The Final Battle hw-5 Page 12

“So,” Chang said, “you said you wanted some drop shells?”

  “Yeah, we do,” Michael replied. “Ours are back on Commitment, and since we’re stuck here until the shipping lines reopen-and Kraa knows how long it’ll be before that happens-we thought we’d do some drops. Not much else we fancy doing.”

  “First time I’ve heard a Hammer say that about this place,” Chang said. They set off toward a large shed. A sign over its door declared it to be the headquarters of the New Dublin Drop Club. “Scobie’s only claim to fame is that we have everything anyone could ever want … for a price.”

  You’re not kidding, Michael thought.

  Chang pushed his hand into a reader to open the door. Michael and Shinoda followed him inside. The room looked like a million other club rooms across humanspace: a small bar, a collection of old chairs and tables, and wall-mounted holovids paging through pix of members doing what members did. Michael frowned when he spotted an old-fashioned wooden board sporting a list of names and dates in gold paint with the words “In Memoriam” across the top. It was a depressingly long list that did nothing to improve Michael’s spirits.

  If the ghosts of dead members bothered Chang, he did not let it show. “Here we are,” the man said. He opened a door off to one side to reveal floor-to-ceiling racks packed with large plasfiber boxes. “You want drop shells, we’ve got drop shells.”

  “Aha!” Michael said with forced enthusiasm, peering at the nearest box. “You didn’t say you were using G-Series systems … very nice,” he added. He wondered how much more bullshit he’d have to come up with, even as he whispered a quiet prayer of thanks for the net’s ability to turn people like him into instant experts.

  “Oh, yes,” Chang said, “we have been for a while now. The F-Series was okay, but nothing beats the G.”

  Oh really, Michael thought. Try telling that to the poor bastards on your killed-in-action board. “No argument there,” he said. “Wish we could get them back home. We’ve been using Kravax-5531 pods. Our military won’t let us use the good stuff.”

  Chang shook his head. “You guys are nuts,” he said. “The 5531 is a killer. You know Boris Chernokov?”

  Who the hell was Boris Chernokov? Michael flicked an anxious glance at Shinoda. Despite all the research they had done, there were yawning gaps in their cover story. It would not take much probing by Chang for that to become obvious. “Poor old Boris,” he asked.

  Chang looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Poor old Boris? Why? Has something happened to him?” he said.

  Shit, shit, shit, thought Michael. He had assumed the man had been killed. “Oh, nothing too serious … we hope. Small disagreement with our friends in DocSec.” Michael made a show of looking worried. “But we won’t talk about it if that’s okay.”

  Chang blinked; living on Scobie’s, he’d know all about DocSec. “Sure,” he said. “Now, you’ve got three drops planned, I think you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. These are ten grand each. You do know that?”

  “Yeah, yeah; no problem.”

  “I wish I had half your luck,” Chang muttered. “I’m lucky if I can afford to do two drops a year. Anyway, let’s get them loaded.”

  • • •

  “Not sure that man was convinced we were kosher,” Michael said to Shinoda as the cargobot pulled away from a thoughtful-looking Chang.

  “I was thinking the same thing. I don’t suppose that club of his sees too many bored, cashed-up Hammers.”

  “I’m damn sure they don’t see any. Still, this is Scobie’s World, and on Scobie’s World cash is king, so I guess he was happy.”

  “He didn’t look too happy as we left.”

  “You trying to tell me something, Sergeant Shinoda?”

  “Hmmm.” Shinoda nodded. “Yes … Right about now, I think he’s trying to decide whether he should tell the wrong people about us. State Security might think they run this place, but we both know as well as Chang does that DocSec calls the shots.”

  “And DocSec likes to shoot people who keep things to themselves. He’s covering his ass.”

  Shinoda thought about that for a moment. “He smelled a rat; that’s for sure. He’ll tell State Security. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Damn,” Michael said. “We’re way too obvious in this damn cargobot. Chang will have its ID. We need to dump it and fast.”

  “There!” Shinoda said. She pointed to a narrow lane overhung by thickly canopied trees. “Down there. We’ll off-load the boxes and send the cargobot on a wander around town. By the time they pick it up, we’ll be long gone.”

  Michael told the bot to turn down the lane. A kilometer in, they stopped in front of an old building, its security fence long past its use-by date. “This is good enough. If we’re fast, nobody will question why we stopped.”

  “I’ll have a look,” Shinoda said, getting out. She was back quickly. “I think it’s safe to leave the gear here for the time being. Nobody’s been near the place in months.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Working feverishly, they manhandled the boxes off the cargobot and into the dilapidated building and tucked them away out of sight. It took only minutes, and Michael was more than a bit relieved when the vehicle finally hummed off down the lane.

  “I’ll get a couple of the guys back with holocams to keep an eye on things,” Shinoda said.as they set off.

  • • •

  Shinoda dropped into a chair. “You’ve got a comm from Spassky, sir,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Michael patched his neuronics into the data feed. He gestured to Shinoda to stay connected. “Go ahead,” he said when the man’s image appeared.

  “We’re in position, sir, and the holocams are online.”

  “Roger that. Any sign of life?”

  “None. Quiet as the proverbial.”

  “Okay. Hang in there. We’ll see you in thirty-six hours, and don’t lose sight of those damn pods. They cost me a fortune.”

  Spassky’s face cracked into a grin. “Don’t worry, sir. They’ll still be here.”

  “I hope so.”

  Michael cut the link. “Almost there,” he said to Shinoda.

  “I hope so,” Shinoda replied. “I’ve had enough of Scobie’s.”

  Michael was shocked to see how tired the marine looked. “You and me both,” he said. “I think I’ll go check the dead-letter box. Hopefully there’ll be something from Moussawi.”

  “I’ll come with you, sir,” Shinoda said, starting to get to her feet.

  “No. You stay put. I’ll take Akuna.”

  Shinoda didn’t argue with him.

  Akuna walked past where Michael sat waiting on the park bench. “Lovely evening for a walk,” she said.

  Michael’s pulse quickened. Akuna had spotted the telltale; the dead-letter box had something for him. A response from Moussawi? “Yes, it is,” he said to Akuna’s back.

  He waited five minutes, then walked the 300 meters to the box, a cleft in an old tree passed by a meandering path well screened by thick clumps of flowering shrubs. It was the work of only seconds for Michael to reach in and feel around inside. “Yes,” he said under his breath as his fingers closed around a datastick. He always wondered how the information in the stick had gotten from wherever Moussawi was holed up waiting for Juggernaut to kick off.

  He uploaded the contents. Admiral Moussawi’s face appeared; he looked old and tired. What he had to say was short and to the point: J-Day had been put back a week to give Michael and his team more time to make it down to Commitment.

  It did not take Michael long to work out the real meaning of the message. Michael had to succeed. Juggernaut depended on it. Shit, he thought as he set off to meet up with Akuna. Talk about pressure of expectations.

  Tuesday, June 22, 2404, UD

  New Dublin, Scobie’s World

  Grabbing a mug of coffee, Shinoda dumped her machine pistol on the table with a clatter and threw herself into a chair across from Michael. “
We’re all set, sir,” she said.

  “Good,” Michael said. “One last time. We haven’t missed anything?”

  “No, sir. Spassky and Prodi have confirmed the area’s clear, and the cargobot’s on its way. They’ll meet us at the VIP terminal.”

  “Anything in the dead-letter box?”

  Shinoda shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Let’s hope that’s good news,” Michael said. “What about Akuna and Mitchell?”

  “In position and ready in case Mister Kalkuz turns up early. You happy about providing backup?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “And I’ve spoken to that bloodsucker Max Pinczewski,” he added. “He’s confirmed our shuttle’s liftoff slot. The Matrix Starlight’s organized a cargo shuttle to transfer the mining equipment from the warehouse, so I think we’re good to go.”

  “Provided Kalkuz does what he’s supposed to,” Shinoda said, sour-faced. “Otherwise we’re screwed.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Nor me. Okay, sir. Gear and weapons check, then we go.”

  Shinoda broke into Michael’s thoughts. “Alfa, this is Bravo,” she said.

  “Alfa,” Michael replied.

  “Charlie and Delta”-that was Akuna and Mitchell-“have Tango visual. He’s inbound in a red mobibot. Registration begins Yankee Yankee Golf. You have?”

  “Wait one … I have him.”

  “Roger, stand by.”

  Michael heaved a sigh of relief. After all the work they’d done, he’d been haunted by the thought that the man might not turn up. But he had. Now all he had to do was give them the codes. Sadly, only time would tell whether what Kalkuz gave them was correct.

  Shinoda broke in: “Tango is with Charlie and Delta … Charlie confirms Tango has handed over the package … Okay, Tango is down. Alfa, you can move in now.”

  “On my way,” Michael said. He threaded his way through the clutter of parked mobibots. By the time he reached Kalkuz’s mobibot, Akuna and Mitchell had bundled the man into their bot, his unconscious form slumped across the backseat. “Any problems?”

  “None, sir,” Akuna said, handing a slim folder across. “This is what he gave us.”

  “Thanks. Get him boxed up. I’ll see you inside the terminal.”

  “Roger that.”

  Michael returned the way he came. His heart hammered at the walls of his chest. He prayed that Kalkuz’s greed had done the trick. He slid into his mobibot and closed the door. Taking a deep breath, he opened the folder. Inside was a single piece of paper with the words ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ and ‘MATRIX STARLIGHT-CONTROL CODES’ in thick black type below the red and black logo of Matrix Shipping Lines. There were twelve codes; Michael ignored the trivial ones-he did not plan to restore the ship’s environmental control system to its baseline settings, nor was he interested in changing the cuisine the foodbots would be serving-until he came to the only code that mattered, the words ‘Command Authority’ followed by an incomprehensible string of letters and numbers.

  “Format and checksum are correct,” Michael’s neuronics confirmed. Thank fuck for that, Michael thought. “Bravo, Alfa. The codes look good. I’m on my way.”

  “Roger.” Shinoda sounded as relieved as Michael felt.

  “We okay to go?” Michael asked Shinoda when the rest of the team had arrived.

  “We are. Akuna and Kalkuz are fast asleep and safely boxed up, and all our gear is being loaded onto the shuttle now.”

  “No problems?” No matter how cleverly the boxes had been packed with extraneous foam and metal to disguise their actual contents, smuggling two warm bodies past security, even security as lax as that in force at the VIP terminal, was by no means guaranteed. And they still had to get past a second check before the Matrix Starlight could depart, a check that would be conducted to DocSec standards.

  “None. All they cared about was explosives. And I’ve checked with the dispatcher. We can board in five minutes, and the shuttle’s cleared for transit to Orbital Warehouse 67-Bravo. We’ll have two hours to repack our gear before the Matrix Starlight turns up.”

  Michael grimaced. They would have to hustle. Fitting the boxes holding Akuna and Kalkuz into the containers of mining equipment was going to be a big job.

  “I’ll be glad when we’re off this damn planet,” he said. “I never want to see Scobie’s World ever again.”

  “Nor me,” Shinoda said, casting a disparaging eye across the handful of people waiting for their shuttles. She shook her head. Michael grinned. The locals did not believe in modesty or discretion; that was obvious. Without exception they were loud, overweight, overdressed, and loaded with enough bling to embarrass even the crassest fashionista. “What a rabble,” she added, shaking her head again.

  • • •

  “Welcome aboard, Mister Smuts,” the tall, spare man dressed in a faded gray shipsuit said. He looked right into Michael’s face from washed-out blue eyes. “I’m the captain, Ulrik Horda. You’ll meet my first mate and chief engineer later. Rajiv and Marty are up to their armpits in a defective cooling pump right now.”

  “Please, call me Johannes,” Michael said, shaking hands. I must be careful, he thought. Underestimating this man would be a mistake. “Good to meet you. This is my team,” he went on, introducing Shinoda and her marines in turn.

  “Good to meet you all. Your accommodations are ready; just follow the signs. If you can come with me, Johannes, we can get the formalities out of the way.”

  “Sure.”

  Michael followed the captain into the passenger saloon. He took a mug of coffee from the foodbot and sat down.

  “Right, let me see,” Horda said. “Okay, State Security has cleared you all for departure, so no problems there. I just need a copy of the end-user certificates for your consignment to show to the border security team.”

  Michael’s stomach turned over. “Border security team?” he said. “I didn’t think they inspected consignments just transiting through.”

  “Normally, no,” Horda replied, “but these are not normal times. I won’t say they are paranoid, but they’re pretty close.”

  Michael did his best to sound relaxed. “Fine,” he said, pushing a datastick across to Horda. “The certificates are there. Will we need to open our containers up?”

  “Depends on how the bast-how the State Security boys are feeling, but I hope not. We’ll miss our departure slot if they do.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, not really. Just means hanging around here for a few more hours. I know you want to keep to schedule, but we’ll be able to make up time as we go.”

  “Good. I’m under orders to get everything installed and working as soon as possible. When’s the border security team due?”

  “Let me check … They’re almost here. We should go meet them.”

  “Shall I get my team down as well?”

  “Hell, no. From past experience, the fewer people hanging around, the better. Spare hands make it easy for them to rip everything apart. If they ask you, most of them are ill and have turned in.”

  “Ill? As in sick?”

  “Swamp fever from the mosquitoes. Big problem on Scobie’s. Treatable, of course, but it takes time. Most obvious symptom is a high temperature.”

  Michael had not wanted to like Captain Horda. It wasn’t working. Horda looked to be a good man. Michael hated the thought of what he planned to do to him.

  “Okay.”

  “Come on; we need to go. We’ve stowed your consignment in the smallest cargo bay we’ve got; they’ll berth on the personnel access airlock. They don’t like walking.”

  Michael trailed along behind Horda along passageways and down ladders. It was a confusing process. He commed Shinoda. “You copy all that?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Everyone’s been told to turn in and get their body temperatures up just in case we have to prove they have this swamp fever thing.”

  “Just make sure they can get to their personal weapo
ns in a hurry. We’ll have to move fast if border security finds something they shouldn’t.”

  “We’re all set.”

  Horda slapped a switch on the bulkhead, and a door opened. “Here we are,” he said. “Cargo Bay 6.”

  They stepped through. It was a small space but big enough to make the consignment of mining gear look embarrassingly insignificant. Michael had already rehearsed his answer to the inevitable question: What’s so important about a pile of mining equipment that it requires an entire ship to itself?

  The inner airlock door opened. A succession of jumpsuited figures entered the bay carrying search equipment. Horda went over to meet them. “Good to see you again, Lieutenant Hinjo,” he said, shaking hands with the first of them, his face lit up by a cheerful smile.

  “And you, Ulrik,” Hinjo said. “Nice little charter you’ve got yourself.”

  “The sort I like, Lieutenant: one client, one consignment, one destination, a simple drop-off and return.”

  “And this is the client?”

  Michael stepped forward. They shook hands. “Johannes Smuts, Lieutenant.”

  “Mister Smuts.” Hinjo waved his team into action. With an ease born of long practice, they spread out, fired up their scanners and probes, and started to check the containers. “And what do you do?” Hinjo went on.

  “I’m a technical support manager for BellMineTech; we’re from Kelly’s Deep. The Live-in-Hope mine is one of the clients I look after.’

  Hinjo nodded. “We’ve been through the cargo manifest, and all seems in order. After all, mining equipment is mining equipment.”

  Michael’s spirits soared, but only for an instant.

  “But I must say I am curious to know what is so important, so urgent.”

  “Live-in-Hope produces iridium-193, and thanks to the current, ah … security situation, demand has gone crazy. The mine has a serious problem with the AI process controllers running its stage 3 production system. They bought cheap AIs from somebody they shouldn’t have and are now paying for that mistake. This gear here-” Michael waved a casual hand across the containers. “-is what they should have bought in the first place, and until we get it all installed and set to work, they’re not producing so much as gram of iridium. It’s costing them a fortune in lost production.”