EVE®: Templar One (28 page)

25

PLACID REGION—VIRIETTE CONSTELLATION

VEY SYSTEM—PLANET III: MER NOIRE

ASTRAL MINING TERRAFORMING COLONY: CAMP STOCKTON

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE GALLENTE FEDERATION

Sixty-eight Years Ago

Two years had passed since a mysterious man named Savant left the shop where Jacus was running a failing business.

In that time, Roden Shipyards underwent a drastic transformation.
From its humble beginnings as a start-up shuttle-servicing depot, the firm was now the largest air- and dropship service provider at Mer Noire, and was building two brand-new facilities on separate colonies in Placid.
The pace of success was nearly overwhelming; every time Jacus added capacity or expanded operations, new business immediately filled it in.

Savant had been true to his word: The customers he promised began appearing the day after he disappeared.
The pilots themselves were pleasant enough—mostly Intaki, with a few shady Minmatar regulars.
Other than small talk, Jacus rarely engaged them, and they didn’t offer much information about themselves.
Conversations were about the service and little else, unless there were special instructions from “premium clients” to “keep this one out of view” or to “get this job turned around in an hour.”

Whenever Jacus needed to hire people—mechanics, technicians, accountants, whomever—the right people always seemed to find him.
When he needed space to expand, the right real estate somehow became available.
Tenants that had been entrenched in coveted locations for years would suddenly leave if he expressed an interest.
When he needed government permits to build on planets or in space, they were fast-tracked through the bureaucracy and approved almost overnight.

If Jacus Roden needed anything at all, it just happened for him, effortlessly.

And he hated it.
So much so that he was disgusted with himself and the “enterprise” that bore his name.

Yes, he had become a wealthy man.
And yes, he could take pride in knowing that he was operating his business as efficiently as possible, making the most of his “good fortune.”
But in truth there was a powerful organization behind his every accomplishment.
His entrepreneurial dream was subsidized by a drug cartel.
In his mind, Jacus felt he had really accomplished nothing, and that was something to be ashamed of.
Roden Shipyards was an unacceptable venture, antithetical to the hardworking values his family had instilled and to the Federation of which he was proud to call himself a citizen.

The breaking point happened with one of his “premium service” customers.

Ivan was a fellow of Mannar descent who operated a tow shuttle, a deceptively powerful dropship with a huge thrust-to-weight ratio that could ferry lighter craft beneath it.
Ivan showed up perhaps once every couple of months and would only announce his visit moments before arriving at the yard, always late at night, with his suspended cargo covered in a massive tarp, ready to be lowered into the receiving latches of the repair bay.

Many vehicles bore clues about where they had been operating.
The type of soot that accumulated on intakes could be traced back to a particular continent, for example, and perhaps specks of dirt or clay could place one near a known settlement or colony on Mer Noire.

Ivan’s deliveries always had special damage, usually the kind that indicated they had been shot at.
This, along with all the evidence that placed the crafts in specific geographical regions, made him a “premium client,” which demanded Jacus’s services in the highest priority.
Ivan’s business always jumped to the front of the queue, because he always had the biggest problems to hide.

What made this evening special was that it marked the first time Ivan ever bothered to apologize for the inconvenience.

“Sorry for the late notice,” he said.
“Just replace what you can’t clean.
And make sure all the scrap goes away.
Don’t reuse it.
Make it vanish.”

Jacus didn’t know what Ivan was talking about until he got near the cabin, long after the retractable roof was closed and the smell started reaching him.
He took one look inside and had to turn away.

He ordered his staff not to come near it, even though they probably wouldn’t be surprised.

Three dead Federation police officers were sprawled facedown in the cabin.
Their hands were bound behind them; patterns of dried blood were sprayed on the walls and floor.
Jacus was no forensics expert, but these men looked like they had been tortured and then executed.
The corpses were bloated, leaking fluid, and starting to turn black.
Whoever they were, they’d been dead for a while.

And now they were in his goddamn shop.

In the past year, Roden Shipyards had bought the warehouses adjacent to the original establishment.
One had been converted into a plasma-jet repair bay, where engines could be removed, serviced, and, most importantly, tested.
Secured into place, an engine could be safely opened to full throttle inside.
To verify thrust output against engine specifications, the exhaust was vectored against a steel-reinforced ceramic blast plate that was two meters thick.

It just so happened that an engine from Ivan’s previous delivery was still bolted in place.

Jacus sent his workers home for the night.
He’d take this one himself.

*   *   *

THE PASSENGER AND CARGO CABINS
of modern airships tended to be modular, built with reinforced cage frames designed to withstand some emergencies and protect the contents.
Most could be swapped out to accommodate additional cargo capacity, say, to transport goods that needed to be kept refrigerated or even submerged.
This Allotek “Regatta” shuttle was no different.
By morning, its entire cabin was propped against the blast plate, evidence facing toward the business end of a CreoDron “Solar Flare” Series Model Y-112A plasma engine nozzle.

The stench of decomposing flesh was overwhelming; Jacus gagged several times before he finished setting everything up.
Fortunately, the warehouse was equipped with a retractable roof as well, and once it was opened, the pressure differential would suck the evidence out into the thin Mer Noire air.

Donning a mask, Jacus punched in the sequence.
As the gears ground away to pull the metal dome apart, the door chime rang.
But it was far too early for his staff to return.

Checking the security feed, he saw two men in breathing masks standing outside the main entrance next door.
One turned toward the camera and showed a Federation Police badge.

Jacus slammed his hand down on the knob that fired the engine.
A few hundred thousand kilos of white-hot thrust slammed into the blast plate, igniting the shuttle cabin briefly.
The corpses vaporized; even the bones turned to ash.
He opened the throttle even more; the cabin frame began to melt.

Nothing organic could withstand that heat.
The cabin itself was now an unrecognizable puddle of slag.
He’d need to leave the roof open to let the mess—not to mention his own nerves—cool off a bit.

*   *   *

“MY NAME IS DETECTIVE LACROIX,
Federation Customs,” the older man said.
“Are you the proprietor here?”

“I am,” Jacus acknowledged.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“No thanks,” the younger one said.
“I’m Lieutenant Bergen.
Would you mind if we had a look around?”

“Not at all,” Jacus answered.
“May I ask what brings you here?”

“Well, a few things, actually,” Detective LaCroix said, tucking his breathing mask away.
“We’ve been having some run-ins with Serpentis lately, and word is they love doing business with Roden Shipyards.”

“Serpentis?”
Roden said.
“Nonsense.
I’d know if they were coming here.”

“I’m sure you would,” Lieutenant Bergen said, pulling out a datapad.
“So, are they?”

“No…” Jacus answered, trying to force his heart to calm down.
“I mean, no client of mine has expressly identified themselves as such, if that’s what you mean.”

“Right,” Detective LaCroix said.
“The second reason we’re here is because we’re looking for a vehicle of interest involved in a shoot-out west of here several days ago at Camp Branover.
Was there a Regatta-class shuttle airlifted here last evening, Mr.
Roden?”

Shit.

“There was, actually, yes.”

“Good answer,” Lieutenant Bergen said.
“Now, before we ask to go see it, is there anything you want to tell us about it?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say,” Jacus said, half honestly.
“This is all a surprise.”

“Business sure picked up for you the last couple of years,” Bergen said, looking around.
“Six drop shops have closed since you opened your doors.
How does that make you feel?”

“Terrible, to be honest,” Jacus said.
“It’s unfortunate, but that’s the price of free enterprise.”

“Ah, but it isn’t ‘free’ if the enterprise doesn’t play by the rules,” Bergen said.
“We think someone’s got a big leash on you.
You want to tell us who that is?
We might be able to help.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jacus said, allowing some agitation to show.
“I have many customers, some regulars, but I don’t ask where they’re from.
It’s none of my business.”

“You know, you look tired,” Detective LaCroix commented.
“Have you been working all night?”

“I was, actually.”

“On what?”

“Some engine repairs for a client.”

“We saw the roof open up next door,” Lieutenant Bergen said.
“I didn’t see any craft coming or going, so I just assumed you were looking to air the place out.”

“Plasma engines produce a lot of exhaust,” Jacus answered.
“Keeping the roof open is just part of the job.”

“Fair enough,” Lieutenant Bergen said.
“Let’s see the Regatta that arrived last night.”

“Or better yet,” Detective LaCroix said, leaning in close.
“You can start talking to us about Serpentis.”

Jacus alternated glances at both officers.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave,” he said.
“I’m not answering any more questions without legal representation.”

Detective LaCroix smiled.

“Legal?”
he said.
“Who said anything about this being legal?”

Before Jacus knew what hit him, the detective lunged forward, grabbed him by the neck, yanked him out of his seat, and slammed him onto the floor.

“You think you’re entitled to legal rights out here, you cop-killing fuck?”
he snarled.

“Whoa, boss,” Lieutenant Bergen said.
“Wait-wait-wait—
don’t
—”

Jacus felt the first kick take the wind from his lungs, then heard a loud snap as his ribs exploded in pain.

“Oh, great,” Lieutenant Bergen protested.
“You trying to get us thrown in jail?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Detective LaCroix growled, reaching down and grabbing Jacus by the collar.
“Let’s go see what’cha got in the shop, you little shit.”

Jacus was too winded to resist; he was certain his lung was punctured.

He was dragged and then thrown into the hangar bay.

Detective LaCroix began sniffing the air like a slaver hound.

“Whew, you smell that?”
he taunted.
“It stinks like rotten meat in here!
Is that someone’s lunch, Roden?”

Jacus coughed up a glob of blood.

“Detective,
fuck,
” Bergen said, shaking his head.
“Knock it off!”

“
Look,
” LaCroix sneered, pointing at the shuttle hanging overhead.
“A Regatta with a missing cabin.
See those tail markings, Bergen?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Me neither,” he said.
“Why?
Because they’ve been painted over, that’s why.”

Another brutal kick slammed into Jacus’s midsection, forcing blood through his sinuses.

He was yanked up by his hair.

“Give me names, you son of a bitch,” LaCroix snarled.
“I want to know the name of the pilot who brought this here; I want to know who’s funding you; I want the IDs of all your employees, and I want it all.
Right.
Fucking.
Now.
”