Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (27 page)

"Made it once again, eh Dan?" said Rod.

The stubble-faced pilot turned and met him with a grin, wiping his hands on his pants before shaking hands with him.
 
"You bet.
 
Survived another harrowing three-hour flight."

"Jesus, Dan.
 
Three hours from Earth?
 
The new German ships can do it in five minutes."

"Sure," said Dan.
 
"But then I'd have to
buy
one of those precision-engineered German things.
 
Whereas I already have the
Shite
, and she was free.
 
So, y'know…"

"I dunno," laughed Rod, pulling his datapad out of his overalls pocket.
 
"Free shit is still shit.
 
So what d'you have today?"

"Would you believe," said Dan, "priceless cultural artifacts?"

"No," said Rod, poking at his datapad.
 
"I wouldn't."

"Fair enough.
 
It's some shit a museum wants sent to Ni Sennid, and they wanted the lowest bidder.
 
Ergo, me."

"Well, good for you.
 
Just the usual, then?
 
Gas and go?"

"Yeah.
 
Two crates gotta come off, though.
 
They're going to Arcturus.
 
The rest goes to Ni Sennid.
 
And I gotta take a crap."

"That's great, thanks for the detail.
 
I'll get a loader in here for the two crates."

"Oh," said Dan, pointing to the rear of his ship.
 
"There's two stowaways.
 
Couple of kids.
 
The tech in Ottawa let them on.
 
I think one of them's a Palani."

Rod raised an eyebrow.
 
"Really?
 
Out here?
 
They'll let anyone fly these days.
 
Don't worry, I'll get rid of 'em."

"Great, Rod.
 
Gotta go, see you in a few."

"Yeah," said Rod, eyes still on his datapad.
 
"Sure."
 
He walked slowly around to the back of the
Flying Shite
.
 
Its battered and corroded hull still held hints of its original, more elegant self, but the area around the stern ramp was beaten beyond recognition.
 
The ramp hadn't worked properly in almost a hundred years, and every attempt at repair was written in the dented metal.
 
Rod punched a fist at the control hatch, which fell open to reveal the ramp controls inside.
 
Pushing the heavily-worn button, he stood back as the hydraulics wheezed to life, jerkily lowering the uneven ramp amidst a symphony of mysterious rattles and thuds.
 
"Come on out, you two," he said.

Two figures emerged from behind the crates.
 
Both were wearing light summer clothes — not nearly enough for the temperature in the station, let alone a ship in space.
 
The girl was pretty.
 
Built like a linebacker, with a mess of dirty blonde hair, but she moved slowly, like she was tired.
 
The other kid wore a cloth to conceal his head and face; it looked like a paint-covered t-shirt.  As they came down the ramp, Rod caught a glimpse of pure white skin and blue, blue eyes.
 
The Palani kid approached him, pulling down the cloth to reveal his mouth.
 
He was about to speak, when Rod raised one hand.

"Look," he said, which made the two kids stop.
 
"I'll tell you what I tell the rest of 'em:
 
I don't care who you are, I don't care what you're running from.
 
You just can't stay on the guy's ship."
 
Rod pointed to an open hatch, a dark hole with a stairwell leading down below the landing deck.
 
"Go that way.
 
No one will see you, and neither did I."
 
Once again they were about to speak, and again he waved his hand.
 
"Just go.
 
I hope things work out for you, whatever it is."

Without a word, the Palani kid smiled and nodded, covering his face again.
 
He turned around to take the pretty human girl by the hand and led her, a little unsteadily, toward the hatch.

Rod turned back to the ship and walked up the ramp into the hold as the loader approached.

"Five minutes.
 
We missed them by five minutes."
 

Dillon stomped into the
Borealis's
hangar bay, tugging at the straps on his upper leg armour.
 
"Five fucking minutes," he muttered, making a fist and punching at the clasp on his hip.
 

Amba walked behind him.
 
She was fastening the front of a vast grey overcoat that she wore over her robes.
 
"You didn't know, Captain."

"I know," he said.
 
His neck and shoulders were tight to the point of aching, and he knew his voice was betraying his frustration.
 
"If we hadn't been screwing around, we could've been here in time to meet that damned freighter."
 
He grabbed a loose strap on his armour and jerked it tighter.
 
"How the hell does a piece-of-shit freighter get in and out of a piece-of-shit station so damned fast?"

Two crewmembers were waiting next to the open door of the shuttle.
 
They both wore identical grey overcoats, nondescript and without insignia, over their body armour.
 
The shapeless coats also hid the sidearms holstered on their belts.

"Who we got?" asked Dillon.

"Lee here, sir," said the shorter of the two.
 
He jerked his thumb at the other hooded figure.
 
"Brought Amoroso, who needed something to do."

"Sir," said Amoroso's voice from under the hood.

Dillon grunted in acknowledgement.
 
"Fine.
 
Great.
 
Where's my damn overcoat?"

Amoroso turned toward the shuttle's open door, picking a folded coat off the deck.
 
"Here you go, sir."

Taking the coat, Dillon shook it open, turning it over as he searched for the arm holes.
 
He knew he needed to calm down, and forced himself to slow his breathing.
 
"So," he sighed, trying to turn the coat right way up.
 
"You both been to Alpha Bravo before?"

"I have, sir," said Lee.
 
"But not Amoroso."

Dillon looked sideways at Amba.
 
She gave a brief tilt of her head.
 
"I have been here before, Captain.
 
Briefly."

He found an armhole and slid his armoured fist into it.
 
"Got it.
 
So, here's the deal, Amoroso:
 
they don't like Earth warships coming here.
 
The place is like the Wild West: everyone is armed and cranky, and there are no cops.
 
A sort of mafia runs the place, and they've made it abundantly clear that they aren't going to do a damn thing to help us."
 
He slowly rotated around to his left, trying to get his other arm into the other sleeve.
 
Lee reached out and held the coat for him.
 
"Thank you.
 
So, it's two hundred years old.
 
It's an eight-hundred-metre-wide doughnut-shaped pile of junk.
 
It's like rats' warrens in there.
 
No central communications to speak of, and how they manage air, water, food and sanitation is anyone's guess.
 
They don't even use their greenhouses any more.
 
Three hundred thousand people crammed in there, and we're only looking for two.
 
Two needles in a nasty little haystack."

Pulling his hood over his head, Dillon motioned to the shuttle, prompting Amoroso to climb aboard followed by Lee and the Tassali.

"And since we're evil Earth military types," he grumbled, grabbing the handrail to pull himself into the shuttle, "they'll only let four of us down at one time.
 
Let's go."

Amoroso slid the shuttle's door shut as they lifted off the hangar deck.
 
Floating backwards, the shuttle exited the
Borealis
and began to turn.

As the shuttle floated aft of the ship, Dillon peered out of the window in the shuttle's door.
 
The
Borealis's
bare metal hull was unadorned save for the maple leaf near the stern, the pennant number on her sides, and the white and red stripes.
 
Her lines were sleek and elegant, a far cry from the station that was coming into view.
 
The station's toroidal hull was battered and corroded, and covered with random patches of newer, cleaner plating welded on over time.
 
Only a faint hint remained of her original markings; the UN flag painted on her slowly-rotating hull was half obscured by a scorch mark, in turn covered by a patch of green-painted steel.

Dillon turned and made a beckoning motion to Amoroso.
 
"C'mere," he said.
 
"You've never been here, so let me give you a quick tour."

"Yes sir," said Amoroso, bending to peek out the small window.

"It's a torus," said Dillon, "a big fat doughnut.
 
It used to rotate faster, to simulate gravity.
 
'Down' was the outer edge, 'up' was toward the centre of rotation.
 
Somewhere along the line, they gave up on the rotation idea and put in artificial gravity generators."
 
He leaned in closer to the window, pointing toward the station as they approached.
 
"There used to be a central docking hub, but it's gone.
 
See where part of the donut's inside rim has been cut away?
 
That's where they took off part of the hull, to create a docking bay.
 
Magnetic fields hold the air in.
 
The rest of it," said Dillon, making a circular motion with his pointing finger, "is like the shittiest part of Diefenbaker Station, except not as nice."
 
Dillon patted Amoroso on the back.
 
"There.
 
Did you like the tour?"

Amoroso stood back from the window, a smile showing under his hood.
 
"Aye, sir.
 
Outstanding."

"Good."
 
Dillon scanned the passenger compartment.
 
Amba sat quietly on the bench at the back of the shuttle.
 
Lee was in the middle of the compartment, holding the grab rail over his head.
 
"So," said Dillon, "we're here to find those kids.
 
Since that freighter was supposed to go to Ni Sennid, I'm betting they got off it, and stayed on the station.
 
You got your credit chip, Lee?
 
You and Amoroso, go out there and make friends.
 
Spread some money around, or crack heads if that works better.
 
Just find the trail that'll lead us to those kids.
 
Tassali Yenaara and I will do the same."

The speaker on the ceiling crackled to life.
 
"Steerage class, this is Cormorant.
 
Almost there.
 
Contact in ten."

"Right then," said Dillon.
 
"Good luck.
 
Keep in constant radio contact."

The deck under their feet shuddered as the shuttle touched down.
 
At a nod from Dillon, Amoroso unlatched the shuttle's side door and hauled it open.
 
"Jesus," said the young marine, "will you look at this place?"

Elan had never been anywhere so claustrophobic.
 
Under his feet, rusted and damp metal decking creaked as people walked.
 
Over his head was a steel-plate ceiling low enough to touch.
 
Flickering light fixtures hung from their wires, dripping rusty condensation.
 
Makeshift walls, assembled from crates and sheets of plastic and alloy, were built out from the bulkheads; small spaces claimed by anyone with the materials to build themselves a room.

When they'd first arrived below decks, they'd been confronted by rough-looking people.
 
Scarred faces and itchy weapon hands, aiming to get first dibs on newcomers to the station.
 
He'd had to speak with them, a few words with the
Iyurele
voice, enough to convince them to let him and Heather pass — and to borrow some of their clothes to blend in.
 
Within a hundred paces of the hatch, they'd been approached three more times by different predators:
 
scam artists, pimps, slavers.
 
Elan wondered how many young lives had come down from the landing deck and into ruin at the hands of such people.

All the sub-level's traffic was shoved into a narrow alley.
 
Garish lights and hand-lettered signs covered the walls, proclaiming vendors, offices, or profanity for its own sake.
 
Judging by the signs and the yelling hucksters, the main businesses were food, clean water, weapons, and prostitution, all available in more variety than he would have thought possible.

Ahead of them, the deck curved uphill, following the curvature of the station's outer hull until it went out of sight behind the ceiling.

Bumping into someone in the crowded alley, Elan mumbled an apology, but never let go of Heather's hand.
 
His battered leather jacket creaked as he reached his bandage-covered hand to adjust the cloth-draped cap that covered his head.