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 weapons 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.”
Hinjo nodded again. “If it’s all so urgent, why did you waste so much time on Scobie’s?”
“Ah, well.” Michael fixed a look of worried concern onto his face. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, Lieutenant, but I’m sure I can trust you not to let this go any further.”
“Of course.”
“We had a contractual disagreement with the client, a serious disagreement.”
“A contractual disagreement?” Hinjo said, his face twisting into a supercilious smirk. “They wouldn’t pay BellMineTech’s exorbitant prices, you mean. You people are all the same.”
Michael ignored the insult. “I think that’s an accurate summary of the problem, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Hmm,” Hinjo replied. He walked over to the containers, a finger to his lips tapping out his thoughts. “I think we should have a look inside, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Michael said, heart pounding. “Which one first?”
“That one,” Hinjo said, pointing.
“Can your guys give me a hand?”
“They’re busy. Get your men up to help, Mister Smuts.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Michael said, turning to cut off the customs seals. He pulled open the container doors to reveal a tightly packed mass of metal and plasfiber. “I don’t think they’d be much use. Swamp fever, apparently. Must say I don’t feel so good myself. Captain, do you have a handlerbot we can use? Some of this equipment is heavy.”
“We do,” Horda said. “Hold on, I’ll go-”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hinjo said with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Open the doors on every second container.”
“Thank you, Captain Horda,” Michael said under his breath as he set to work, trying not to feel even guiltier than he already did.