| |
“Sorry, Skipper.” Painter shook his head. “I don’t think Hallikonnoen put Fournier through an involuntary drug overdose. She’s been under almost constant observation for the last day and was nowhere near the maintenance compartment.”
“Almost?” Delgado cocked an eyebrow.
“We didn’t have eyes on her when she was in her cubicle or the sanitary facilities, and that’s it.”
“So, either she gave your people the slip, or there’s someone else who hasn’t popped up on our sensor screen yet. If it’s not Fournier sampling too much of his own inventory, in which case his death is unrelated.”
“Looks like it.”
A frown creased Delgado’s forehead as he parsed the known unknowns.
“I’m leaning toward the hypothesis Fournier was murdered, and I’ll bet the guilty party is connected with the inscrutable Jannika Hallikonnoen.”
“Ditto, Skipper. We won’t let up our surveillance.”
“Add finding another pro like her to your list.”
Hak let out a soft grunt. “Something’s about to happen. I can feel it in my bones.”
**
Over the hours following the Assenari shuttles’ arrival, Charlie Troop’s Marines, guided by Sergeant Testo from the command post, slowly and quietly closed in on the new arrivals. They scanned them discreetly from a distance while Testo matched the readings with what Bravo Troop collected with their handheld devices after the station scanners failed.
As always, the Reach, crowded, dark, and noisy, provided the perfect meeting place for people who didn’t wish to be seen together. And for people who wanted to observe without being conspicuous. That night, Jannika Hallikonnoen met several newly arrived acquaintances whose biometric details joined the rest of the data in the tactical AI’s input feed. Was a team coalescing around her?
Testo gnawed on his lower lip, contemplating the ramifications, his nervous system supercharged by hours of creative computer work and liters of black coffee. Movement on a secondary screen caught his attention. Someone was using Engstrom’s terminal and access codes to dig into the command post node.
This time, the hacker was searching for Major Delgado’s contingency plans in case of attack from both outside and within. After letting the intruder work away for a few minutes, his face twisted into a feral smile. He’d learned to recognize Engstrom’s hand at the console, his ways of navigating the network, but whoever was up there right now worked with a different rhythm, one that felt more tentative. Nonetheless, they eventually came across the bogus plans and downloaded a copy.
Testo called up the remote sensor monitoring the executive corridor to identify the intruder as he or she left Engstrom’s office only to find it offline. The operations sergeant swore volubly below his breath, although Charlie Troop’s Command Sergeant Isaac Dyas, standing night duty, noticed, and gave Testo a questioning glance. Before the latter replied, the hack vanished.
“Never mind. The sensor in the executive corridor is out, Isaac. If you can send someone to replace it at around oh-three-hundred, that would be great.”
Dyas gave Testo thumbs up. “Will do. Now, how about you hit the sack, buddy? You’ve been putting in sixteen-hour days, and that’ll dull the mind.”
“Yep.” Suppressing a yawn, he stood and stretched. “See you later.”
Before exiting the command post, Testo glanced at the date-time readout on the primary display. November 30th, oh-two-hundred hours. At this rate, they’d most definitely be observing Farhaven Day in Tyrell, a somewhat fitting parallel.
**
Suffering from a bout of insomnia, Engstrom walked to his office with the vague intention of finding a way out of his predicament. Two suspicious deaths in less than a week, an IED in the mine, and an out-of-control Marine Corps major, along with whatever the drone found in the hidden Second Migration War bunker that caused Fleet HQ to slam top secret special access on the find. It was no wonder stress had been getting the better of him. Too much going wrong in Tyrell, and he could kiss his promotion to commodore goodbye.
Engstrom didn’t expect to find good news or a solution by sitting behind his desk. But he also didn’t expect to find someone else there. He stopped beyond the threshold of the office door, letting it close behind him, and stood rooted to the spot.
“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?” Tyrell Station’s commanding officer performed the unusual feat of sounding uneasy and outraged at the same time.
“I think Delgado’s still lying to us. His overt disinterest in Fournier’s death is just the latest manifestation. Since you won’t dig deeper into his node and find the truth, I will, Nero.”
The tone was so scornful Engstrom felt anger building as he strode over to the desk, intent on shutting off his workstation. Because of Delgado, he had already lost a measure of control over the station. He was damned if he would surrender his authority over one of his close advisers as well. When he rounded the desk, he saw schematics on the display unrelated to any criminal investigation such as Terry Evans’ murder or Lyle Fournier’s suspicious death, let alone the IED.
“What in Hades is that?” He leaned over. “Oh, by the sweet Almighty, what do you think you’re doing, looking at Delgado’s contingency plans? If he finds out we’ve accessed them without his authorization, they’ll hear the uproar all the way at Fleet HQ.”
“Give it a rest, Nero. Lately, you’ve been acting like those Marines are omniscient superior beings. They won’t find a harmless little hack, and if they do, I bet they’ll be embarrassed at their lax security and won’t make an issue of it. Still, if you’re that worried...” The screen went blank as the connection was cut.
“Worried? Of course, I’m worried. Because you’re irresponsible.”
“I have what I came for anyway.” A data wafer vanished into a tunic pocket. “Try yoga. I hear it does wonders for the blood pressure. Good night, Nero.”
And with that, Engstrom was alone in the silent office on a deserted level. He stared out the window at the bleak landscape beneath more stars than a human could count in ten lifetimes and wondered if he had any options left. That he was little more than a figurehead as station commander became painfully obvious, and he was a rather solitary figurehead at that, one without friends, let alone people he could trust.
**
Several modules below the rarefied executive levels, Command Sergeant Isaac Dyas and his winger were whiling away their shift in the command post by reading training manuals while Charlie Troop patrols crisscrossed Tyrell Station when the tactical AI chimed softly, announcing it detected what Testo called an incident. He’d programmed it to register and report any occurrence that deviated from the station’s regular daily and hourly cycles.
For example, it would report airlocks and doors normally unused during a shift being opened, station personnel without proper authorization entering restricted compartments or using restricted equipment, and other such events. All, of course, without the station operations center knowledge. One of the occurrences it monitored was out and inbound communications.
Tyrell reported to Fleet HQ and Assenari Mining head office on a defined schedule, which meant any transmissions outside of those times which weren’t directed at known starships in the Keros system were at once flagged by the AI. That particular trigger had never been activated until now.
Someone in Tyrell had sent a brief subspace message, a microburst, using the orbital relay, but didn’t route it through the operations center or the Marine command post, the only two entities who could authorize communications. Dyas analyzed the message but could neither decipher it nor figure who the recipient might be. The only bit of evidence he deducted was that it had been sent at such low power, the recipient wasn’t far away. Probably in the Keros system.
As per the standing operational procedures, Dyas called Testo, who appeared within minutes, looking refreshed after only a few hours' sleep. Testo repeated Dyas’ analysis, then sat back, eyes on the primary display, which currently showed a view of Tyrell as seen by the geosynchronous orbital platform which served, among other functions, as a subspace relay.
“You pretty much nailed it, Isaac. The recipient of that transmission is close. No further than the heliopause, I should think. I doubt the operations center even noticed.”
“Do I call the Skipper?”
“Oh, yes. This is the sort of incident that can’t wait until morning.”