Chapter 2: Plausible Deniability

Boyd slipped into an alley between two prefabs, leaning against the nearest wall as he caught his breath. He was wrapped in a long cloak that he had bought for a few plastic tokens from one of the market stalls, the garment obscuring the telltale blues and greys of his environment suit, its frayed hem whipping in the wind. Slowly, he crept out of the shadows, scanning the dusty street beyond for threats. PDF patrols in teams of three or four were moving between the groups of civilians, stopping people every now and then to check their identities. They were clearly searching for him, likely following the orders of the Syndicate. Was the entire organization in their pocket?

After escaping the warehouse, he had found himself in a port town – the largest settlement on the planet. There were a hundred little pockets of civilization spread out all over Hades, usually situated close to specific mining operations and mineral processing sites, but all of the planet’s cargo came through here. It was where supplies were shipped in and where the refined ore was shipped out, so it made sense for the warehouses to be close by. Unfortunately, it was also the most secure settlement on the planet and likely where the largest PDF garrison was located.

Boyd felt naked without his rifle, but he’d had to ditch it. The weapon was far too large and conspicuous to conceal. His only defense now was stealth. He had to find a way off-planet so that he could get a message to UNNI. Hades had an FTL comms satellite like all colonies did, but it was owned and operated by ExoCorp, meaning that he had no way to transmit data without blowing his cover. If he tried to contact the corp for help, there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t just make him disappear and try to deal with the Syndicate themselves, rather than risk having their dirty laundry aired for the whole sphere to see. If he tried to slip an encrypted message into the satellite’s comms buffer, there was no way to estimate when it would actually be transmitted, as corporate communiques would have the highest priority with the limited bandwidth available. No, his only option was to physically leave the colony, and he was starting to formulate a plan.

Towering above the dusty landscape, gradually vanishing into the blue haze, was the orbital tether. The structure was designed for carrying large payloads of cargo to and from the planet’s surface, as it was cheaper in the long run than having haulers burning fuel with every trip. It was a big investment on the part of the company, to be sure, but it had probably already paid for itself. It resembled a large strand of black cable that was several meters in diameter, anchored to the ground by a skeletal, ring-shaped structure that dwarfed the surrounding clusters of prefabs and industrial buildings. Massive jump freighters like the one that the Syndicate had raided would dock at the space station that served as its counterbalance, loading and unloading cargo that would then be ferried up and down the elevator. As he watched, a massive crawler began to rise up the length of the cable, slowly picking up speed as it went.

The tether wasn’t his objective, however. Boyd was more interested in the civilian ships that would be sitting on the landing pads that surrounded the anchor. If he could barter for safe passage with an independent trader or just stow away in someone’s cargo hold, he’d be out of the Syndicate’s reach.

He waited for the nearest pack of PDF troopers to move on, then shrouded himself in his cloak, heading out into the crowd. With the tattered garment covering him, he was indistinguishable from the locals, and he would be safe as long as he was wary of the patrols. Sticking to back alleys and large throngs of colonists as best he could manage, he gradually made his way towards the port, guided by the oppressive tether that loomed over the settlement.

When he eventually arrived, he found that the compound was separated from the surrounding prefabs by a large concrete wall made from interlocking segments. There was an entrance for pedestrians that was guarded by a pair of men with caseless rifles slung over their chests. They weren’t PDF – they looked like corporate security, dressed in the same shades of black and yellow as the logos that adorned all of the cargo containers. Corporate enforcers were nothing to trifle with – especially ones that were posted on backwaters like Hades. They were better armed than the PDF and far more competent, dressed to intimidate with their faceless helmets and bulletproof armor.

They were stopping people at the gate, asking for ID by the look of things, managing the slow trickle of colonists that came in and out. Boyd reached for his pocket reflexively, but found it empty. If he’d still had his wallet on hand, he could have used its onboard computer to generate a fake ID that would likely have gotten him through the checkpoint, but the goons had taken it. There was no way he was slipping past those guys – he had to find another way in.

The sound of an engine drew his attention, and he watched as a large truck trundled into view some distance to his left, emerging from a dusty road that led deeper into the settlement. It was a bulky, rugged design intended for use on colonies that lacked proper roads, built more like a piece of heavy industrial equipment than anything that belonged on a highway. The cab was raised high off the ground to give the driver better visibility, and its eight wheels were each as tall as a man, sporting honeycomb tires to prevent flats. On its bed was a cargo container that was likely filled with refined ore ready to be sent up the tether. As he watched, it drove up to the wall some two hundred meters away, a far larger gate opening automatically to let it pass.

That was his way inside...

Boyd made his way through the dusty streets, eventually arriving at the dirt road where the trucks were coming through. He waited, biding his time in an alley until another shipment came along, checking the display on his wrist to see that approximately fifteen minutes had elapsed. This truck was much like the first – the same heavy, industrial design. He examined it as it trundled past, feeling it shake the ground, its chunky wheels kicking up clouds of dust. The container on its flatbed was completely sealed, likely prepped to load directly onto the cars that ran up and down the tether. There was no way to smuggle himself inside, so a more creative solution would be required.

Once it had passed through the automatic gate, he turned to the nearest prefab, examining it for a moment. His plan formulated, he hauled himself up onto the roof, using a shaky air conditioning unit that jutted from the wall as a foothold. He kept low so as to avoid attention, creeping over to a satellite dish that rose three or four feet into the air, a common feature in the settlements. It was bolted to the roof, but the device wasn’t exactly sturdy, a few hard yanks breaking its support. Boyd checked his display to ensure that he had enough time to get ready, then tossed the broken satellite dish into the road below. It made for a small obstacle, but one that would hopefully give the next driver pause. It was windy enough that a fallen satellite dish likely wouldn’t raise suspicion.

Slowly, he crept back down to ground level, lurking in the shadow of an alley as he waited. After a few more minutes, he was greeted with the sound of another engine, the next shipment driving into view. It passed his hiding spot, then ground to a halt, its brakes squealing. The door on the raised cab swung open, and a man wearing yellow overalls hopped out, climbing down a small ladder. As he appraised the fallen dish, Boyd made his move, sneaking out of cover. He ducked low, making for the rear of the truck, dipping beneath its bulky chassis. Its large wheels raised it a good couple of feet off the ground, giving him enough space to move around at a crouch. He glanced up, seeing the vehicle’s drive train above him. Much of it was covered by a tough casing that shielded the machinery from the harsh environment, but there were handholds enough to serve his purpose. Spurred on by the sound of the driver dragging the debris out of the road, he climbed up, securing himself beneath the truck. It was already uncomfortable, but he only had to hang on for a few minutes at most.

He heard the door of the cab slam shut, then the vehicle lurched into motion, the vibrations threatening to shake him loose. The sandy ground rolled past beneath him, then they stopped again, probably waiting for the gate to open. When the truck resumed its journey, he knew that he was inside the compound. Unable to see anything but the road from his hiding place, the only indication that he had entered the processing center was the sunlight dimming and the dusty ground giving way to polished concrete. There must be somewhere that the trucks unloaded their cargo, and with any luck, it would all be automated. These corps weren’t usually eager to pay more salaries than they had to. There was the distinct possibility that he might be clocked by security the moment he left cover, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

The quality of the ambient sound soon changed, too. Over the roar of the engine and the whirring of the drive train, he could hear what sounded like machinery echoing through an indoor space. When the truck stopped, he lowered himself down, edging towards the wheels so that he could get a look out at his environment. As he had hoped, he was in some kind of cargo processing center for the tether. There were several berths that could accommodate the transports, where large, mechanical arms would lift the cargo pods from their beds and place them on a conveyor that ran deeper inside the facility. There were no security guards in sight, and he spotted an access door on the far side of the room. There were probably cameras – for liability reasons if nothing else – but whether anyone was watching the feeds was up in the air.

He crawled on his belly towards the front of the truck, then slipped beneath the raised gantry that provided access to the cranes, hiding in the shadows among the supports. After a couple of minutes, the truck set off again, its flatbed empty. That should give him around fifteen minutes until the next shipment arrived.

Doing his best to keep out of sight of any cameras, he followed the gantry to the right side of the cavernous room, quickly arriving at the door. It was locked with a numeric keypad, but no spy worth their salt would be stopped by a locked door. He turned to his wrist display once more, keying in a voltage setting for the magnet that was embedded in his right glove. It was designed to help him hang onto surfaces in zero-G, but with the right power setting, it could actuate the relays in an electronic lock like this one. With a wave of his hand, the lock opened like magic, and the door swung open with a gentle push. Beyond it was a sterile, corporate hallway. There must be a way through into the civilian area of the port.

Ever cautious, he crept deeper, passing empty maintenance rooms and offices. Footsteps alerted him that someone was approaching, and he threw himself into a branching corridor, putting his back to the wall. His heart raced as the source of the sound drew closer, but it was just a man in a dress shirt holding a tablet computer, his eyes fixed on its display as he walked past Boyd’s hiding place. Nobody here would be on alert for infiltrators – it was a normal workday for them.

Heading in the direction the man had come from, he soon found an exit to what looked like a spaceport terminal, the telltale cloaks and shawls of civilians moving around beyond its narrow window. He glanced behind him to check that the coast was still clear, then opened the door with another wave of his magnet, quickly closing it behind him before blending into the crowd.

Only now did Boyd allow himself a sigh of relief. Unless someone stopped him to check his ID – unlikely now that he was inside the perimeter – he’d be indistinguishable from the other commuters. He took a moment to look around, finding himself in a much more recognizable environment. The civilian area of the port seemed to form a crescent on the right side of the tether’s anchor, the terminal split into a dozen gates that led to the landing pads outside, visible through the curving windows. There were displays showing flight schedules, and desks where people could talk to the facility’s staff. He could even see a cafe where a few corporate employees were having coffee. It wasn’t as large as a commercial spaceport, but it was pretty high-end for Hades. They must want to make a good impression for any independent traders or contractors who happened to pass through here. It wasn’t like the colonists could afford to travel.

He took a seat on the nearest bench, his eyes open for anyone who looked like they didn’t belong – anyone who might not be on the Syndicate’s payroll. He saw more corporate security patrolling the port, a couple of men in flight uniforms sitting at a table as they ate shrink-wrapped sandwiches from a vending machine, and a handful of guys who looked like corporate engineers. The ExoCorp employees had a decent chance of not being compromised, but that was a gamble that could cost him his life.

Then he saw it – his ticket out.

A giant alien strode across the room, heads turning to watch it as it marched along, snow-white fur protruding from beneath its form-fitting jumpsuit. Its coat was thick and fluffy, patterned with dark rings that resembled coffee stains where it was visible. It wore no shoes, its digitigrade legs ending in cat-like paws with dark talons, a tail that was as bushy as a feather duster poking out from a hole in its coveralls. It was a female – that much was obvious by her ample figure, relatively humanoid in appearance despite her exaggerated size. It was a Borealan of the Polar variety, about eight feet tall. She stuck out like a sore thumb, standing head and shoulders above the surrounding humans, wading through the chest-high crowd. What the hell was she doing here? The heat alone must be driving the poor creature insane – they were adapted for frozen environments, not arid deserts.

The feline stopped at one of the desks, leaning down to speak to a woman who was standing behind a computer monitor, the alien’s unwieldy chest spilling over the counter through her suit. She was packed into that thing like a sausage about to blow its casing. Polars had a layer of insulating blubber that protected them from the frigid cold of their home territory, endowing the already imposing creatures with especially full figures, their average weight easily surpassing six hundred pounds. She tapped at a touch monitor, relaying some information that Boyd couldn’t hear clearly, the clerk nodding along. After talking for a couple of minutes, the alien left in the direction of one of the gates, Boyd rising from his seat to intercept her. There was no way this alien was a colonist, and the chance that she was on the payroll was as low as he could possibly hope for. He wouldn’t get another opportunity like this.

He hurried to catch up with her loping strides, trying not to draw attention to himself by running, heading her off just as she arrived at her gate. She looked down at him quizzically with a pair of ice-blue eyes, her vertical pupils reminding him of a cat. He was aware of Polars, but he had never seen one up close before – few people had. She had a flat brow that tapered into a pink, feline nose, a pair of fuzzy ears tipped with black marks turning to track him like little radar dishes. Her face was covered in a thin coat of fur, patterned with more spots, framed by shoulder-length hair that was slate-grey in color. While she had little muzzle to speak of, her skull was large enough to rival that of a Siberian tiger, her powerful jaw muscles hinting at her carnivorous heritage. She didn’t have to say anything for him to see the question in her expression.

“Are you a pilot?” Boyd asked, pulling back the hood of his cloak to expose his face. “A ship’s captain?”

“Is there something I can do for you, stranger?” she asked. Her accent was odd, reminiscent of Russian, the alien rolling her Rs like a purr. At least she spoke good English – Polar wasn’t one of the languages that Boyd had learned during his training.

“I need passage off-planet, and I’m willing to pay well for it,” he replied hurriedly.

“So book a flight with a passenger ship,” she replied with a shrug. The gesture made her chest wobble, Boyd finding himself taking a step back to avoid being clocked in the head. “Why is that my problem?”

The promise of credits didn’t appeal to her, then. He would have to try a different angle. If her ship was a Navy vessel, he could pull rank – commandeer it. Borealans were a rare sight, and they mostly appeared working as auxiliaries on Coalition ships.

“Is your ship UNN?” he asked.

“No, it is a private survey vessel,” she replied. “Now, are you going to tell me why you are acting so shifty, or should I call security and have them find out?”

Clever. She’d put him in a position where he was now forced to explain himself. She wasn’t taking the bait, so he’d have to try a new approach. Legally, he could commandeer a civilian ship too, but not without revealing his true identity. Perhaps he could concoct a sob story to gain her sympathy? Telling her the truth was far too risky, and she might not have believed his tales about secret agents and hidden criminal empires anyway.

“I can’t charter a flight through normal channels,” he began, glancing around nervously as he lowered his tone to a whisper. “Please. You’re the only one who can help me. People who come to Hades aren’t allowed to just leave of their own accord...”

That seemed to pique her interest, her round ears pricking up.

“Why is that?”

“ExoCorp doesn’t run this planet,” he replied. “That’s how it looks from the outside, but in reality, Hades is owned by organized criminal gangs. The corporation knows about it, but as long as the mines stay open and the creds keep flowing, they don’t give a damn about what happens to the people who live here. The corp pays its colonial workers in worthless plastic tokens that can only be redeemed at company-owned stores – we can’t buy passage off-world with those. They don’t want us to leave, we’re basically slaves here. Either we fall in line and work the mines, or they make us disappear. I sold everything I owned to a black market dealer to get my hands on some UN credits, hoping that I could find someone who would sell me a seat on a ship. I don’t care where it’s going as long as it takes me away from here,” he added, wringing his hands in a silent plea. “You’re the only person I’ve met so far who’s just passing through – who isn’t on the payroll of the corp or the gangs. Please, you have to help me.”

There was just enough truth sprinkled on top of the lie to make it believable, and she seemed less suspicious now, her pink nose twitching as she considered.

“Listen, I am just a cartographer,” she explained with a sigh. “My job is mapping the planets that we survey and identifying exploitable resources. I am not the captain or anything like that, so I cannot make decisions about who gets to come aboard.”

Boyd’s face fell, but she cut him off with a wave of her furry hand before he could speak.

“But ... I can put in a word for you with the captain, and we will see what he says. No promises.”

“I would be eternally in your debt,” he added excitedly. “If I can get off-world, I can raise the alarm about the conditions here. Maybe I can help everyone else, too.”

“Wait here,” she continued, heading for her gate. “I will return soon.”

She exited through an automatic door that led to an enclosed catwalk, Boyd watching through the nearest window as she strode out onto a large landing pad, the harsh winds tugging at her fluffy fur. She held up a long arm to shield her face from the blowing sand, approaching the shadow of a vessel. It was an orbital shuttle – an older model that looked to be of Russian Federation design based on the configuration of its engines and the shape of its canopy. There was Cyrillic lettering on one of its tail fins, probably a serial number. That might help explain the Polar’s accent. Polar refugees had established a colony in Siberia not long ago.

The shuttle might be thirty or forty years out of date, but judging by the burn marks that scorched the heat tiles on its underbelly, it was still perfectly functional. The hull was all exposed metal in varying shades of grey, discolored patches revealing where it had been hastily repaired in places, its engine cones conspicuously exposed. Its cockpit was raised high on the stubby nose, forming a kind of bubble canopy, and it had a set of short wings designed for atmospheric flight. This wasn’t the survey vessel – that ship would be up in orbit or maybe docked to the tether station.

Boyd tried to look inconspicuous as a pair of corporate security guards walked past him, scrutinizing him with their faceless helmets. He flipped his hood back up once they had moved on, then took a seat on the nearest bench, hunching over. Perhaps he had gone a little overboard with his disguise. Street urchins and dust-caked miners shouldn’t be hanging around the executive lounge at the spaceport.

Finally, the Polar returned, shaking the sand off her fur like a wet dog as she stepped through the automatic door. She muttered something in Russian that sounded like a complaint or a curse, then looked around for Boyd, making her way over to him. She leaned over to put herself closer to eye level with him, her ample chest swinging within the confines of her suit, her toothy grin suggesting that she was about to break some good news.

“I brought it up with the captain, and he says you may ride with us, but on the condition that you pay for the resources you consume. Food, oxygen, water, and so on.”

Boyd made a show of his gratitude, which seemed to please her, cutting the display a little short after drawing a suspicious look from a guard.

“I owe you big time,” he said breathlessly. “When can we leave? Soon?”

“We can go now,” she replied, rising to her full height again. “I was actually just leaving when you cut me off at the gate. You are a very lucky little human. If you had come a few minutes later, you might have missed me entirely.”

“Fate must be on my side,” he added as he hopped out of his seat.

He followed his towering benefactor out of the port and into the blowing winds, the sound of airborne sand hammering his cloak almost loud enough to drown out the noise of idling engines. There must be a storm blowing in – anyone who wanted to leave would have to dust off pretty quickly to avoid being grounded. As the pair made their way across the elevated landing pad, a cargo ramp at the rear of the shuttle began to open, dropping down on a pair of hydraulic pistons. Boyd gave the wretched settlement one last glance, then mounted the ramp, joining the Polar inside. It closed behind them with a mechanical whir, shutting out the wailing wind, Boyd hearing a hiss as the bay pressurized. When his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom, he found himself standing in a cramped cargo bay, a few containers strapped to the deck with netting to prevent them from moving around. The Polar must have been doing a supply run when he had caught her.

She had to duck to avoid the loose wires that hung from the ceiling as she made her way towards the cockpit at the front of the vessel, a man who was sitting in one of the two pilot’s seats turning to greet her. He wasn’t wearing a flight helmet or a pressure suit – just work coveralls. It seemed like the emergency procedure for a hull breach would be to hold their breath.

The two exchanged words in Russian, then the man turned his attention to Boyd, addressing him in English.

“So, this is our hitchhiker?” he asked as he looked the newcomer up and down. He had a thick Russian accent matching that of his feline companion. “There are some fold-down seats in the bay. Strap yourself in, and don’t mind the turbulence. The girl’s old, but she won’t shake apart any time soon.”

Boyd located one of the seats, snapping it open and settling in, securing the flimsy harness across his chest. If this old rust bucket so much as flinched, he’d probably end up pasted all over the inside of the hull. The Polar followed suit, sitting opposite him on a seat that seemed to have been welded to the deck specifically for her use, its frame reinforced to accommodate her size.

“It is a short journey up to our ship,” she explained, raising her voice over the sound of the spooling engines. “The ride can get a little bumpy in atmosphere, but she will hold together.”

Considering that this was his second warning about the structural integrity of the ship in so many minutes, their reassurances were starting to have the opposite effect...

The deck began to vibrate beneath his feet, then the vessel lurched, Boyd feeling the clunk of the landing gear retracting into the hull as it lifted off the pad. There were no windows in the bay, but through the spacious cockpit canopy, he could see that they were rising away from the port. There was a tug as they accelerated, slowly nosing up, the azure sky darkening until it became a rich velvet black. He waited for the AG field to kick in, feeling weightlessness turn his stomach, but it never came.

“No AG?” he grumbled, glancing across the bay at the Polar. Her long hair was floating around her head, making her look like she was underwater.

“Not on the 80’s model,” she replied apologetically. “The Federation tends to value practicality over comfort.”

That went some way towards explaining why everything in the cargo hold was bolted down or secured with netting, at least. Without artificial gravity, its contents would just float around.

As the rickety shuttle burned into a new orbit, the tether station came into view ahead of them. At the apex of the black cable was a metallic disk, hanging high above the arid planet. Even though it was small by most metrics – there were stations orbiting Earth and Mars that were many times larger – it was still an impressive sight. It almost looked like a floating hubcap, ringed by berths that could accommodate freighters, the rib-like structures extending from it almost like the spokes of a wheel. It was hard to get a gauge of its true size, but using one of the docked vessels for reference, it was probably a kilometer across. Its shape was that of a flattened dome, the panels that made up its hull dotted with antennae and comms equipment, a ring of windows encircling it.

That wasn’t their ultimate destination, however. Floating away from the station, having likely only recently undocked, was the survey vessel. It was easily identifiable, maybe sixty meters long, shaped vaguely like a giant flashlight. It had a bulbous, rounded nose equipped with a protruding sensor dome that gave it the profile of a dolphin, a series of blister-like bridge windows situated just below it. The grey hull was made up of interlocking panels that shone in the harsh light of the system’s star, giving it an almost makeshift look, as though it had been welded together from sheets of scrap metal. There were no fins or wings, as it wasn’t capable of atmospheric flight, the flared aft section playing host to a cluster of engine cones. Its length was bristling with little dishes and jutting antennae, the odd porthole here and there glinting in the sunlight. It was certainly behind the curve, but it had a superlight drive, and that was all Boyd needed.

The vessel ballooned along with the station as they approached, the forward-facing thrusters on the shuttle flaring, helping it decelerate. The pilot was communicating with the survey ship in Russian, reaching up to flip a few rocker switches on a panel above his seat as they neared. There was no docking bay that Boyd could see. Modern vessels had a bay that was open to space, pressurized with the help of a molecular force field that would allow solid objects to pass through, but would keep the atmosphere inside.

Instead, they maneuvered beneath the survey ship, Boyd watching through the canopy as a pair of hangar doors on its belly swung apart to expose an open cavity. With a few careful blasts from the thrusters, the pilot slid the shuttle into the shadowy recess, a shudder reverberating through the deck as it came into contact with something. Some kind of docking arm had grabbed them and was now lifting the shuttle further inside the bay as the doors beneath it sealed shut. He suddenly felt the weight of his body settle into his seat, and across the cargo hold, the Polar’s long hair fell about her shoulders. They had entered the survey ship’s AG field. There was another clunk as the shuttle came to a jarring halt, Evan hearing mechanical sounds bleeding in from outside the hull, suggesting that the docking bay had been pressurized.

“Welcome to the Zemchug,” the Polar announced, spreading her long arms enthusiastically. “It means pearl, which was a more fitting title when she was fresh out of the shipyard. She has lost some of her luster over the years, but she flies just as well as she ever did. Follow me, rebenok. I will introduce you to the captain.”