ll never know!” I struggled for a labored breath. “I asked Dr. Goldsen to let me know. But even if she does, I won’t even...be.” I laid back and looked at the ceiling and fought the pain, realizing my own end.

The door opened and the captain rushed in followed by Dr. Goldsen. I looked at all three. “You don’t even know.”

Dr. Goldsen stood by the bed. She took my hand and held it a moment. “I know,” she assured me. She pointed to her head. “All we are is up here. You’re risking it. And you don’t know for who, or why.”

I slowly nodded. The pain had spiked and was receding.

“I am sorry for my failing,” said the doctor. “I know what it will do to you.”

“Son,” said the captain. “You’re a man of character. That’s evident. I wouldn’t just say that. Of course you didn’t do those things. I know it. Karlton Simms knew it. You know it too.”

I said to Vingee, “I never intended to back out.”

“You were right,” she whispered. “I didn’t understand. Not fully.”

The monitors fell silent. My chest lightened, although the throbbing in my head didn’t abate much. “That little episode probably whittled a week off of my life expectancy, Dr. Goldsen.” Then I asked Captain Hollaway, “When do we visit Io?”

“Shuttle’s ready,” he said. “As soon as you show up. Sorry, I won’t be able to accompany you. But these two ladies will escort you.”

“And two of your most violent marines, I’m told,” said Dr. Goldsen.

“Affirmative.”

“They’re welcome, of course,” I said. “But I’ve got Agent Vingee. If she’s half as good as Director Simms, they won’t be necessary.”

Vingee placed her right hand over her pistol and winked. “Time to go.” She moved behind the bed.

Dr. Goldsen prepared my bed for travel by making quick disconnections and reattachments.

Captain Hollaway spoke into his watch. “Fitch, Neville get in here.” Two fully armed marines entered. “Don’t worry, Specialist,” said the captain. “The
Evanescent Thunder
will keep her guns ready on your way down.”

“I suspect the Umbelgarri might have a few nasties ready,” I said, “for any inquisitive vessels in the area. Only for back up, of course.”

Captain Hollaway laughed but gently shook my hand. “Let’s be about it, marines,” he said. “The ever popular Falshire Hawks is waiting.”

“Yes, sir,” the marines said in unison, and led me out.

“Hawks is down there?” I asked.

“He is,” said Vingee.

“I bet he’ll be glad to see me.”

Vingee snorted a laugh. After that, everyone was silent on the way to the shuttle.

Patrol gunboats are less than ninety yards in length and we started amidship, moving aft. We spent half the travel time in the elevator. It took two trips to get everyone down to the shuttle bay.

The aging military ground assault shuttle sat ready to go. While the nose remained smooth and polished, the boxy body displayed multiple battle scars and patching. The interior had been prepared for my bed and needs. Dr. Goldsen looked out of place in the military atmosphere, with laser carbines and armored vests secured to the walls.

Sergeant Fitch and the doctor spread a sturdy gauze netting over my legs and torso, leaving my head and arms free. They attached the netting to the bed. The locking mechanism’s
clack
signaled Neville had immobilized my bed.

Sergeant Fitch checked to see that everyone was properly strapped in their seat. “No grav plates in this old bird,” he remarked while tightening his own straps.

From his perch in the dorsal turret, the pulse laser gunner focused a roving eye on Agent Vingee, which she worked to ignore. I tapped Fitch and motioned, indicating the situation. The sergeant’s threatening glare encouraged the gunner to focus his attention elsewhere.

My mind wandered as we traveled to the Io Colony. What is it about tall women? I’d read about the economic success of a booming resort business. Some nameless entrepreneur had set up an orbiting space dock in the 70 Virginis system almost twelve years ago and named it the Celestial Unicorn Palace. Some men, enough men, have been willing to travel dozens of light years to vacation with seven foot blondes built like exotic dancers. Frequent holo-cast advertisements show dozens of enormous, voluptuous blondes chanting the slogan, ‘Come be a stallion on our range.’ Agent Vingee was attractive, but she wasn’t that tall or even blond. Maybe I’d travel out that way
someday, if I ever won a share of the intra-colonial lottery.

We struck Io’s thin atmosphere. The jarring brought me back to reality, but I continued my wandering line of thought. That is, if I ever won the lottery and survived the next twenty hours. Both registered equivalent odds. Right, must be an I-Tech thing. No, that little adventure was pretty near the bottom of my list should I survive the Cranaltar. I’d never spoken with anyone who’d actually visited the Celestial Palace. My limited social circle? I’d have bet that old Falshire Hawks had spent a little time there.

“Ever been on Io?” I asked Agent Vingee.

“No. Is this your first time?”

“Yes. I hear it’s cold. Probably bad as Pluto or Charon. I was never out on the surface while assigned there. Even all geared up, still frigid. Is that correct Dr. Goldsen?”

“Well,” said the doctor, “the moon’s surface certainly is inhospitably cold without proper equipment. Except for the few volcanic hot spots, of course. But, in the few surface complexes and large underground areas, they have tapped into the thermal vents to supplement the heating. More energy efficient. The surface radiation from Jupiter is more dangerous than the cold.” She paused during a bit of turbulence. “The Umbelgarri colony on Io, near my lab, keeps it very warm. They have set up immense towers to generate electricity from Jupiter’s magnetic field.”

“You’ve been in there?” I asked. The Umbelgarri have always been very secretive. Isolationist in many ways. The amphibian aliens were rarely seen during the Silicate War. And since then almost never. Their crab-like thralls have always been more common, but still infrequently encountered. This line of conversation seemed to have caught everyone’s attention.

“I really cannot say much,” said Dr. Goldsen. “But from time to time it has been necessary to consult with them on the project. They are not exactly what you would expect.”

Dr. Goldsen’s statement ended the conversation. I guessed that everybody was content to ponder the mystery of the Umbelgarri until we landed. The touchdown was smooth and the landing pad immediately lowered the shuttle into the underground portion of the colony.

The marines checked their gear and became attentive to everything about them. Fitch assisted everyone in freeing themselves before removing my retaining net and releasing my bed. Agent Vingee spoke briefly with the pilot and then asked, “Ready?”

I nodded. The marines lowered the ramp and led the way. A number of shuttles and small interplanetary vessels sat silently in the cavernous hangar bay. My marine escorts’ boots echoed. The faint humming and calliope of other electronic support equipment provided the background music. One of the wheels on my bed had developed a squeak.