The Lost Tech Page 2

  “Would you like some tea, coffee, orange juice?” Smits asked in his artificially hearty tone.

  It struck Kris then. The way Smits had said, I can guarantee you. She looked at him, asking, “What happened to Colonel Borneo?”

  Smits flinched as if she’d reached out and slapped him, although he recovered almost immediately. “He, ah, faced the justice that he gave so many others.”

  Kris frowned, trying to piece that together in her mind. “Colonel Borneo was a killer,” she heard herself say. “He sent people to the firing…” Understanding struck. She leaned forward as the air simply left her lungs. She stared at the floor, blinking, blinking… Slowly, she straightened, forcing herself to suck down air.

  “Commander, this is a sordid affair,” Smits said. “Borneo, we don’t have to think about him anymore. We have much more pleasant business to—”

  “Did you have him shot?” Kris asked, astonished at the idea.

  Smits said nothing, his gaze faltering as she stared at him. He studied the reader on his desk instead.

  “I heard the volleys,” she said, “many firing-squad executions. The way you’re talking, the guards must have shot Colonel Borneo and—who else did you shoot?”

  Smits looked up sharply. “Me?” he asked in a squeaky voice. He paused, maybe regaining his bearings. Speaking in a normal tone, he said, “You misunderstand. I had no one shot. A new directive came down. I’m simply—”

  “What new directive?” Kris asked, interrupting.

  Smits opened his mouth. He licked his teeth and gave her a sickly smile. He didn’t seem so powerful anymore.

  Kris cocked her head and studied the commodore as she would a new planet or comet. She had been a Patrol officer, often seeking out new star systems and cataloging them in detail.

  “All right, then,” Smits said, the smile disappearing into a vault. A grim demeanor took its place. “We can proceed along these lines if you wish. I had thought you would appreciate—”

  “What happened?” Kris said, interrupting him once again. “I went to military prison because I wouldn’t condemn Captain Maddox as a race traitor. Now, you had Colonel Borneo shot. Did you shoot him because…? Oh,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Smits snapped, who watched her the way a rat might a cat, but a rat with others of his kind debating in the shadows that if they all jumped the cat at once… “What do you think you know?”

  Kris didn’t heed the warning signs. The feeling of power—he’s afraid of me—filled her with a sudden sense of invincibility. “You shot Borneo’s men, all of them belonging to Political Intelligence. That was why the guards were hauling me to the courtyard. They mistakenly thought I belonged to Political Intelligence.”

  “Now look here, Commander,” Smits said. “I had no one shot, as I’m not the warden in charge of the prison. In fact, you were lucky I...persuaded the warden to release you into my custody. You asked about changes. Well, there was a big one. Lord High Admiral Fletcher died.”

  “What? When did that happen?”

  Smits scowled and then forcibly turned it into a smile, a seemingly false one. “Cook has returned to Star Watch.”

  “Lord High Admiral Cook?” she asked.

  Smits nodded.

  “Aha…” Kris said.

  “Aha indeed,” Smits said. “As you might imagine, Humanity Manifesto Doctrine has gone out the window, as its tenets are in disgrace. Furthermore, Cook has disbanded the Political Intelligence Division, with many of its members destined for prison or execution.”

  Kris sat back in her chair, absorbing the information.

  “Transition Teams are heading out everywhere to ensure the implementation of the new regulations,” Smits said, casually glancing down at his nails. “We here are simply ahead of the curve—in an effort to make the Lord High Admiral’s task easier by taking care of such problems here for him. If we’d waited, you’d still be in prison, hmm?”

  Kris frowned, trying to understand the hidden meaning of what Smits said. Then, it struck her with full force. Smits was a survivor, a cunning maneuverer. Four months ago, he had been vocal in praise of HM Doctrine. He’d backed Political Intelligence to the hilt. Now, he’d turned on them, and was killing the people he’d sucked up to. Maybe he was doing so to cover himself, to seal lips from ever telling dirty little secrets he didn’t want known.

  And then it really hit her. Smits is cleaning house. If he thinks I’m dangerous to him, he’ll make sure I’m killed, too. But with me, he would do it on the sly.

  A cold hard knot formed in her gut. She wasn’t out of it yet. Greasy fear resumed. It felt as if someone had poured a bucket of slime over her head.

  Smits must have noticed the mental calculations taking place—if the wheels turning in his eyes were any indication. He picked up the reader, maybe doing it to give himself a few more seconds to think. He inhaled, and it seemed as if he’d come to a decision.

  “Actually, it’s good you’re here, Commander,” Smits said, looking at her again. “I’ve received…odd information. It’s three weeks old and comes from the 82 G. Eridani System.”

  It took Kris a moment to switch gears. “That’s eight and a half light-years from here. Why is the data three weeks old?”

  “As to that, I can’t say. The point is I need someone with Patrol experience to check it out for me. Local Eridani government people came here because we have the right sort of ships and personnel for such a task. While there’s a battleship guarding Olmstead—”

  “Olmstead?” asked Kris, interrupting again.

  “That’s the name of the populated planet at 82 G. Eridani,” he said. “Olmstead has six hundred and fifty million inhabitants. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have a permanent Star Watch base. The battleship isn’t rigged for finding—” Smits glanced at the reader, looking up at her afterward. “It isn’t the type of vessel to go looking for missing asteroids.”

  “Missing asteroids?” Kris repeated. “Where could they possibly go?”

  “That is what I want you to find out, Commander. Despite your probationary reinstatement into command—I’m talking about before HMD ascendancy. Well, you’re the only Patrol qualified officer here to go and check.” Smits hesitated, cleared his throat and added, “You see, I’ve read your file. I know why High Command debated about your ability to serve again. Methuselah Man Strand once captured you.”

  The old pain resurfaced in Kris.

  “There have been questions concerning your mental capacity and loyalty to Star Watch,” Smits said. “Some feel that Strand may have modified your mind.”

  “The psychiatrists said he didn’t,” Kris said.

  Smits nodded. “I’ve read your file, remember? I know about that. Given your past treatment due to Political Intelligence—well, I want to give you the opportunity to prove yourself. You could call it compensation, a desire on my part to make up the last four months to you.”

  He’s telling me that he’s willing to buy me off, Kris realized. And send me away too, where I won’t be an embarrassment to him, or a loose end.

  “I have a science vessel in orbit,” Smits said. “It has a minimal crew, without a commander and pilot, among other things. However, according to your record, you can pilot an Escort-class vessel.”

  “I can,” Kris said, thinking hard.

  “There were strange electronic readings in the 82 G. Eridani System’s main asteroid belt. I want you to check that out as well, and I suggest you begin your investigation there.”

  “I see,” Kris said. “How long do you think this will take—long enough to keep me out of your hair for…?” She let her thought trail off.

  Smits’s manner changed as his eyes hardened. “I suggest you tread carefully while addressing me. I’m still the commodore and your superior officer. I can easily put a black mark or two into your file regarding your mental balance. It would have nothing to do with Political Intelligence, but with my opinion regarding Strand’s possible mind alterations.”
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  “In other words—” Kris stopped herself from saying, If I don’t make waves, you’ll give me a full bill of mental health. But if I try to tell the truth about you, you’ll screw with my files and wreck my career forever.

  Smits’s eyes narrowed, as he seemed to take her measure. He nodded shortly. “I believe we understand each other. Make a thorough study of the problem, Commander. Find out what is going on out there. Come back once you find out, but not until then.”

  Despite her dislike of Smits, Kris forced the words out of her mouth. “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Good,” he said, and it was clear that he had immediately lost interest in her. He bent down to his reader, waving his left hand at her in dismissal.

  Kris stood. She was free…for now. What would happen to her once she returned? Would the transition team Smits obviously feared have come and gone by then? At that point, would Smits be content with letting her live, knowing what she did about him?

  Smits looked up at her.

  As he did, Kris turned away, toward the door. She didn’t want the commodore to see the new understanding in her eyes. Without another word, she marched out.

  Thus, Kris did not see Smits gaze thoughtfully after her. Nor did she see him open a drawer and take out a folder. He opened the folder, picked up a pen and scribbled something into the file. Perhaps what he wrote would not make any difference to her future. Then again, maybe it would.

  -3-

  The Bombay was a frigate-sized science vessel of the India-class, with a displacement of 3,240 tons. It was an oval vessel with many sensor protuberances and antennae in the front third of the ship. Twin thruster ports showed the location of the rear. Commodore Smits had understated the lack of personnel. What he should have said was “a severe lack of even a skeleton crew.” In truth, the tiny number of people aboard was absurd to the point of madness. As long as absolutely nothing went wrong, they might be able to travel to 82 G. Eridani and back.

  The absurdly few people aboard made Kris wonder if the Bombay was even meant to make it back.

  There was an engineer, a computer tech and a slovenly first mate named Spengler. That was it. All three were men and quite different in size and temperament from each other.

  First Mate Spengler was rotund, with poor hygiene, whiskers of six or seven days’ growth and whiskey breath when he spoke.

  Despite the absurdity of four people running a science vessel, Kris had been tempted to leave Spengler behind, but she’d concluded that only three was beyond the pale of reason.

  The engineer and tech—

  Kris dismissed them from her thoughts as she piloted the Bombay. She sat at the controls on the bridge, if one could call it that. It had four seats, three of them empty, two for science officers, the third to run the small cannon and hers to pilot the vessel.

  The Bombay had left the Alpha Sigma 9 System behind and was halfway to the 82 G. Eridani System, which was a mere twenty light-years from Earth.

  I could turn the ship and flee there, reporting to the Lord High Admiral. But I would be disobeying direct orders. Besides, maybe something really is wrong in the 82 G. Eridani System. After I check it out…then I can decide if I need to race to Earth.

  Kris luxuriated in the freedom from prison. She loved running a starship, even an empty frigate like the Bombay. The frigate was in moderately decent repair, not bad considering the less than skeleton crew. Once she received a full crew complement, then they could go about making the science vessel perfectly shipshape again.

  Until then—

  The hatch opened and Spengler stumbled onto the bridge. He gripped a bottle in one hand and a wicked-looking knife in the other. Blearily, he looked around until he spotted her. Even so, he leaned forward, searching harder, as if he couldn’t believe he truly saw her.

  “C-Commander,” he slurred.

  Kris was very aware of the knife he was holding: a combat blade, she was sure. Why would he be waving a knife around?

  Act tough. Don’t show him you’re worried. Worried, she laughed inwardly. Is he here to murder me? All right, let’s put an end to this farce.

  “First,” Kris said in a crisp voice. “I did not give you permission to enter the bridge. Second, you must put down your bottle and blade.”

  Spengler’s black-haired head swayed back, and he blinked a few times in rapid succession. After he was finished with his display, he raised the bottle, taking several swallows, and then pulled the bottle away as he smacked his lips and belched.

  “That’s disgusting,” Kris said.

  He aimed the knife at her. “You’re—you sorry piece of shit. Don’t you understand nothing? Don’t you get it yet?”

  Kris held herself still as an ill feeling grew in her. Is he Commodore Smits’s man? Was this a setup? Is that why there are only four of us? “Why don’t you put down the knife and explain what’s going on?” she said evenly.

  Spengler grinned stupidly and guzzled from his bottle once again.

  How long has he been drinking? He’s dead drunk. That isn’t his first bottle.

  “I’m putting you on report,” Kris said.

  “You are?” Spengler asked facetiously. “Oh noes, please don’t do that, I beg you,” he said, giggling.

  Kris glanced around, looking for some kind of weapon. There was nothing available. Was a drunken first mate going to try to knife her to death in space? This was unbelievable.

  He staggered farther onto the bridge, the hatch shutting automatically behind him. “I get—I get a reprieve if I take care of you.” He hiccupped, stared ahead and then inhaled deeply, belching loudly once finished.

  I have to use my wits. That’s all I have left. “What happened to you, Spengler?”

  He looked at her owlishly. “What—what do you mean?”

  “You’re filthy drunk and talking about murder.”

  He nodded, guzzling more and waving the knife around as he did.

  “What about the others?” she asked, wondering if they were all in on this. “Don’t they want to be in on the kill as well?”

  “Pshaw those weak sisters don’t know, don’t understand the storm that’s rolling in for us right thinkers. I do, though. I get it. I know, all right.”

  Kris got it then. “You believe in the Humanity Manifesto?”

  “That’s right,” he slurred, puffing out his chest. “Humans for humanity, we all stick together in one big legion. The New Men, Spacers and freaks like Captain Maddox can’t hurt us then. United we’re strong.”

  “Why didn’t Smits put you before a firing squad with the other PI people?”

  Spengler hiccupped, shaking his head. “I don’t know nothing about Smits. Johan asked me for a favor, said if I scratched his back, the warden would help scratch mine, if you know what I mean.” The first mate put three fingertips of the bottle-holding hand against his lips, hunched his shoulders and looked around theatrically. “Oh no, I gave it away. Can’t do that, as it will mean lights out for both of us if we’re caught. You know what that means, don’t you? It’s time to carve up the turkey so we can be good and safe.”

  “You’re friends with that stupid prison guard?” Kris asked.

  Spengler stared at her. “Johan ain’t bright, but he ain’t stupid. We went to boot camp together. Seen a lot of—” Anger washed across Spengler’s grimy features. He hurled the bottle down hard, the glass shattering and scattering across the deck. His knuckles whitened around the knife as he staggered toward her.

  Kris jumped up from her seat, backpedalling from him. “I can tell you’re no murderer. Thinking of doing this made you hit the bottle.”

  “Ain’t you a genius,” Spengler muttered. “Still, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  Kris looked around wildly as Spengler stumbled toward her, the knife leading the way. She glanced down and noticed her belt. Backpedalling more, she unlatched her belt buckle and drew the leather from the belt loops.

  “You’re dead,” Spengler said, his
eyes glassier than ever.

  Kris gripped the end of the belt, letting the buckle dangle as her weapon. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but Spengler wasn’t much of a first mate, and he was weaving drunk. He had a knife, though, and she wasn’t a hand-to-hand combat specialist. The last time she’d done anything like this—

  Spengler screamed like a lunatic, stumbling at her in a staggering run. He straightened his arm with the knife aimed at her.

  Kris froze in terror.

  No! No! Swing the damn belt. Do something.

  Panicking, Kris closed her eyes and swung the belt. As the buckle flew through the air, she opened her eyes. The buckle hit Spengler in the face. It didn’t knock him down or anything spectacular, but he jerked his head madly, slipped and fell backward, his arms flailing. He grunted as his back thudded against the deck. The back of his head hit harder, and he threw his hands up, the knife sailing away.

  “Didn’t feel a thing,” he said a second later, sitting up. His glassy eyes were crossed, however.

  Kris backed away from him.

  “Let’s try that again,” Spengler mumbled. He tried to get up but slumped down onto his butt. “Damn, but I feel woozy.”

  Kris’s throat convulsed. She forced herself to move, sliding around him toward the fallen knife. Could she cut him? No, no, that wasn’t the question. She could keep him from cutting her, though.

  “Hey, where’s my knife? Did you take my knife?”

  Kris refused to look at him. He really wanted to kill her. She couldn’t believe it.

  “All right, all right. Now I’m going to do this right.” Spengler slowly and methodically began climbing to his feet.

  Kris screamed, dropping the belt and racing to the knife.

  “Why are you yelling?” Spengler mumbled. “I haven’t cut you yet. You can yell then good and hard, just as long as you die.”

  Kris reached the knife, picked it up and turned around. Spengler shouted incoherently, stumbled at her, waving his arms. He tripped again but didn’t go down. Instead, he sped at her. Kris screamed once more, thrusting the knife, holding the handle with both hands. Spengler smashed against her, and that knocked Kris backward. Her arms windmilled as she fell back. Incredibly, perhaps remembering her gymnastics routines from high school, she summersaulted backward and ended up unsteadily on her feet, surprised how she’d done that.