Xeno Core

Yosip advised me not to allow any communication from Glian's garage to the rest of the station. He does allow the entertainment feed going in to continue, as it's broadcast from Centra and relayed to the residents by cable.

I watch through helmet cams stacked outside the machine shop. It doubles as their home, with an upstairs apartment. Glian becomes increasingly agitated as the time for pick up approaches, pacing and waving his arms.

Knowing that he'll be in worse trouble if security returns and find their suits unfinished, Glian has been working diligently and has only recently completed the upgrades. Even his small assistant is exhausted when they've finally finished Dunc's order, upstairs somewhere resting.

Eight gleaming suits of hardened vacuum armor stand in neat piles outside the garage, guarded by one tired mechanic. Pedestrian traffic flows around the obstruction, stealing glances at the shining hardware.

Snipers posted in three separate locations report the same thing that cameras are telling me. Glian and his daughter have been in the garage the entire allotted time, with no visitors. Yosip's orders are to proceed as if there could be hostiles, despite all signs showing otherwise.

Spen and Donan knock on the front door of the garage, while the other members of security again patronize the seller of hot greasy protein. All are armed with hand stunners, which my files identify as SAm27s. Scaled down versions of the SAm15 Gelly had used only days before. Lacking the range and intimidation factor of their bigger brother, the twenty-sevens excel at close range urban skirmishing.

Answering nervously, Glian is almost hiding behind the door as he talks to Spen. Or rather, as Spen intimates threatening innuendo. Before the others are even finished with their fried treat, Spen and Donan have donned their protective suits.

Acting as a guard Spen stays by the garage, chatting idly with Glian, to casual observation, but my sensitive audio pick-ups tell a different story. Dunc leads two more of the security team to retrieve their armor, then once they've dressed the remainder claim their own.

When the entire squad is fully outfitted once more Dunc orders them to pair up and begin patrols. Choosing Skint as his partner, he sends Spen off with the red furred female, Nelta.

Skint is especially pleased with the final product. Where the rank insignia is normally represented, a black and gold skull takes pride of place. Dunc's skull is situated above crossed combat knives, to indicate leadership.

"You did good, Glian," says the young security chief smugly, laying his arm across the shopkeeper's shoulders. "I was worried you'd try to cheat us. Keep playing fair with us, and you can expect to get lots of business. You might get tired of seeing us," he jokes, looking down at the orange furred head.

Letting out a nervous yip, the frightened mechanic quivers, unable to speak after such a stressful day. His furred jaw works silently to the amusement of the armored bully.

The tall gray skinned officer steps back and stretches, testing the joints of his armored suit while Skint watches from where the large Tserri leans against the chiseled rock wall. A gesture from Dunc has the four-armed underling searching through the pouches of his uniform and armor, eventually producing a thin parcel of papers, held together by metal brads.

These are handed to the mechanic, who looks up, shock evident on his furred face after quickly flipping through them.

"They just need your genetic signature to make everything legit," Dunc says with some amusement. Continuing to bend and stretch, his smile is hidden by his helmet's dark visor, but the internal camera feed makes it clear to me. "My team can't be caught going to some unlicensed street dealer using stolen Imperium equipment."

He straitens and lets out a long, contented sigh. "Let's go, Skint. Our friend needs some time to get used to his new situation, think about who his friends are."

The two guards walk away, headed back to the docking arm to oversee the installation of the new freight lift. Glian is left standing in the avenue, the glare of neon lights reflecting off the papers he stares at intently.

Walking timidly out of the shop, his daughter grabs his greasy work overalls, giving them a light tug. "Did they pay you lots, Da?"

He shakes his orange head and looks down at her, smiling as he puts one claw on her head and uses two others to sweep her up. "Not this time, squirt, but this might be better." Slapping the door control panel with his free claw to shut it, he carries her down to the street vendor. Her giggling visibly lifts his spirits, and he almost dances along the walkway.

Yosip turns off the camera feed and the view of the avenue vanishes, replaced with lists of necessary repairs. He spends much of his time arranging for parts to be produced and delivered, but there are more demands than can feasibly be met.

A simple query to the directories gives me access to Glian's accounts. I'm about to transfer a few credits into it from operational funds, but I stop when I notice Yosip sending money from his own savings over to the mechanic. Well. I'll just leave that to his discretion, then.

With renewed hope I pull up the architectural blueprints for Kalibern. The station was never meant to hold so many people this soon in its lifespan. Intended as a military outpost, lightly crewed and supported by the planet below, Kalibern Station in its current form is a crowded warren, filled past capacity and struggling to remain online.

The original orderly arrangement of tunnels and chambers, hewn from the stone of the massive asteroid, has given way to chaotic growth. No longer guided by a single vision, tunnels veer around chambers constructed by crews following different plans, intersecting each other at unexpected angles. Debris piled on the surface is fused into place, forming new cavities sealed off from the outer void of space.

"What do you suggest we do about Glian's contact?" The quiet words startle me, Yosip normally is quite decisive.

"Espionage was never my strength," I reply. "I'd like to get my tendrils around their necks and end the problem."

Yosip nods, his scarred face thoughtful. "That was my first reaction. Letting this fester doesn't sit right with me." He stands and limps over to the cooler built into one of the walls. He chooses a bottle of water and drinks noisily.

"But if we go in guns blasting, this will get messy. The info you gave me implicates a well-respected member of our fine community. Jetanda, an older female. Quite a few of the furballs are related to her." He throws the empty plastic bottle into the recycling chute. Water drips from his chrome chin, ignored by the Supply-Master as he walks painfully back to his seat.

"Besides that," he continues, "implications are not evidence. We know that the signal Glian sent out was intended for Jetanda's residence. We can't prove that it wasn't meant for someone sharing the space. The message also doesn't mention any names, just a request for help."

"If we can't get rid of her," I ask, "then what about limiting her influence? Why is she so popular? More importantly, how did she manage to sneak equipment that large into the station, and what else does she still have stashed away?"

She lives in one of the newly dug warren complexes. There are many connections between main power and recycling systems, but our plans are inaccurate, to say the least. Her warren, Laceweaver Row, could have any number living inside. The only things we know for sure are how much power and water they use, and how much is going in the recycling system.

He nods along as I list off questions. "We'll have to keep a watch on her place. Keep track of who comes and goes. You got enough cameras pointed that way or do I need to authorize a work crew?" That last is said almost with a grin.

There aren't nearly enough cameras. The Tserri hate them, tearing down any they can access. Or maybe they just want the parts, using them for a variety of domestic purposes.

"If you think he can be trusted, Glian should be able to put together something we could get a lot of use from. Or one of your own mechanics if you'd rather keep this in house."

"Mmm. There isn't one on payroll, not yet. All the people I brought are administrators or pilots. I was told to hire local, so we're stuck with Glian. What did you have in mind?"

Instead of answering I put a file up on the main display.