by Edward M. Erdelac -
Considine opened the door to the interrogation room and stepped in.
“Alright Ms. Pacoy, I understand you’ve got a match.”
She was sitting at the table where he’d left her, a pixviewer in hands. She turned it to him, screen glowing in the dim room.
“That’s him. That’s the one that loaded the cargo on Avenir.”
Considine took the pixviewer and regarded the face and file in front of him.
“Alright, you can go, Ms. Pacoy. Let’s keep a closer eye on our cargo bay, shall we?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jelly stepped aside to let her leave the room.
“Orin Bantry,” Considine read, skimming the details of the man’s personnel file. He was rusty-bearded, balding on top, green eyes.
“Should I call it in, Inspector?” Jelly asked.
“No Jelly,” Considine said. “I think I’ll handle this one personally. You can go back to the garage.”
“Alright,” Jelly said.
Orin Bantry, thirty-four years old. He’d been with Morgenstar Munitions for seventeen years, was a Cover by birth, his father a miner on Sheba, mother a teacher on the space station, one of the glorified tutors who passed a rudimentary education on to the kids of the Sheba miners. They had to know how to read their oxygen regulators, didn’t they? How to seal a pressure suit and operate a drill.
Humble background, yes. He’d made the jump to Avenir as part of Morgenstar’s outreach program, basically a quota filling, much publicized hiring process the company ran every year to keep the Sheban miners from thinking they were a slave class. One lucky soul in a million got a cush job, got to live on Avenir.
Bantry’s job hadn’t been exactly cush, as the program put most Shebans and Covers into the freight depot, packing detonite and hauling crates. He’d apparently been one of the few to display genuine career aptitude. He wasn’t just a leg-upper. Worked his way up from freight to R&D, concocting the zero-G explosive devices his family used to safely blow holes in Sheba without scattering the miners into infinity.
But after eight years of being a hands on worker, he’d been promoted only a few months ago to administrative assistant to Aloysius Morgenstar himself, latest in a long line of corporate heads who could trace their lineage back to the founding of the company.
And now he was smuggling detonite to a whacko ex-grit breather on Zirconia.
But why? And why the confluence of two one-in-a-million individuals? A topsy bug hunter who made the jump to kelp farming and a brilliant chemist who’d been dug out of Sheba….two caste jumpers.
Something in his jaw pained him. That little man, that homunculus he used to joke about. The one that kicked him in the tooth when something wasn’t right.
He made his way back to his office and keyed in Gorsh again.
“Stanlon!” Gorsh in his clean suit, in his nice Peace Council office. “We’ll have the extradition crew ready in about ten minutes, so have Croix ready in about thirty?”
“I’m afraid there’s going to be a delay,” Considine said. “ZMB has quarantined the suspect for the time being. Seems he’s riddled with all sorts of viruses.”
“What! I’ve already put the extradition in motion.”
“I know, but you know how ZMB is. They’re adamant about scanning him.”
“Scanning him?” Gorsh repeated, a little nervously it seemed. “Under no circumstances!”
“Sir?”
“That is, I won’t have the delay. The wheels are already in motion.”
“Well I’m sorry, but we’ve no jurisdiction over the Medical Bureau, as you know. The doctor told me there’s a danger of contamination, and you know how touchy the sea monkeys are down here about germs. Nothing short of a squad of Enforcers is going to get him released early.”
“Damn!” said Gorsh. Something certainly wasn’t going his way.
“May I make a suggestion? How would it be if I maintained a close watch on the whole thing personally, and brought Croix up myself as soon as he’s released?” said Considine.
Gorsh was chewing his lips. What was the matter with him? Why did he want Croix so badly?
“Very well, Stanlon,” said Gorsh, straightening his tunic. “But I want you to keep a very close eye. And I want the results of the scan transmitted to my office as soon as….no, wait. I want you to bring me the results. And impress upon the ZMB the need for candor. We’re building a case, here after all, and anything, any narcotics in his system, for instance, any abnormalities at all, could be admissible as evidence.”
“You want the results kept secret?”
“Dammit, Stanlon….yes.”
“Alright….sir. I’ll advice discretion.”
“Do more than advise it.”
“Gorsh, do you expect some abnormality to show up in the scan?”
“I don’t know of course. Don’t be ridiculous. Look, we’ve had some botched sentences up here lately. Lot of angry relatives, influential people petitioning the Peace Council. I just want this to go very smoothly.”
“I see. Alright.”
“Alright. Stay on top of it, and call me as soon as he’s released, or if there are any complications.”
“I’ll do that.”
Gorsh winked out again.
Well something was surely going on here. He’d felt it prudent not to mention the doctor’s diagnosis that Croix was dying from his ailments.
Croix. What was it about the man that agitated Gorsh? Well, Considine’s purpose in delivering the man personally was two-fold. He could continue this investigation better on Avenir.
Now all Croix had to do was survive long enough to make the trip.
Showing posts with label Arden Pacoy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arden Pacoy. Show all posts
Monday, February 27, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Jurisdiction
by Edward M. Erdelac -
Considine settled in front of the console and keyed in the call to Chief Inspector Gorsh on the Peace Council.
After a moment the screen flickered and the ‘Connecting’ icon appeared.
Considine stared at his reflection in the dark screen. Broad, meaty old face, sharp, squinty blue eyes, graying hair. The bronze badge pinned to the lapel of his drab topcoat.
Then his own visage was replaced by the head and shoulders of another man, scrawny, balding, wearing a dress uniform.
“Stanlon,” Gorsh acknowledged, then went back to sifting through something on his desk just out of frame. “Been waiting for your report. What’s the word on the incident in the habitation ring?”
“We extracted Croix without any casualties aside from his cabin seal. I understand the engineers are already reattaching it to the outer seal. Croix’s in custody, but I can’t get a thing out of him. He’s a lunatic apparently.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m letting the psychs have him once the doctor’s finished sewing him up.”
“No that won’t be necessary. Peace Council wants him in relation to another matter. What about the pilot…what’s her name?”
Considine raised his eyebrows, but continued.
“Arden Pacoy. She’s just a hauler trying to make a little dosh on the side. Had no idea what she was carrying. Didn’t even know her contact’s name on Avenir. But she did say the perp wore a Morgenstar company cap. I’ve got her sifting through personnel pix, looking for a match.”
“So you make it to be an inside job?”
“Like we expected.”
“Alright. Good show as always, Stanlon. Forward me your findings and we’ll take over up here. Oh and, you can prepare Croix for extradition in about two hours. I’ll scramble a shuttle.”
“Certainly.”
Considine watched the image of his old partner wink out. Gorsh had done well for himself. They’d all thought him mad to request duty on Zirconia, but there’d been too much politics on Avenir mucking about. Still were, apparently. Why did they want to extradite a nobody like Croix? His records showed he’d never set foot on Avenir, and he was further removed from the higher ups in the bomb plot than even his clueless courier, Arden Pacoy.
Arden. Time to check on her. He rose from the telecam and exited the booth to see Jelly standing there.
“Doctor wants a word, Inspector,” he said.
Considine settled in front of the console and keyed in the call to Chief Inspector Gorsh on the Peace Council.
After a moment the screen flickered and the ‘Connecting’ icon appeared.
Considine stared at his reflection in the dark screen. Broad, meaty old face, sharp, squinty blue eyes, graying hair. The bronze badge pinned to the lapel of his drab topcoat.
Then his own visage was replaced by the head and shoulders of another man, scrawny, balding, wearing a dress uniform.
“Stanlon,” Gorsh acknowledged, then went back to sifting through something on his desk just out of frame. “Been waiting for your report. What’s the word on the incident in the habitation ring?”
“We extracted Croix without any casualties aside from his cabin seal. I understand the engineers are already reattaching it to the outer seal. Croix’s in custody, but I can’t get a thing out of him. He’s a lunatic apparently.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m letting the psychs have him once the doctor’s finished sewing him up.”
“No that won’t be necessary. Peace Council wants him in relation to another matter. What about the pilot…what’s her name?”
Considine raised his eyebrows, but continued.
“Arden Pacoy. She’s just a hauler trying to make a little dosh on the side. Had no idea what she was carrying. Didn’t even know her contact’s name on Avenir. But she did say the perp wore a Morgenstar company cap. I’ve got her sifting through personnel pix, looking for a match.”
“So you make it to be an inside job?”
“Like we expected.”
“Alright. Good show as always, Stanlon. Forward me your findings and we’ll take over up here. Oh and, you can prepare Croix for extradition in about two hours. I’ll scramble a shuttle.”
“Certainly.”
Considine watched the image of his old partner wink out. Gorsh had done well for himself. They’d all thought him mad to request duty on Zirconia, but there’d been too much politics on Avenir mucking about. Still were, apparently. Why did they want to extradite a nobody like Croix? His records showed he’d never set foot on Avenir, and he was further removed from the higher ups in the bomb plot than even his clueless courier, Arden Pacoy.
Arden. Time to check on her. He rose from the telecam and exited the booth to see Jelly standing there.
“Doctor wants a word, Inspector,” he said.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Pilot
by Edward M. Erdelac -
Arden Pacoy was heavyset and dark-skinned, obviously annoyed to have been pulled out of pre-flight checks to sit and wait in the dim, rusty interrogation room when she should have been earning her daily bread.
As soon as Inspector Considine entered, she said, “What’s this all about? I’m due on the flight deck in fifteen minutes.”
“Put a lid on it, Ms. Pacoy. You didn’t complete your pre-flight. Your company’s already bumped you. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Is your office going to compensate me for time lost? I’ve got a kid to feed…”
“You’ll be lucky if you fly again.”
“Why what’s this about?”
“Tell me how you know Almer Croix.”
She blinked, then shrugged.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well he’s heard of you,” Considine said. “This morning he tried to blow up one of the habitation rings. He demanded safe passage to Avenir and picked your name off the flight duty roster as his preferred pilot.”
“It was probably random!” she exclaimed.
“If it was random he would’ve asked for any old pilot. He demanded to see the duty roster, and asked specifically for you.”
“Well, I don’t know him….he might’ve been a customer.”
“A customer? Aren’t you a company pilot? Your only customer is the people who own your ship.”
She pursed her lips.
“You’re taking side jobs?”
She nodded slowly.
“So you flew cargo for Almer Croix?”
“Not specifically for him. The way it works is, people pay for cargo space on my supply runs.”
“Does the company know you’re renting out space on their freighter?”
“I have a kid to feed, like I said. Besides, the space I leave for independent cargo is negligible. It doesn’t detract much from the company runs.”
“Would they see it that way?”
She bit her lip.
“What was the cargo?”
“I don’t peek. That’s part of the arrangement.”
“Even if it’s high explosive detonite?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I never take suicide cargos. That’s my stipulation.”
Considine studied her face. She had blanched at the mention of the explosives. She was scared. It was obvious.
“Why would he ask for you?”
“I don’t know! I swear! Because he’d dealt with me already, I guess.”
Or maybe because had he gotten on board her ship she could’ve delivered him to somebody sympathetic on Avenir, no need for a transmission that they could’ve intercepted.
“I’m willing to believe you didn’t know what you were hired to deliver. But I want to know who your contact on Avenir was. We know the detonite went missing from a shipment bound for Sheba from Morgenstar Munitions. But we don’t know who lifted the detonite in the first place. It’s likely the same person who delivered it to you on Avenir.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Could you pick out his face?”
“I don’t know. But he had on a Morgenstar cap.”
Considine pushed back the chair and stood. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered her one. This was a break. There was a slim chance the perpetrator on Avenir was just wearing a Morgenstar cap. They weren’t exactly the height of fashion. More likely the man who’d delivered the package to her was the same who stole it. If he was an employee of Morgenstar that would make sense. If he was an employee he’d be on record.
She took the cigarette and put it in her lips quick so he wouldn’t see her hand shake.
“I’m going to hold you here just long enough for you to go through some pics. After that I’ll release you.”
“What about the company?” she asked, leaning in to take his light. “Are you going to report me?”
He lit her and then himself, sucked in the fishy smoke and blew it through his nose. She was just one freighter pilot trying to scrape by on a pittance.
“You’ve got a kid to feed,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, Arden. If you’ve lied, he’ll be an orphan.”
He went outside without another word, letting the hatch clang behind him. The cigarettes didn’t go with the canned air. He dropped it and ground it out with his boot.
“Any luck?” asked Galveston.
He’d asked Jelly Galveston and Brendermyer to stay suited up for the time being, watch the prisoners. The other Enforcers had gone back to their day jobs.
“Yeah, Inspector, can we go home? I’ve got a gig tonight at the Starboard I gotta get ready for.”
Brendermyer worked as a comic there.
“I’ve seen your act, Brendermyer. You’re in no rush. You stay here and guard the door. Jelly, let’s go see if Croix is ready to talk.”
“Come on!” Brendermyer whined as they went off to the hyperbaric chamber where Croix was decompressing.
“How about you, Jelly? Got some place to be?”
“Nossir,” said Galveston. “My brother can hold down the dock while I’m on duty.”
“Good. Put it in a call to Morgenstar Munitions on my authorization and have them send a transtat of their personnel files. Males only. When it comes in, see that Ms. Pacoy has a chance to go through it.”
“Yessir,” said Galveston, going off.
Arden Pacoy was heavyset and dark-skinned, obviously annoyed to have been pulled out of pre-flight checks to sit and wait in the dim, rusty interrogation room when she should have been earning her daily bread.
As soon as Inspector Considine entered, she said, “What’s this all about? I’m due on the flight deck in fifteen minutes.”
“Put a lid on it, Ms. Pacoy. You didn’t complete your pre-flight. Your company’s already bumped you. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Is your office going to compensate me for time lost? I’ve got a kid to feed…”
“You’ll be lucky if you fly again.”
“Why what’s this about?”
“Tell me how you know Almer Croix.”
She blinked, then shrugged.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well he’s heard of you,” Considine said. “This morning he tried to blow up one of the habitation rings. He demanded safe passage to Avenir and picked your name off the flight duty roster as his preferred pilot.”
“It was probably random!” she exclaimed.
“If it was random he would’ve asked for any old pilot. He demanded to see the duty roster, and asked specifically for you.”
“Well, I don’t know him….he might’ve been a customer.”
“A customer? Aren’t you a company pilot? Your only customer is the people who own your ship.”
She pursed her lips.
“You’re taking side jobs?”
She nodded slowly.
“So you flew cargo for Almer Croix?”
“Not specifically for him. The way it works is, people pay for cargo space on my supply runs.”
“Does the company know you’re renting out space on their freighter?”
“I have a kid to feed, like I said. Besides, the space I leave for independent cargo is negligible. It doesn’t detract much from the company runs.”
“Would they see it that way?”
She bit her lip.
“What was the cargo?”
“I don’t peek. That’s part of the arrangement.”
“Even if it’s high explosive detonite?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I never take suicide cargos. That’s my stipulation.”
Considine studied her face. She had blanched at the mention of the explosives. She was scared. It was obvious.
“Why would he ask for you?”
“I don’t know! I swear! Because he’d dealt with me already, I guess.”
Or maybe because had he gotten on board her ship she could’ve delivered him to somebody sympathetic on Avenir, no need for a transmission that they could’ve intercepted.
“I’m willing to believe you didn’t know what you were hired to deliver. But I want to know who your contact on Avenir was. We know the detonite went missing from a shipment bound for Sheba from Morgenstar Munitions. But we don’t know who lifted the detonite in the first place. It’s likely the same person who delivered it to you on Avenir.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Could you pick out his face?”
“I don’t know. But he had on a Morgenstar cap.”
Considine pushed back the chair and stood. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered her one. This was a break. There was a slim chance the perpetrator on Avenir was just wearing a Morgenstar cap. They weren’t exactly the height of fashion. More likely the man who’d delivered the package to her was the same who stole it. If he was an employee of Morgenstar that would make sense. If he was an employee he’d be on record.
She took the cigarette and put it in her lips quick so he wouldn’t see her hand shake.
“I’m going to hold you here just long enough for you to go through some pics. After that I’ll release you.”
“What about the company?” she asked, leaning in to take his light. “Are you going to report me?”
He lit her and then himself, sucked in the fishy smoke and blew it through his nose. She was just one freighter pilot trying to scrape by on a pittance.
“You’ve got a kid to feed,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, Arden. If you’ve lied, he’ll be an orphan.”
He went outside without another word, letting the hatch clang behind him. The cigarettes didn’t go with the canned air. He dropped it and ground it out with his boot.
“Any luck?” asked Galveston.
He’d asked Jelly Galveston and Brendermyer to stay suited up for the time being, watch the prisoners. The other Enforcers had gone back to their day jobs.
“Yeah, Inspector, can we go home? I’ve got a gig tonight at the Starboard I gotta get ready for.”
Brendermyer worked as a comic there.
“I’ve seen your act, Brendermyer. You’re in no rush. You stay here and guard the door. Jelly, let’s go see if Croix is ready to talk.”
“Come on!” Brendermyer whined as they went off to the hyperbaric chamber where Croix was decompressing.
“How about you, Jelly? Got some place to be?”
“Nossir,” said Galveston. “My brother can hold down the dock while I’m on duty.”
“Good. Put it in a call to Morgenstar Munitions on my authorization and have them send a transtat of their personnel files. Males only. When it comes in, see that Ms. Pacoy has a chance to go through it.”
“Yessir,” said Galveston, going off.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Extraction
by Ed Erdelac -
Inspector Considine called the team in at 0300.
Considine had traced the illegal sale of some mining explosives to an ex-grit-breather named Croix, but somebody had tipped him off and he was barricaded in his cabin with the stuff, threatening to blow the entire southeast habitation ring into the Boatic Trench if he wasn’t given safe passage to Avenir.
There was a negotiator cooing at him like a babe through his door com, but Croix sure as hell wasn’t going to Avenir.
At 0305 as he laid out his demands, the Enforcers had suited up on the north end of Zirconia. Haj began passing out standard-issue GTL’s and pneumatic pistols, but Wilfort pointed out Croix’s cabin pod on the outer edge of the habitation ring and laid out the standard extraction plan. No need for hardware, but Haj was trigger happy and brought his pneumatic along anyway.
At 0310 Croix and the negotiator were arguing over the details of the shuttle that would take him up to Avenir. He wanted to pick the pilot himself from the duty roster. At the same time, the team was already wet, gripping the handlebars of a six-man sea-sled and puttering the long way around the city. Haj spotted an angel, a bioluminescent ghost stroking its way across the blue-black. He tried to take a shot at it, but Galveston, the pilot, warned him not to, and backed the warning with a meaningful tap on the diving knife on his belt. He was the only believer on the team—Jelly, they called him—short for Jelly Roller, the name some called the ones who attributed divinity to the angels.
At 3:17 Croix had the duty roster and was combing it for a name he knew. The team had ditched the sea-sled and cut their external suit lights, freefalling to the habitation ring, being careful not to bang their equipment against the hull. They hand over fisted their way to Croix’s outer shell connection joints and broke out their ratchets.
At 3:19 Croix selected Arden Pacoy as his getaway pilot. Considine made a mental note to nab Pacoy for questioning and checked his watch while the negotiator assured Croix his shuttle had been scrambled on floating launchpad B and was just about fueled and ready.
3:20 Croix was pacing his cabin, getting impatient. The team could see him through the portholes, a wiry, unshaven man with the terminally dirty, red-eyed look of a grit-breather. He hadn’t lived in Zirconia long enough to shake the look yet, long enough to know about the emergency surfacing apparatus installed in every habitation pod. The automatic release controls were on the wall beside Croix’s bunk, hid by a gaudy antique hula girl lamp. In the event of some catastrophe, the controls blew the explosive bolts that held the inner titanium pod in place, and the air-filled sphere would shoot to the surface like an inflatable toy. Of course, the ride wasn’t a smooth one by any means. It was fast and dangerous and survival wasn’t even guaranteed. Even if you lived through the ascent, you still had to get to a hyperbaric chamber or your blood would bubble up in your veins. The team was doing it the old fashioned way, from the outside. They’d bypassed the safety casings and were halfway through loosening the shell bolts. Brendermeyer was moonlighting as a comic in the Starboard Bar. He started to tell a joke about how many grit-breathers it took to empty a CO2 scrubber, but the punchline was lost at 3:22.
3:22. Croix asked the negotiator if Pacoy was ready to go yet, but received no answer. Considine and the negotiator had retreated beyond the emergency airlock in the outer hall and sealed it. The team popped the last of the bolts and Croix’s buoyant cabin was released from the outer hull container. The lights in Croix’s cabin turned red and the air inside lifted it away from the rest of the ring.
“Thar she blows,” said Brendermeyer over the team’s inter-suit com as the silvery sphere of the inner cabin rocketed away from the rusty outer hull and went tumbling end over end surface-ward.
Croix was tossed and shaken like a shoe in a clothes dryer. He’d be too battered and bloody to remember his own name, much less trigger the twelve pounds of HE detonite the Peacekeepers found in the shambles of his cabin when it bobbed to the surface approximately five seconds after the team had launched it.
Considine flicked the purple stub of a cigarette off the bobbing submersible and watched the cyanotine ash mingle with its distant relatives already drifting in the hot air. The medics carried Croix below. In about two hours he’d have words with the skinny grit-breather, when he’d been released from the decompression chamber.
For now there was Arden Pacoy to talk to.
Inspector Considine called the team in at 0300.
Considine had traced the illegal sale of some mining explosives to an ex-grit-breather named Croix, but somebody had tipped him off and he was barricaded in his cabin with the stuff, threatening to blow the entire southeast habitation ring into the Boatic Trench if he wasn’t given safe passage to Avenir.
There was a negotiator cooing at him like a babe through his door com, but Croix sure as hell wasn’t going to Avenir.
At 0305 as he laid out his demands, the Enforcers had suited up on the north end of Zirconia. Haj began passing out standard-issue GTL’s and pneumatic pistols, but Wilfort pointed out Croix’s cabin pod on the outer edge of the habitation ring and laid out the standard extraction plan. No need for hardware, but Haj was trigger happy and brought his pneumatic along anyway.
At 0310 Croix and the negotiator were arguing over the details of the shuttle that would take him up to Avenir. He wanted to pick the pilot himself from the duty roster. At the same time, the team was already wet, gripping the handlebars of a six-man sea-sled and puttering the long way around the city. Haj spotted an angel, a bioluminescent ghost stroking its way across the blue-black. He tried to take a shot at it, but Galveston, the pilot, warned him not to, and backed the warning with a meaningful tap on the diving knife on his belt. He was the only believer on the team—Jelly, they called him—short for Jelly Roller, the name some called the ones who attributed divinity to the angels.
At 3:17 Croix had the duty roster and was combing it for a name he knew. The team had ditched the sea-sled and cut their external suit lights, freefalling to the habitation ring, being careful not to bang their equipment against the hull. They hand over fisted their way to Croix’s outer shell connection joints and broke out their ratchets.
At 3:19 Croix selected Arden Pacoy as his getaway pilot. Considine made a mental note to nab Pacoy for questioning and checked his watch while the negotiator assured Croix his shuttle had been scrambled on floating launchpad B and was just about fueled and ready.
3:20 Croix was pacing his cabin, getting impatient. The team could see him through the portholes, a wiry, unshaven man with the terminally dirty, red-eyed look of a grit-breather. He hadn’t lived in Zirconia long enough to shake the look yet, long enough to know about the emergency surfacing apparatus installed in every habitation pod. The automatic release controls were on the wall beside Croix’s bunk, hid by a gaudy antique hula girl lamp. In the event of some catastrophe, the controls blew the explosive bolts that held the inner titanium pod in place, and the air-filled sphere would shoot to the surface like an inflatable toy. Of course, the ride wasn’t a smooth one by any means. It was fast and dangerous and survival wasn’t even guaranteed. Even if you lived through the ascent, you still had to get to a hyperbaric chamber or your blood would bubble up in your veins. The team was doing it the old fashioned way, from the outside. They’d bypassed the safety casings and were halfway through loosening the shell bolts. Brendermeyer was moonlighting as a comic in the Starboard Bar. He started to tell a joke about how many grit-breathers it took to empty a CO2 scrubber, but the punchline was lost at 3:22.
3:22. Croix asked the negotiator if Pacoy was ready to go yet, but received no answer. Considine and the negotiator had retreated beyond the emergency airlock in the outer hall and sealed it. The team popped the last of the bolts and Croix’s buoyant cabin was released from the outer hull container. The lights in Croix’s cabin turned red and the air inside lifted it away from the rest of the ring.
“Thar she blows,” said Brendermeyer over the team’s inter-suit com as the silvery sphere of the inner cabin rocketed away from the rusty outer hull and went tumbling end over end surface-ward.
Croix was tossed and shaken like a shoe in a clothes dryer. He’d be too battered and bloody to remember his own name, much less trigger the twelve pounds of HE detonite the Peacekeepers found in the shambles of his cabin when it bobbed to the surface approximately five seconds after the team had launched it.
Considine flicked the purple stub of a cigarette off the bobbing submersible and watched the cyanotine ash mingle with its distant relatives already drifting in the hot air. The medics carried Croix below. In about two hours he’d have words with the skinny grit-breather, when he’d been released from the decompression chamber.
For now there was Arden Pacoy to talk to.
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