Chapter 109: Chapter 21: A Long Night

We were literally arm deep into a refresher drain when the comm came in from the captain. He wanted us to bring the ship’s packaged refuse out to the approaching station personnel. It was an odd request, given that waste disposal was generally handled by bots and not organics.

I wasn’t going to object. The bot had limited olfactory sensors, but no digestive system or other biological idiosyncrasies to create revulsion. Still, I knew from observation that our current task was classified as “disgusting” and “undesirable” by the vast majority of class one sentients. Even though it caused me no discomfort, I found it beneath my superior capabilities and intelligence. Thus, I was glad for the excuse to offload the task to organics.

Of course, Idiot immediately tried to ruin it. 

“Captain, we are in the middle of a cleaning process,” Idiot replied. “I must perform a decontamination procedure.”

“No time. Clean your arm with a disinfectant wipe and get to the bottom of that ramp, right now,” the captain said.

“Acknowledged, Captain. Logging authorized override.”

The last part came off as passive-aggressive to me, like we were saying, “Fine, I’ll do it, but I’m recording that it’s your idea in case we get into trouble.” Maybe Idiot had some spunk in it after all. I still wanted to delete it.

I watched as Idiot cleaned our arm with a wipe, placed the used wipe in the refuse container, removed the bag, and walked to the main access ramp by the cargo bay.

We entered the cargo bay. As we descended the ramp, waste bag in hand, the ship’s medtech turned on the pathway in front of us and headed off to another pad. I wasn’t sure why he passed the ship instead of entering it. His normal vital signs and smooth gait suggested he was sober and possessed his full faculties. I theorized he was possibly under the influence of a chemical substance and forgot which ship was his. It is surprising how often that condition occurs among organics.

Two dockworkers followed behind the medtech. They were the only sentients in the bay, so the pair had to be the sentients Dash referred to.

My SCAM flashed a warning about them. Their eyes focused on the medtech, who was irrelevant to dock operations. They were silent, instead of engaging in typical activities such as complaining about their supervisor, partner, or pay. Hints in their body language—muscle contractions, facial expressions, and physiological readings—suggested aggressive intent. SCAM suggested robbery, kidnapping, murder, and other stimulating possibilities. On top of all that, the captain and the pilot were also observing the pair through one of the ship’s cams.

Then I noticed one of the dockworkers held something in his hand. A quick weapons cross-reference query showed it to be a stunner for sentient incapacitation. Clearly meant for the medtech.

I wondered if they knew they were being so obvious.

We stopped at the bottom of the ramp and waited. I pinged every read-only module I could find. This was my first high-level threat situation in this chassis. Not ideal, given the frame’s complete lack of combat capability. My combat module uselessly informed me that in my previous chassis an incinerator burst would be the primary engagement method, with the forearm blades being a suitable alternative. 

When the sentients closed within three meters, we extended the waste bag toward them. The pair finally registered us. Their eyes swept over the bot’s form, looking for a threat. There wasn’t one, since I wasn’t in charge.

“Greetings. I’ve been instructed to deliver our refuse to you as requested,” Idiot announced.

The pair looked at each other, then back to us. Their faces went from confused to annoyed expressions.

“We’re not here to collect your waste, you stupid bot,” the muscular one said. They ignored us and returned their focus to the medtech. He maintained a relaxed gait as he walked farther away.

“He’s going to a different ship. Not one of the guys we’re looking for,” the slender one whispered to his partner. “Let’s go back to control.”

“Pardon me, but I was instructed to deliver our refuse—”

“Shut up, bot. Why don’t you walk yourself over to the waste compactor and throw yourself out while you’re at it, you junker,” the muscular one said. They stomped away and didn’t look back.

“They’re not very nice, are they?” Idiot said to me internally.

I pulled back from the sensors. I didn’t want to give Idiot suspicions of any nefarious activity. “Organics are complicated,” I offered, hoping it would drop the subject.

“Let’s dispose of this waste ourselves in order to fulfill the captain’s orders. Then we can return to our task.”

We walked to the nearest waste disposal chute, deposited the bag, and returned to the ship. While nothing happened with the nefarious dockworkers, the data set was the most live stimulation I’d had since being spiked into this bot. I scrounged up some spare memory to run through scenarios. If the dockworkers were threats to the crew, I had to prepare for it. I was unsure what I could actually do being a subservient AI in a non-combat chassis. But I was designed to adapt and grow.

I knew I would find a way out of this. Until then, I just had to survive the greatest challenge I’d ever faced. 

Boredom.

---

The two dockworkers ducked back into the bay’s control station, shaking their heads.

Dash slumped into the booth’s cushion, looked at the backpack on the seat next to him, then gulped down the rest of his drink. He messaged Wesley that he was in the clear, and to circle around the bay and meet Gaius outside the gate. 

“This is bad,” Gaius said as Dash closed his comm with the medtech. “Now we can’t even get to our ship and bug out. Even if we managed to shoot our way past those dockworkers, whoever they are, we won’t escape SecForce. They’ll lock the bay down for an investigation, and unless they’re completely inept, suspect we were involved in the you-know-what.”

“I know,” Dash said. “While you wait for Doc, I’m going to find us some cheap lodging to hole up in so we can think this through,” Dash said.

The bot server delivered Gaius’s drink. The pilot picked it up and slammed it down in one gulp. He coughed and wiped his watering eyes. His gaze refocused onto Dash. “Can this night get any worse?”

An alert sounded over the general announcement comm system. Dash felt his body tense. He had to force his lungs to suck in air as the tone ceased and a voice spoke.

“Attention—due to a security incident, all ships in Praxa Prime dockyards are grounded until further notice. Repeat, all ships are grounded. Port Authority and SecForce personnel will be conducting searches in support of an investigation. All civilians, please return to your residences and ships at your convenience. Thank you for you cooperation.”

Gaius’s face twisted into a deep grimace.

Dash glared at his pilot. “Does that answer your question?”

---

Seven minutes earlier

Despite the late hour, Praxa Prime Port Authority Headquarters was alive with activity.

Life was never dull for the agency overseeing the traffic control and customs operations for the entire habitat. But the recent visitation restriction enacted by the Administration added an additional strain to an already complex operation. Though the volume of ships docking with the habitat had decreased overall, the scrutiny of each action had gone the opposite direction. Manifests were fully reviewed, passenger records crosschecked with refugee and criminal databases, and forms were rejected for a single misplaced punctuation. Approved ships came and went as the availability of the berths ebbed and flowed like tides. A handful of passenger ships rolled in with refugees who could afford the residency application—and pass the screenings—in addition to temporary visitors attending the anti-Commonwealth protest. A fair number of private yachts cruised through to their own private docks; Lords forbid anything prevent the ultrawealthy from joyriding around the system. Even the occasional military flotilla waving the Commonwealth flag passed through for a bit of leave. Rumors abounded these visits served as cover for the more nefarious purpose of spying on member states, the Commonwealth ever fearful of Reconciliation crumbling in front of their eyes. 

All of this meant the request from the SecForce Special Operations Commander to close down the entire port of Praxa Prime was not taken favorably.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Port Authority Commander Severion said to the head floating over her office desk. Her glass-encased office overlooked the main operations center. Below her, officers sat at workstations, overseeing traffic control and interfacing with the other precincts around the habitat. Awards and citations lined the wall behind her, while a pair of glass cases on either side displayed a collection of bizarre items collected in customs screenings. The homemade flamethrower disguised as a broken-down water purification device was her personal favorite. She never found out what the indignant owner’s plan for it was before he was stuffed back aboard the shuttle and kicked off the habitat.

From the floor below, anyone looking up at her office would see cloudy windows and a smear of gray that was her standing in her office. But the view from the inside was crystal clear—Severion saw all. It was why she was so good at her job. And why she was infuriated at the absurd request.

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The floating head of SecForce Commander DeCalo didn’t flinch. “I assure you, I’m not,” he answered.

“You’re telling me that we need to lock down the entire habitat for some classified operation that you cannot tell me anything about, nor bother to coordinate with Port Authority? Not even why there was an explosion at the cargo processing warehouse?”

“Normally, SSO would coordinate with Port Authority. But we have time-sensitive intelligence which required immediate action.”

Severion pinched the bridge of her nose and swallowed her anger as best she could. The Praxa Prime SecForce Division was under her command, but the SecForce Spec Ops Division was not. They reported directly to Atan SecForce Command. SSO was, however, supposed to coordinate on all their operations. Generally that was the case, but every now and then, she ran into these hyper-aggressive alphas who liked to play rogue commando on the habitat. She said, “You’re aware of what you’re asking me, right?”

DeCalo nodded with a casual expectation like his ask was a simple matter of her pressing a button. 

She dropped her hand so she could glare at him. “I’m going to spell it out to be sure. This habitat is a mix of middle-class professionals, yuppies, haulers, a dash of ultrawealthy, and now a temporary crowd of protesters. The primary work shifts have ended, and we’re entering prime time for the night life. The anti-Commonwealth protest is about to start. You enact a lockdown-in-place order, you’re going to have several gigantic problems. First, the haulers and protesters aren’t going to care. You’re talking about a bunch of drunks and people here to protest against authority. The yuppies will flood us with complaints, while the wealthy will threaten lawsuits. You try to enact it by force, and the brigs will be overflowing in no time. We’ve already got a logjam of ships waiting to dock. Further delays will result in every ship screaming at us over comms and raising all sorts of hell with the Administration. All of this, solely so you can wrap up whatever this little operation of yours is and give us the go-ahead to resume normal commercial operations.”

“It’s part of your job,” DeCalo said with an accusatory tone. Severion’s head tilted toward the display like she was going to breathe fire at the commander. He blinked slowly, and said in a conciliatory voice, “I can lend a support squad or two for additional patrol capacity—”

“Twelve B-team muscleheads won’t do anything, and you know it. If you really want to do this, we’re doing it my way. We’ll do a gradual rollout of a lockdown with a return-to-ship directive, as most haulers will be heading back to their ships in the early morning anyway. Even then, it’s going to be a disaster. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the gate scanners for the bays will pick up something illegal. That’s all the help I can give unless you provide intel on what to look for. Come first shift, I have to let ships depart and get docking operations moving again.”

“I had hoped to include in my after-action report a glowing appraisal of how Port Authority assisted SSO in a high-level operation by closing the port immediately when requested.” DeCalo’s lips pressed together as if he were trying to hide a smirk.

Severion had played these games before. “That would be lovely. I’ll be sure to submit a report to the Atan SecForce Commander of this as a shining example of interagency cooperation to be used as a training case study. I’ll have to find the message you sent informing me of your operation so I could provide the proper support. I must’ve missed it.”

DeCalo’s subtle smirk melted back into his meaty face. “We appreciate your assistance, Commander. SSO will continue our classified operation while you handle the lockdown.”

Severion closed the comm and muttered a string of curses.

“Orders, ma’am?” Officer Colley—Severion’s staff assistant—said from behind. He stood with academy-approved posture and his uniform perfectly arranged—as if his goal was to provide no incentive to get on Severion’s bad side. His refined face held a perpetually courtly expression, like he rolled out of bed ready to receive someone of aristocratic standing. Severion was gifted with no such features or temperament. Her piercing stare, dimpled cheeks, full lips, and a hint of a working-class accent—one she couldn’t rid herself of no matter how hard she tried—befit a dockworker rather than the highest-ranking security officer on the habitat.

“I swear to the Lords,” Severion said. “These SSO assholes strut around with their power armor and their guns, chomping on stim chews, acting like their farts don’t stink. Then they cry like babies when they screw up. Whatever happened in that warehouse, someone got away. SSO doesn’t know who it is, or they would’ve put out an arrest alert.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Colley said.

“Do you agree with me, or are you just trying to placate me?”

“Agree, ma’am.”

She studied his face. He didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, his gaze almost robotic in its lack of emotion. She sighed and rubbed her temple. “Let’s queue up the lockdown rollout. You know what to do.”

“Roger that, ma’am.”

“I need to take a walk now before this turns into a full-blown mess. It’s going to be a long night. You might as well join me.” 

Colley nodded, then left her office to send out the lockdown order. Severion switched to the local news hub and caught up on the latest from the warehouse incident.

A minute later, Colley returned. He followed Severion’s eyes to the news feed. SecForce officers, bots, and drones swarmed in and out of the warehouse. The news drone caught a glimpse of bodies brought out in body bags. There was even a vid submitted from a bystander on which a short burst of gunfire could be heard. “Looks like our friend Commander DeCalo is having himself a real bad start to the night. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were the ones to bring in the suspects?”

The corners of Colley’s lips shifted, the faintest hint of a smile. “A shining example of interagency cooperation, ma’am.”

Severion snickered and switched to system-wide news. One of the headlines read “Cova Straits Piracy: Is Praxa Next?”

“You heard anything on official channels about this?” Severion asked Colley.

“No ma’am, though there have been confirmed cases in other systems with a SecForce presence.”

Severion shook her head. “Let’s get back to work.” She opened the crime board on her wall display. “Anything here look like suspects fleeing a warehouse shooting?”

“A complaint came in a minute ago about some junk freighter trying to stiff the dock lessee. Hardly seems suspicious, ma’am.”

“Dealing with greedy haulers. Exactly what I signed up for,” Severion said. “I need a stim drink to get through the night. I’ll grab one, and then we’ll pay them a visit.” She walked to the door and opened it for Colley. “Come on, let’s go ruin someone’s night even further.”

---

“This tea is delicious,” Severion said. She walked with Colley along the transport lanes for the dockyard. They passed a few civilians casually strolling about, clearly not concerned about the announcement. That would change over the next several hours as the lockdown became actively enforced.

They turned toward bay 12. As they neared the access gate, the door to the bay’s lounge opened. A pretty-boy Slyvarkian with too much hair gel and a gruff Human male stepped out. They stopped and waited for the Port Authority officers to pass by. Haulers, no doubt.

“Heading back to your ship, right?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” the man said.

“Good, carry on,” she said, and kept walking. It was probably a lie, but she wasn’t going to worry about it for the moment.

The officers stopped at the access gate. Severion heard it beep, stepped forward, and bumped into the door, spilling hot tea on her hand. She cursed through a clenched jaw. “What’s the problem with this thing?”

“Checking,” Colley said, and scanned the maintenance logs. “Apologies, ma’am. This gate has an open maintenance request to deal with the glitchy access control. Stand there a moment longer, and it will open.”

Severion did so, then stepped through the gate. Colley followed.

“It’s going to be one of those nights,” Severion said. She eyed the rough-looking ship in the berth directly ahead. “This the cheapskate?”

Colley nodded.

“Let’s make this quick,” Severion said, and made for the open cargo ramp.

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