What was now considered the Docks on Detron was a subset of that one-time Wonder of the Galaxy. The still-maintained subset. Though not well-maintained. Graft, vice, and smuggling operations had run the place in recent years, although Republic forces had taken over during the recent crisis and would remain until the situation quieted down.
The ident-concealed Obsidian Crow approached her dock on quarter-maneuver thrust and deployed three massive landing struts. Rechs restrained himself from pivoting the ship for a hot departure—standard operating procedure if you were a bounty hunter, but not if you were a merchant. Instead he allowed the Crow to come to rest on the landing pad with her stubby nose and central pilot’s canopy facing the gargantuan blast doors that accessed the hangar. Just as a merchant would.
While the ship was powering down, venting gases, the blast doors parted slightly with an ominous gargantuan groan. A bot skinned in ceramic white scuttled through the opening and began to shuffle toward the ship.
From the cockpit, Tyrus hit the comm button. “Three-Two, their operations and supply bot is heading for the boarding ramp. Intercept and shut him down with our story.”
G232 shuffled down the boarding ramp and greeted the local supply operations assistant.
“Good day, my name is OS-99,” lied G232. Rechs had assured the bot that it was completely unnecessary to change its identifier, but G232 had felt that this was best for their “grand deception,” as the bot liked to put it. “I’m the personal administrative officer for Captain Rigel. The biologic crew has come down with Ringo Fever after a small supply run into the Garridan Frontier. You know… parasites. Without putting too fine a point on it, they’re all quite indisposed.”
G232 leaned in close to the supply operations bot. “Dysentery. Diarrhea, you know. I don’t know how the biologics put up with it. Imagine if that were contagious to us!”
The other bot jumped back as though the sick were about to erupt from the ship’s boarding ramp and spray the bot’s pristine white ceramic shell.
“I know… quite disgusting,” agreed G232 heartily. “But harmless to our goods and supply. Charge packs from Ankalor for the marines. No foodstuffs, I assure you. But as you know, Ringo Fever can be quite viral beyond the one-week incubation period. The captain asks that you give his crew three days’ isolation and then we can exchange goods.”
“Oh my, yes, good galaxy, of course,” said the supply bot, backing up rather quickly. Evidently convinced that it must be away from the vicinity of an outbreak of Ringo Fever immediately. Possibly it was afraid of the local decon procedures. Some of which included a full memory wipe for some arcane and byzantine reason.
“I shall stay here and do my best to succor them,” said G232 valiantly, as though the admin bot were a character in its favorite movie, M8 of Endabon. The story of the bot who singlehandedly cared for a plague colony until every last one of them died. It was an old movie. G232 liked old movies. Especially old movies about long-suffering bots who saved thankful humans. G232 found them quite inspirational, if a little sappy.
An hour after sundown, after G232 had inserted an algo worm into the local system to shut down hangar surveillance, Rechs, in civilian gear, slipped from the dock and entered the main access corridors.
12
When she came to, they were dragging her down a hall. A bright white hallway that reminded her of a university or some government building. The floors were highly polished—waxed, even. She knew that scent.
There were four of them. Two out of her sight dragging her by the wrists, and two, in their special black-and-red gear, following her with subcompact blasters. MAT-49s. Black-market weapons.
She played possum as they dragged her farther along the hall. They stopped and opened a supply closet, then pulled her inside. The place had been cleaned out but still smelled of chemical cleaners. She kept her eyes shut until she heard the door close and lock. She was certain they’d left at least one guard outside.
Sitting up, she strained her ears. The door to the supply closet had a simple lock, and likely wasn’t rated for fire or active-shooter defense like other doors in a government building. And she could hear the voices of the guards, though she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She lowered herself back down into the position they’d left her in. Wanting to look as though she hadn’t moved when they returned. Unfortunately, they’d left her lying twisted in a heap, and her body didn’t exactly want to obey when she told it to get comfortable like that. But she was used to that. Snipers were used to being uncomfortable. So, she lay there trying to figure out what gear they’d left her with.
Which, after a thorough examination, turned out to be almost nothing. Everything had been taken from her pockets. Even her issue belt was gone.
Her face was bruised and swollen, and she was pretty sure she’d taken a beating, either before or after passing out. But she couldn’t remember much. She tried to focus on what she could remember. And that made her want to start to cry. Because those were good things. Good people who called her by variations of her name. Manda. Panda. Manda Panda.
Those good people had no place here.
Dumb, Amanda. You don’t need that right now.
There was no way out of this closet that didn’t involve breaking the door down and facing all the
