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“Our friendly hacker in Engstrom’s office spent a leisurely afternoon browsing through the doctored personal files, sir,” Sergeant Testo reported the moment Delgado joined him and Hak in the command post after returning to the surface. “I asked Rolf to check on the triumvirate, and only Engstrom was in the office. He may not be working for the opposition, but he surely has an agenda.”
Hak shrugged.
“Someone told them about the Second Migration War ammo bunker, and Engstrom is one of the few here who knows what the recon droid found, if not the specifics. He might well be the leak. Perhaps he was even a Black Sword member who escaped detection and the subsequent purge. So, what strange and wonderful things did you discover, Skipper? Moses Singh seemed pretty subdued when he checked in.”
Delgado, dressed once more in his black battledress, shook his head.
“I don’t know, Top. Let’s run the data Moses and his people collected through the tactical AI and see. But only after it’s disconnected from the rest of the station’s systems. Since Captain Engstrom is weaseling his way into our node and we tapped into every other node, there could be unknown hostile elements lurking among the data streams, waiting for a misstep on our part.”
“It’s disconnected, sir. And running the analysis of the scans.” Testo keyed through the visual record while the AI digested the sensor scans.
The first results appeared on a side screen, and it seemed that the vaunted special operations tactical AI was drawing blanks.
Delgado tapped his chin with extended fingers.
“Hmm. Substance of the door, unknown. Age, unknown. No EM traces, no signs of hidden mechanisms.” He fell silent for a few seconds. “You know, this reminds me of things we saw a few times during raids in the Zone, the sort that have only one explanation.”
A faint smile twisted Hak’s lips. “You too, Skipper?”
“Yeah. Tell me we didn’t just score a twofer by stumbling across a L’Taung era cache, which just happens to be in the general vicinity of a Second Migration War ammo bunker.”
“The old proto-Shrehari civilization from a hundred thousand years ago which collapsed after establishing a huge interstellar empire?” Testo asked. “I always figured they were a myth. And from what I read, the present-day Shrehari think so.”
“They’re real. We found sufficient evidence of an ancient star-faring civilization in this part of the galaxy, which vanished when our ancestors were still roaming across Earth, hunting for food with stone-tipped spears. Whether they were proto-Shrehari is still up for debate.”
“Bit of a coincidence, though, finding a L’Taung trove here,” Hak said in a dubious tone. “And you know how I feel about coincidences, Major.”
Delgado glanced at his first sergeant.
“This planet had an atmosphere at one point, not that long ago in the grand scheme of things based on geological evidence. Perhaps it was still inhabitable during the L’Taung era. It might even have lost its atmosphere because of some ghastly attack as the civilization collapsed rather than from violent natural causes.”
“Okay.” Hak nodded. “I’ll buy the idea that the L’Taung owned this rock at one time and stuck a cache well below the surface to protect it from orbital bombardment when their society cracked apart. Perhaps as a way of preserving things that could help them rebuild their empire. But how the hell did one of the Migration War factions end up placing an ammo bunker in the same area, except at the bottom of a canyon and not three and a half klicks beneath the surface? It’s a big planet.”
Delgado grimaced. “I can’t answer that, Top. Sheer coincidence? Or perhaps when the bunker’s builders were looking for a stable spot on a planet that’s still geologically active, they came to the same conclusion as the L’Taung. Perhaps on top of being a stable spot, something about this vicinity makes it more impervious to orbital scans because of how the bedrock is structured along with the abundance of mineral deposits that are Tyrell Station’s reason for being.”
“Sounds plausible, but it’s still a stretch.”
Another shrug. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Say what now, sir?”
“William Shakespeare, from his play Hamlet. The whole business of unknown unknowns. But here we are. Why isn’t anyone at Fleet HQ aware of this? Clearly, someone built the lift we saw in recent times, probably before the Fleet bought Tyrell from Assenari.”
“Could be HQ knows, and Admiral Talyn didn’t think we needed to for this mission, sir.”
“Anything is possible. But I wonder whether the opposition is in on it.”
Sergeant Testo made a face. “They heard about the Second Migration War ammo bunker quickly enough, Skipper, and we don’t know how long ago this supposed L’Taung artifact was found, but it wasn’t yesterday. Considering it’s at the end of a gallery abandoned while Assenari still owned Tyrell, I think we can assume knowledge of its existence has been circulating for at least a year, perhaps even longer.”
“I doubt many people are aware. When a secret is worth keeping, those in charge of enforcement become pretty heavy-handed.” Delgado ran a hand, fingers splayed through his hair. “But yeah, the opposition could be aware, which means they might gun for both targets. In any case, we won’t speak of what we found to anyone.”
“Moses already briefed his people on the importance of staying stumm, even within the company, sir,” Hak said.
“Good. Now, as much as I’d like to find out what’s behind that door, I’m equally interested in finding the lift’s upper terminus. If the opposition tries a two for one, that’s where they’ll be looking.”
“The AI is running a search while it analyzes the data from the mystery of the deep, sir.”
“How long before it spits out results?”
“An hour or so.”
Delgado turned to Hak. “Buy you a coffee while we wait?”
“Sure thing.”
When they returned, Testo was waiting for them by the command post’s primary display, which showed a picture of the mysterious door.
As they sat, Delgado asked, “What do you have, Sergeant?”
Testo pointed at the image.
“See here, right in the middle, sir. A normal visual scan shows nothing visible to the naked or even enhanced eye. But if we examine it under heavy magnification, you can detect a small line running straight from top to bottom dead center.”
Delgado nodded. “Meaning it opens in the middle. Now we need a door handle.”
“Since that’s the only thing the AI found on the door itself, we can reasonably determine the opening mechanism isn’t part of it. Next, the AI analyzed the scans of the wall on either side.”
The image of the door vanished, replaced by what Delgado recognized as a composite representation of the slick stone surface, with each of its constituent minerals in a different shade.
“See that black rectangle, sir? It’s the only part the AI can’t identify. I suspect it’s made out of the same material as the door and might be a smaller one.”
“But we saw nothing, even with the enhanced eye, so it was well camouflaged. Interesting.”
“Indeed. And that’s pretty much it, sir. The AI can’t figure out how the door and that rectangle are related, let alone if the latter opens the former.”
“Okay. Find me the upper terminal of the lift. Tomorrow, I’m headed back there with Sergeant Singh’s section and see if we can’t figure things out. And let’s keep the witch hunt going full bore. Now we really need a distraction to cover our steps. In the meantime, I’d better prepare a report for the Admiral and Colonel Decker. Things are getting a little strange around here.”
**
At supper that night in Nero Engstrom’s quarters, the conversation centered on Delgado’s drastic measures to stomp out the suspected illicit substance trade. His companions so far showed little interest in what he’d found in the Marine’s computer node.
Ed Limix wore a worried expression on his ordinarily bluff features, and when he spoke, it was with a mixture of anger and nervousness. Romana Movane, looking as pinched as ever, took affront at everything and anything the others said.
“Oh, come now.” Engstrom’s tone, meant to be soothing, came across as more jittery than he intended. “There is no drug smuggling in Tyrell, and the Marines will seem like the zealots they are. So, the workers are offended. Ed can remind them this is a military installation and that they live under Fleet regulations, which are fair and even-handed. They have nothing to fear if they’ve done nothing wrong.”
Movane snorted contemptuously.
“Military law is to law what military music is to music. Or something like that. The workers don’t like it, and they’re right. Even if the Marines are bumbling fools, which I doubt, you’ll find a mess of labor troubles on your hands soon enough.”
“She’s right,” Limix interjected. “There’s talk of replacing me as shop steward if I can’t convince you to make them stop. They will vote Hendrik Isenar in, and he won’t be as accommodating as I am. In fact, you don’t want to know what he thinks of you, Nero.”
“Oh, very well,” Engstrom sighed after a few moments during which he studied his companions. “I’ll speak with our overzealous major tomorrow morning. Of course, you’re right. There is no trade in illicit substances around here.”
He clapped his hands once, a clear punctuation to their discussion.
“Who wants to see the most recent on our brave Marines?”
When Nero Engstrom finished proudly displaying his latest bits of knowledge, both Ed Limix and Romana Movane knew there was something wrong with the files. Yet neither voiced that fact. Some things were better kept unsaid. But it begged the question of whether the witch hunt was real or a distraction. And if the latter, what were the Marines really doing.
**
“So, nothing new?” Jannika Hallikonnoen asked abruptly when the informant slid into the booth across from her.
“Nothing you can hang your hat on. Our glorious leader enjoyed himself by reading the sordid details in the Marines’ personal files.”
“I’d rather you find me something more tangible, like what they want to do if this place is ever subjected to an external threat.”
“Wait for it, Jannika. Our friend Engstrom is still digging, and they buried the defense plans behind the highest levels of security.”
“Sure,” she replied dryly. “What about the supply ship?”
“Still on time. I’ve arranged for the people you named to work at reception. The computer virus that’ll distract the Marines’ security scanners is in place, ready for activation.”
“Not too early, or they’ll track it down.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve as much at stake in this as you.”
With that, the informant stood and left Hallikonnoen to her thoughts. Something felt wrong, out of her control, and she didn’t enjoy the sensation. Delgado’s measures, for instance. They’d caused a significant uproar, something he surely knew in advance. Plus, there were better ways of finding actual smugglers, ways that didn’t cause a great big stink.
So why? Was this a case of waving the right hand in your opponent’s face while the left hand went for the kill? Marines weren’t supposed to be that subtle. What did Engstrom find in the personal files?
After downing her drink, Hallikonnoen left the Reach and slipped into the maintenance tube, where ladders allowed covert access to the executive housing level.
When she reached the top, she opened the customarily locked door and stepped into the corridor, deserted at this time of the gamma shift. But she didn’t count on the surveillance sensor placed in one of the air circulation ducts at Delgado’s orders. It alerted Sergeant Rolf Painter, who once again stood watch in the command post, and he allowed himself a faint smile.
Gotcha.