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Staff Sergeant Salford Lambrix checked his Marines, making sure the suits were operational and that each trooper carried the proper armament, munitions, tools, and emergency air tanks, in case their suits’ scrubbers failed. Satisfied, he reported to the command post and led his section into the waiting lift. The time was thirteen hundred and the alpha shift wouldn’t end for another three hours, which meant the locker room and lift area were deserted.
After a week of patrolling, Lambrix and his people knew their way around the station, the mine, and the smelter. None of them so much as flinched when the lift floor dropped away, and they were whisked one and a half kilometers into the bowels of the dead planet.
Within moments, it slowed to a gentle stop, and the broad, curved doors slid open. Level Five of Shaft Two did not possess the majestic grandeur of Level Sixteen Shaft One. There was no gigantic cavern, no ceiling reaching into darkness, just a wide, circular hub from which half a dozen galleries headed to the various ore seams. The ceiling was low enough that the shaft boss module and the anti-grav ore transport tube seemed wedged between it and the floor.
Lambrix stepped off the lift first and headed for the shaft boss while Sergeant Sberna mustered one-four-alpha near the entrance to Gallery F using hand signals. He waved at the shaft boss, who gave him a curious look through the transparent aluminum window, then entered the names of his Marines and their destination using the outer terminal.
Major Delgado had impressed upon him that everything must be done precisely by the rules, especially since the target might be a trap which, this deep underground in an airless environment, could spell death. Better everyone knew where they were. That way, if anything happened...
His duty done, Lambrix joined the others.
“Everyone ready?” He asked over the patrol frequency.
Lance Corporal Carlo Torres raised his armored fist. “Yeah, Sarge. What do we do if we come across an interested buyer on the way back? The unit fund needs a little top up, and so does the Torres beer and retirement account.”
Sergeant Sberna smacked Torres on the arm. “What did I teach you about anticipating things too early?”
“Someone else might take my idea and run with it?”
“Yep. And that means the Torres beer and retirement account is definitely out of luck on this one.”
The rest of the section chuckled.
“All right.” Lambrix pointed at Gallery F. “Let’s move out.”
**
“If at first you don’t succeed, destroy any evidence that you tried,” Testo said, spinning his chair around to face Delgado. “I’ve concluded we won’t find the upper terminal of a non-existent lift sitting behind a computer console. Nothing in the data hints at its existence. Nor is there anything in the blueprints that even remotely resembles a camouflaged lift station. And yes, I’m ninety-nine percent sure at this point.”
“What would your best guess be?”
“The hydroponics module. It’s mostly automated, which means only a daily visit by the environmental systems maintenance crew. Since it’s at the same level as the administrative and executive modules, it has way less routine traffic than the ones below. But we’ll need to go see for ourselves, sir.”
Delgado glanced at Hak. “How about the Top and I pay Hydroponics Three a visit? You can open the way for us without station operations noticing, right? And I assume the maintenance team has a schedule?”
“Yes to both.” Testo nodded. “Maintenance visits it at ten hundred hours every day, which means they’ve been and gone until tomorrow.”
“Good. If we find something, like an unregistered airlock or an extra power distribution panel, we’ll note the position and not let on we’re searching. I’ll decide whether we make further inquiries once we know what’s what.”
“Have fun among the ferns, Skipper.”
**
Jannika Hallikonnoen lay in her bed, chewing on her lower lip, thinking. The cubicle’s curtains were drawn, giving her as much privacy as Tyrell’s workers got. Sakamoto had called her shortly after Engstrom sent a reminder to senior staff concerning the unauthorized release of restricted information, clearly feeling himself the target of the memo.
She did not know what angered her more. Him risking her anonymity by contacting her directly to say their relationship was over and giving the Marines a chance to find out about it — if they haven’t already. Or the fact that she no longer had the means to confirm the data she collected from her various sources.
The only thing that kept Hallikonnoen from getting too worried about the memo so soon after her last tryst with Sakamoto was the ship’s arrival in less than twenty-four hours. After that, everything would happen, and there was nothing the Marines could do.
They were still flailing in the dark, playing little power games and running after small fry. Even if what Engstrom found in the personnel files wasn’t wholly accurate, garrisoning Tyrell wasn’t a choice assignment, so she doubted they were handpicked volunteers rather than troopers who ended up on their commanding officer’s blacklist. And even if they were good fighters, how bright were they compared to operatives like her? She didn’t for a moment believe Zbotnicky’s assertions that they seemed like more than just regular line infantry.
She looked at her watch. Hell should break loose any time now, covering her final preparations before the arrival of her strike team.
**
Delgado and Hak casually strolled into the tube connecting Administration Module One to Hydroponics Module Three. Beyond the transparent aluminum windows piercing the tube at regular intervals, Keros’ sun painted the desolate landscape with its harsh rays.
To their right, the tube overlooked the landing area, and they saw the massive space doors of the hangar. On the other side, they admired the dark abyss that split Keros’ crust less than a kilometer from Tyrell, its shadows just as hard-edged as the sunlit peaks.
“Pretty little place, ain’t it, sir. I might just see myself retiring here. Probably live longer than on most colonies with no other human beings to screw you around.” Hak remarked in a conversational tone.
“Pass. I prefer living without the need for canned air and regular resupply ships.”
The two Marines tore themselves away from the remarkable and somewhat humbling view and headed for the airlock leading to the ‘glasshouse’ as hydroponic installations were nicknamed because of their transparent roof and sides.
There, Delgado reached for the lock pad, hoping Sergeant Testo’s eyes were on them. The pad changed from red to green as they heard the mechanical sounds of the heavy door latches retracting. Technically, no one except the maintenance crew responsible for the hydroponic farms was allowed inside unescorted, not even the Marine security detail. All previous patrols had been performed under supervision.
They stepped through and into a radically different atmosphere, where the warmth and humidity reminded them of a living, breathing world, not Keros’ stark environment or the utilitarianism of Tyrell’s other modules.
A veritable jungle filled the space as far as the eye could see, yet its core was orderly, with wide, shallow trays containing lush, healthy food plants stacked one above the other and side-by-side, like oversized steps leading from the floor of the module upwards. As they stood there, taking in their surroundings, overhead sprayers gently misted the plants and deposited a light sheen of moisture on the Marines.
Hak let out a soft grunt. “Nice place. A little too humid for my taste, but it soothes the nerves?”
“Yep.” Delgado pulled a handheld sensor from his harness. “Shall we?”
“Aye, sir.” Hak imitated his commanding officer.
They strolled between the stacks of trays, dodging hanging plants while enjoying the rich scent that accompanied the profusion of life around them. After ten minutes, they were back at the airlock, no wiser than before.
“If that lift ends in this module, it’ll be under our feet, in the mechanical room.” Delgado gestured at a closed door in the corner nearest to the airlock. “If I recall correctly, there’s a circular stairway behind it that leads to the environmental machinery, water recirculation, fertilizer recuperation and the other things that make plants grow.”
He touched his communicator.
“Zero, this is Niner.”
“Zero, here,” Testo replied within seconds.
“Can you unlock the door to the stairs leading down?”
“No problems. Wait one.” Then, “It’s yours.”
“Thanks. Niner, out.”
The module’s lower level was crammed with pipes, tubes, vats, and other unidentifiable machinery. A pungent mixture of organic aromas filled the Marines’ nostrils, and they glanced at each other, grimacing.
“It smells much better upstairs if you want my opinion, sir.”
“Agreed. Let’s scan the place and leave.”
They spent a good twenty minutes walking through every corridor and passageway, entering every compartment and recording every last detail so the tactical AI could compare their readings with the station’s official blueprints.
“I think that’s it,” Delgado finally said when they were back at the foot of the stairs. He pocketed his sensor. “Time to head home.”
Hak pointed at the lower level’s own airlock. “How about we leave that way and see how the maintenance tube looks like around here?”
“Right.” Delgado tapped his communicator again. “Zero, this is Niner. We’d like to exit via the module’s maintenance airlock.”
“This is Zero. On it,” Testo replied.
Moments later, the heavy door swung open to reveal a windowless corridor whose walls were covered in grimy conduits, condensation, and signs of mold.
“Ugh.” Hak grimaced. “Makes you wonder about the quality of the salads in the cafeteria.”
“You think I should tell Engstrom his cleaning crew needs added motivation?”
“Nah. We’ll be out of here soon enough, Skipper.” A pause. “I hope.”
**
Romana Movane’s private communicator chimed insistently, never a good sign, and she frowned when she retrieved it from her tunic pocket while touching her desk’s control surface to close the office door. Only two people in Tyrell used the private, encrypted Assenari communications network, one neither Engstrom nor the Marines knew about.
“Yes?”
“We may have a slight problem, Chief Administrator.”
Movane recognized the voice of the undercover operative from the Assenari Enterprises Corporate Security Division, Valenti Nabakov. He ostensibly belonged to the environmental engineering team but, in reality, monitored things for the zaibatsu and reported to Movane, who thought of him as a necessary, but uncomfortable presence in Tyrell. Of course, the Fleet didn’t know Assenari left an intelligence and security specialist behind when it withdrew the corporate police detachment.
“What is it?”
“Delgado and his first sergeant just toured Hydroponics Three and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning both levels.”
“How in Hades did they enter? Operations would tell me if they try.”
She could picture Nabakov shrugging. “I suspect the Marines tapped into Tyrell’s network and can temporarily take over certain segments with no one knowing.”
“Did they find it?”
“Not that I can tell, but if they compare their scans to the specs, they’ll uncover inconsistencies.”
“Which means they found the lower end.”
“That’s my assessment.”
“Damn.” Movane struck her desktop with a clenched fist.
“What’s done is done, Chief Administrator. Best we don’t let on that we know they know or that we suspect they tapped our systems. I’ve concluded that these aren’t ordinary Marines, but specialists sent here for a specific purpose, highly trained professionals.”
“The recon droid discovery.”
“Likely. But I figure Delgado sensed a mystery, which is why he’s been snooping. And yes, before you say so, Evans’ death was unfortunate in that it triggered his suspicions, but I thought I might circumvent ComCorp Security’s conditioning. They’ve improved their formula. Besides, we couldn’t let her go on for much longer without compromising security.”
Movane stared at the communicator, eyes narrowed. “All right. We do nothing. If Delgado is here because of the recon droid find, he’ll soon be gone once the Fleet acts on it, and we can go back to normal. But tell the researchers they’re not allowed down until further notice.”
“As you wish, Chief Administrator.”