Chapter 12: Call My Bluff

Moralez was woken by a ringing sound, fumbling in the dark as he reached for his bedside table, picking up his tablet computer. Kaisha shifted beside him, her weight making the mattress sink, the Chief struggling to save from rolling into her as he tapped at the touch screen.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked groggily. He squinted, trying to make out the clock on the bright screen. It was five in the morning, this has better be good.

“Security Chief?” the caller asked. It was a male voice that he didn’t recognize. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but we’ve found the weapon.”

Moralez hopped out of bed, suddenly fully awake, stooping to pick up his uniform as he spoke into the tablet.

“Nice work. Contact Agents Boyd and Lorza, have them meet me at the armory in an hour. There’s no time to waste.”

“What is it?” Kaisha asked, yawning as she sat up in bed. Moralez tried to focus on pulling on his uniform, rather than her exposed chest, the sheets sliding off her as her ample bosom caught the morning light that was filtering in through the blinds.

“Just work stuff,” he replied, zipping up his coveralls. “Go back to sleep, you’re on call today.”

She nodded, suppressing another yawn before sliding back beneath the covers.

“Did they say where it was found?” Boyd asked, following behind Moralez as they made their way to the armory. Lorza was trailing behind them, the Polar towering over the crowds that were quickly filling the torus now that the first shift of the day was beginning.

“They checked all of the garbage chutes on the station and didn’t find a damned thing,” the Chief replied, skirting around a group of tourists who were ogling a Krell who had decided to take a morning nap in one of the larger planters. “The shooter had tossed it into space, just as Agent Boyd suggested. The Pinwheel’s systems are always tracking local debris to prevent impacts and collisions, so it wasn’t too hard to pick up once they accounted for recently introduced objects of about the appropriate mass. The MPs went out in a shuttle and brought it in.”

“Did they check it for prints and DNA?” Lorza asked.

“They pulled a few partials,” Moralez said, “but it looks like they came from multiple people. DNA will take a little time to sequence.”

“We can finally get a look at this thing,” Boyd muttered as they arrived at the armory, the trio stepping through the automatic door. The range was mercifully quiet today, it was a little too early for the Marines to be practicing their marksmanship, and the main room was mostly empty. Stanley was waiting for them beside a metal table, a long object that was wrapped in plastic film sitting before him.

“Chief, Agents,” he said as they made their way over to him. “I thought it best to wait for you to arrive before I unwrapped the little gift that the MPs dropped off.”

“This thing is ... big,” Boyd mused as he looked it over. They couldn’t make out any of the details yet, the protective wrapping was too thick. “It’s about as long as a Borealan rifle, maybe six feet and change. Must have weighed a ton.”

“Not in space,” Lorza corrected, “we have already established that the shooter may have carted the disassembled pieces to the airlock.”

“To get something this big onto the station, it must have come through one of the cargo bays,” Moralez added as he looked the weapon over. “Even in pieces, this thing must weigh at least sixty pounds. That would have been hard to pull off without a lot of help, but smuggling rings have been broken up on the station before, it’s not unheard of.”

“Let’s get it open,” Boyd said, Stanley nodding as he began to unwrap it. The fingerprints and DNA had already been collected, and so there was little danger of destroying evidence by handling it. As the film was pulled away to reveal the black polymer and copper-colored metal, Moralez began to make sense of it.

The XMR platform was designed to be fully modular, hence the M in the acronym. There were three basic frames, small, medium, and large, which were designed to accommodate species of varying statures. They all fired the same ammunition from interchangeable magazines, and all of the weapon attachments were universally compatible. It ensured that a Valbaran using a PDW could share ammunition and spare parts with a Krell who was using a light machinegun that weighed as much as a person.

What was lying on the table would not have made sense if they had not already known the purpose of its construction. While in theory, the long barrel used by Borealans in a scout sniper role could be attached to a medium frame suitable for a human, the resulting weapon would be so unwieldy as to be unusable. The barrel alone was over four feet long, densely packed with magnetic coils, while the receiver that housed the firing mechanism and magazine well was human-sized. The ten-round magazine was still inserted, the semi-transparent polymer revealing that a single slug had been expended.

The stock looked as though it had been sourced from a large frame, it had a lot of padding, long enough that it would have been a struggle for an average human to reach the trigger. The battery was usually housed in the stock, but this one was missing. In its place was a mess of jury-rigged electronics, soldered metal, and bulging capacitors that would have looked more at home on a piece of industrial equipment than a firearm. This was clearly where the jumper cable had been connected.

On the top rail above the receiver, there was mounted a large optics package, a cluster of lenses and electronics with a stubby antenna protruding from its polymer housing. That must have been what the shooter had used to provide computer aim assistance.

Stanley whistled, turning the weapon over to examine the other side, struggling with its sheer mass.

“This thing would have packed quite a punch. Whoever built this knew his way around electronics, but not so much weapons. I don’t know if he only expected to get a single shot out of it, perhaps that was all he needed, but everything has been slagged by the amount of juice that he ran through it. See this?” he added, gesturing to the barrel. “These coils have been warped by heat, and I’m willing to bet that the rails in the receiver have been melted too. His calculations for velocity and power draw must have been extremely precise, but his hardware is shot to shit.”

They watched as he tried to remove the barrel, abandoning his attempt when he realized that it had melted to the assembly.

“I can tell you one thing for sure,” he said, running his hands over the slagged metal. “Whoever fired this thing would have ended up in the burn ward. Even with the tripod that you found bolted to the hull, he would have at least needed to be in contact with the stock and the grip. The amount of heat that firing this thing would have produced would have gone straight to his suit. Contrary to popular belief, space is terrible for dissipating heat, despite being freezing. You need a medium to move that energy through, like air, or water. Do you know what kind of spacesuit he used?”

“Most likely an engineering suit,” Moralez replied, “those yellow ones.”

“Yeah, those are designed to soak up a bit of heat. It preserves suit integrity in the event that you accidentally run a cutting torch over your hand,” Stanley mused. “It’s the same philosophy as Marine armor. If you catch a plasma bolt, then you want to spread that heat and energy around so that it isn’t concentrated in one spot, reduces the chances of it melting through. I’m not going to pretend like I know what those engineering suits are rated for, but I’m going to go with ‘not this much’.”

“So what would have happened to the shooter?” Boyd asked.

“Severe burns to his dominant hand,” Stanley replied. “Maybe to the shoulder and face too, depending on what parts of his suit were in contact with the stock when he fired. I’m going to guess that he’s right-handed, judging by the orientation of all the electronics that he crammed into the battery compartment.”

“The guy we brought in didn’t have burns on his hands,” Boyd said, nudging Moralez with his elbow. “I’m starting to think that we might not be very good at this.”

“What would have happened if the shooter had prosthetic arms, like me?” Moralez asked.

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Stanley said, gesturing to the grip. “Prosthetics are made from essentially the same polymer that we use for XMRs. It’s strong, light, cheap to manufacture. If a shooter with prosthetics had fired this weapon, it would have fused to his hand, and there would be some sign of that. I don’t see anything that would support that theory.”

“That rules out the SWAR goons,” Boyd muttered.

“Where did it come from?” Moralez continued. “These all look like standard parts to me, and anything that’s not designed for use with a medium XMR frame is going to be hard to come by off-station.”

“The Rask sometimes sell parts on,” Lorza suggested.

“I don’t buy it,” Moralez said, crossing his prosthetic arms. “Stan, is there a way for you tell if these parts came from the armory?”

“Well, you were there when I checked our inventory,” he replied. “It didn’t show that anything was missing. But yeah, there’s a way to be certain. All of our parts are stamped with a serial number before they leave the printing facility, makes it easy to keep track of what components are where, that’s what we log in our inventory. It’s a simple matter to cross-reference those with the computer.”

“Let’s be sure,” Moralez replied with a nod.

Stanley began to check for serial numbers, but the ones on the barrel and the receiver were melted enough to be illegible. After managing to find an intact one on the scope, which he then slid off the rail, he made his way over to the storeroom with Moralez and the agents in tow. Nothing much had changed since their last visit, the walls were still stacked with crates and lined with weapon racks, the flickering monitor of a solitary computer terminal that was embedded in the wall casting wavering shadows.

He held up the bulky assembly of lenses and electronics as he entered the numeric code into the terminal, Moralez peering over his shoulder.

“See?” Stanley said, gesturing to the list of numbers. “It’s in stock. Wait...”

“What’s wrong?” Moralez asked as Stanley double-checked the code that he had entered.

“The computer lists this serial number as being in stock,” he replied, scratching his head with his free hand as his eyes frantically scanned the readout. “But it’s right here. Two parts can’t have the same serial number ... that’s impossible.”

“Maybe it’s a fake serial number?” Boyd suggested with a shrug, but Stanley shook his head adamantly.

“If it was a fake serial, then how could it be in my system? The odds of someone reproducing an existing serial number by coincidence are astronomically low, statistically impossible. Somebody has been fucking with my file system,” he added angrily, abandoning the terminal as he marched over to one of the crates. He cracked it open as they watched, revealing stacks of foam padding that cushioned dozens of examples of the same optics package. After rummaging for a moment, he stood up again, looking as pissed off as Moralez had ever seen him.

“It’s gone,” he said, turning to face the trio. “Someone took it from my storeroom, then edited the computer logs to cover their tracks. There’s no other way that they could have gotten away with this.”

“Then the parts all came from the armory?” Moralez added, Stanley giving him a solemn nod in reply.

“If this person could edit the logs in the armory, then maybe they could edit the records of who was authorized to visit the hub?” Lorza asked.

“Fuck, you’re right,” Moralez snarled. “The bastard has more control over this fucking station than I do!”

“But how did he get in here?” Boyd asked. “This is an armory, security isn’t exactly lax.”

“Same way he got out onto the hull,” Moralez replied, “there’s a service tunnel access door in the back of the building. If someone has the right codes, they can go almost anywhere on the station. If this guy has been fucking around with the computer records, then we have no way of knowing who had those codes, he’s completely bypassed the methods that we use for keeping track of personnel.”

“You know one thing for sure,” Stanley replied, the three turning to their attention back to him. “Look for someone with burns on his hand, and you’ll find your man.”

“Come on,” Moralez said, jogging to the exit as the two agents followed behind him. “I have a contact at the hospital who can show us their records. Thanks, Stan, you’re the man.”

“Rough him up a bit for me!” Stanley called after them as they hurried out of the building.

“A man with a burn on his hand?” Kaisha asked, peering down at Moralez over her tablet computer. She was wearing her surgical scrubs, a white body-glove resembling a hazmat suit that prevented any of her fur from contaminating the patient. Her plastic hood was hanging down her back right now, it looked like she had been preparing for that morning’s surgery before the trio had barged in on her. She tapped at her touch screen with small pads on the tips of her claws that were built into the fingers of her gloves, only half paying attention.

“When the shooter fired the makeshift weapon, the heat transfer would have burned his hand,” Moralez explained breathlessly. “Probably his right hand, maybe his face and shoulder too, but for sure his hand. We’re pretty certain that he’s an engineer.”

“I believe what the Security Chief means,” Lorza began, Kaisha turning her attention to her fellow Polar. “Is that we would like you to check your records for members of the engineering staff who came to the medical facility with burns in the last few days.”

“What she said,” Moralez added, gesturing over his shoulder at the agent.

“I can check,” Kaisha replied, making her way across the lobby to the terminal behind the welcome desk. She leaned over the secretary’s shoulder, the two of them talking out of earshot as Kaisha gestured at the monitor. She then tapped at her tablet, perhaps transferring the information, then returned to them.

“Did you find anything?” Moralez asked impatiently.

“I have three results that might fit your description,” she replied, scrolling with a padded claw. “One engineer came in three days ago with a contact burn to his forearm from an accident with a heat pipe, which caused second-degree burns, partial-thickness. The second was admitted yesterday after a coolant spill, which resulted in chemical burns to both hands. The third handled an overheated battery, resulting in third-degree burns to his right hand, he came in two days ago.”

“The battery guy,” Boyd said, “that’s our man. Has to be.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t admit to getting the burn from firing a railgun,” Moralez added. “What if he gave a fake name, though?”

“He wouldn’t have,” Kaisha replied. “He’d need time off work to recover, and a doctor’s slip would need to be sent to his shift manager. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his head down and pretend that nothing was wrong, not with burns of that severity. I have his name and serial number right here,” she said as she passed Moralez her tablet.

“Gregory Sinclair,” Moralez muttered, his eyes scanning the screen. “Boyd, do your thing. We need to pull all the data that we can on this guy.”

The agent began to tap at his temple, using his visor to access the personnel records.

“Got him,” he said. “He graduated in ‘17, served as a junior engineer on the CIWS frigate ‘Montgomery’ for four years, where he was responsible for maintaining the ship’s guns. Records show that the ‘Montgomery’ was destroyed during the Kruger campaign in ‘21.”

“He was at Kruger?” Moralez asked, Boyd nodding in reply.

“Says here that the frigate went down with most of its crew in orbit around Kruger II. It was struck by a Bug plasma torpedo that crippled the reactor, causing a partial meltdown. It’s pretty nasty stuff. Looks like those that made it to the lifeboats got dosed, most of ‘em died of radiation poisoning in the following weeks. Close to two hundred casualties. Sinclair was one of the lucky ones, they managed to treat him. He took a year off on medical leave, then he was stationed on the Pinwheel, where he’s been working for the last few years. His area of expertise is programming the targeting systems for shipboard weapons, that certainly fits the bill...”

“Fuck,” Moralez said, shaking his head. “That has to be our shooter, it all adds up. He’d have access to the computers, he’d have the door codes for the service tunnels, he’d know how to build that Frankenstein railgun, and he could get onto the hub to plant the transmitter on Korbaz. His personnel file reads like one big list of motives.”

“Gotta admit,” Boyd began, “I was expecting one of the ambassadors to be in on it. Sounds like this guy is out for revenge, or maybe he thinks he can prevent more deaths if he sabotages the council meeting. Do you think one of them might be putting him up to it?”

“He certainly doesn’t need any co-conspirators to have done what he did,” Moralez replied. “He had the means, the motive, and plenty of opportunities. The only missing piece of the puzzle is how he knew that the Bug would be visiting the station. Even I didn’t know until the day it arrived, and we’ve kept it under wraps.”

“We can figure that out after we’ve got the bastard in a cell,” Boyd replied, “the priority should be bringing him in before he does any more damage. There’s no question this time, this guy pulled the trigger.”

“Agreed,” Moralez said. “I’ll get Miller on the horn, find out where Sinclair is right now. Probably in his quarters if he’s on medical leave, the station has been on lockdown ever since the incident, there’s no way for him to get away. I’ll put out an APB too, make sure the MPs are on the lookout for him.”

“Is that all you need?” Kaisha asked. “I’m expected in the operating theater, I have some prosthetic eyes to replace.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Moralez said, giving her an affectionate pat on the thigh.

“I’m sure you could have, all I did was access some computer logs,” she chuckled. “But I’ll expect you to express your gratitude in the form of a dinner date. Now, off you go,” she added as she waved them away. “Go save the day.”

“This is his apartment,” Boyd said, bringing the trio to a stop in front of one of the buildings in the residential quarter. It was indistinguishable from the others, made from white hull material that had been sculpted to resemble brickwork, the blinds drawn so that they couldn’t get a look through the windows. He checked his visor again, tapping at his temple. “One resident, Gregory Sinclair, engineer.”

“You picking up anything on thermals?” Moralez asked. The agent stared at the door for a moment, tweaking the settings, then nodded.

“I’m seeing one heat signature sitting at the kitchen table,” Boyd said. “Looks like old Greg is home. What do we do, just override the door control and barge in?”

“That would be ill-advised,” Lorza replied, “he will certainly be wary of any unannounced visitors if he is living in fear of discovery. Declaring ourselves as agents of the law will certainly spur a fight or flight response. We know that he is capable of building firearms, he may have other improvised weapons.”

“Sidearms ready,” Moralez replied as he unholstered his XMH, “but don’t fire unless you have to. We can’t learn anything more if we shoot the guy full of tungsten. Agent Lorza, why don’t you pretend to be a nurse from the hospital? We know that he injured his hand, maybe he’ll come to the door if he thinks you’re making a house call.”

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Boyd shrugged. “I would have just overridden the door and tossed a canister of tear gas inside, but to each his own.”

“I do believe that a more ... cerebral solution is in order,” Lorza replied. She stepped forward, placing a padded finger against the touch panel that was embedded in the frame, activating the intercom. She glanced at her companions for a moment, uncertain, then spoke into the microphone.

“Mister Sinclair? This is Nurse Lorza, from the hospital. I’m here to change the dressings on your hand.” They waited for a moment, but there was no reply, so she tried again. “Mister Sinclair, are you there?”

“We’ve spooked him,” Boyd warned, peering through the door with his visor. “He’s moving towards the bedroom.”

“Fuck it,” Moralez grumbled, Lorza moving out of his way as he began to tap at the panel. “I’m overriding the lock on the door. It’ll take a second, I have to input my security code.”

“He’s in the bedroom now, I’ve lost his signature,” Boyd said. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, he can’t go anywhere. Maybe he wants to put another door between him and us, or perhaps he has a weapon stashed in there.”

“Got it,” Moralez said, stepping back and raising his weapon as the door slid open. “Military Police!” he shouted, charging into the room with the two agents on his heels. “Give yourself up, Sinclair!”

They moved to the bedroom door, Boyd and Lorza keeping their weapons trained on it as Moralez tried to open it. It was another sliding door, there was no handle, it was supposed to open automatically when the sensor detected a person in proximity. There was no touch panel here, however. The locking mechanism was far simpler, mechanical in nature.

“What’s he doing, Boyd?” Moralez asked hurriedly.

“I’m not picking him up,” Boyd replied. “Can you get that door open, Chief?”

“Negative. Agent Lorza, you’re up.”

He stepped back, covering the Polar as she moved into position and readied herself. She slammed her shoulder into the door, throwing her considerable weight behind the blow, the metal beneath the faux-wood paneling ringing. She drew back, then tried again, a worrying creaking sound emanating from the frame. On the third attempt, the door collapsed inward, Lorza leading the charge as they fanned out into the room.

“God damn it!” Moralez exclaimed, spotting a maintenance panel that had been removed from the wall. Behind it was a mess of exposed pipes and wiring, and behind that was an open door to the service tunnels. “He’s in the fucking tunnels!”

“Should we go after him?” Boyd asked, clutching his silenced pistol in his hands as he eyed the shadowy opening warily.

“Not without a map and a list of codes,” the Chief replied, “the only thing that we’d accomplish is getting ourselves lost. Fuck! I should have seen this coming, now he could pop up anywhere on the station.”

“But he can’t leave,” Boyd added. “The Pinwheel is on lockdown, no ships are allowed to undock. What’s he gonna do, live in the service tunnels eating escaped pets for the rest of his life?”

“If he wants to play cat and mouse, then I’m calling in the cats,” Moralez said as he began to tap at his wrist computer. The holographic display lit up, a Borealan face appearing on the other end of the line. It was Raz, her cropped, red hair and her faded tiger stripes giving her away. Moralez set the device to play audio through the speakers rather than his earpiece so that the agents could listen in.

“Raz,” he began, “I need your help.”

“Hey, Robocop,” she replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Need more advice on how to make Kaisha-”

“N-no,” he interrupted, trying to ignore the smirking agents. “It’s a work thing.”

“Oh, my bad,” she replied with a toothy grin that exposed her sharp incisors. “Whaddya need, Chief?”

“A posse,” he replied, “I need as many Mad Cats as you can round up. Recruits, Shock Troopers, anyone who can be spared. There’s a rat loose in the service tunnels, and their noses should come in handy.”

“Bloodhounds with bayonets,” Boyd muttered, nodding approvingly. “I like where this is going...”

“A little get-together?” Raz asked, fluffing her orange hair with a clawed hand. “I think I can manage that. What kind of rat are we looking for, and how many pieces do you want him in?”

“Just one, ideally,” Moralez replied. “His name is Sinclair, he’s the engineer responsible for the attack on the hub. He’s hightailed it into the tunnels, and we’ve got no hope of finding him with just the three of us.”

“I think that term has a ... different meaning in our culture,” she replied, raising a bushy eyebrow. “So you need several packs following their noses? Gotcha.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Raz. Stand by for a call from engineering, I’ll have Miller send over maps and door codes, and I’ll tell him to pull any engineers who are working in there right now. The guts of the station are a maze, so make sure that everyone gets copies.”

“I assume you’ll want to lead the charge?” she asked, giving him a knowing smile.

“Meet me in the residential quarter as soon as you can. We have to move fast on this, I don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“See you in a few, Chief,” she replied with a mock salute.

“Backs straight, recruits!” Raz snapped at a row of young Borealans in blue jumpsuits. They stood to attention, even their fuzzy tails stopping dead. Raz had managed to assemble a group of maybe fifty soldiers, divided up into groups of five or six, giving them eight or nine packs to work with. They could cover a lot of ground, but Moralez had to hope that it would be enough.

There were Borealans of all skin tones and fur colors, ranging from the caramel and blonde of the Rask to the pale and orange of the Elysians. There were other variations too. He could see brown, black, and even grey fur with patterning that resembled stripes or spots. The recruits who must have recently joined the integration program were unarmed, wearing their Navy fatigues. The more senior Shock Troopers were clad in black armor, wielding long XMRs that came equipped with vicious bayonets, making them look more like spears than firearms.

“This is Security Chief Moralez,” Raz continued, stalking up and down the line with her hands clasped behind her back. She too was wearing a Navy-blue jumpsuit, the insignia on her breast identifying her as a Drill Instructor with the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. “You will treat him as though he were your Alpha, or you will answer to me. He will be commanding this operation.”

She gestured to him, and he stepped forward, giving her a grateful nod.

“We have a fugitive loose in the station’s service tunnels,” he began, meeting the gaze of one of the recruits. The alien quickly averted his yellow eyes, even a glance that lingered for too long could be construed as a challenge to an Alpha’s dominance in their hierarchical culture. “Your mission is to enter the tunnels and either capture him alive or flush him out. You are forbidden from firing on him unless your own lives are in immediate danger. We don’t know if he’s armed, so approach with caution. There are already MPs stationed at most of the exits onto the torus, he won’t be getting out that way.”

“You will be given maps and door codes,” Raz added, dozens of furry ears swiveling to track her like tiny radar dishes. “Assign one member of your pack to keep track of your position, it’s easy to get lost in there. The codes will allow you to open any doors that you encounter, just type them into the keypad.”

“The target’s name is Sinclair,” Moralez continued, holding up a tablet computer with an image of the man’s face that had been blown up from his ID card. “He’s a human male with light skin, and short, brown hair. He may be wearing a yellow jumpsuit, but civilian clothes are also a possibility. I’ve tried to ensure that the tunnels will be empty, but there may still be stragglers, so use caution.”

“You bring anything with his scent on it?” Raz asked, leaning down to whisper to him. Moralez handed her a jacket that he had recovered from Sinclair’s apartment, and she put her nose to it. “No accounting for taste,” she muttered, “smells like Martian takeout and cheap deodorant.”

She tossed it to the first row of recruits, and they began to pass it around, Moralez watching the bizarre scene play out. Boyd had jokingly referred to them as bloodhounds, but he wasn’t too far off.

“You need me to assign any cats to your team?” Raz asked, Moralez shaking his head.

“Thanks, but we have Agent Lorza.”

“Alright, you fleabags!” Raz snapped. Her tone was so sharp and commanding that it almost had Moralez standing to attention too. She was so laid back in a casual setting, but when it came to her job, she was dead serious. “Get in there and bring out the Chief’s stray human, alive, if possible. Remember, they’re fragile. Recruits, you’re with me. Line up so that I can hand out sidearms, I’m not trusting you muddy bastards with a rifle. Keep the battery turned off unless you need to fire it.”

“Come on,” Moralez said, Boyd and Lorza following him to the nearest access door at the end of a nearby alley. A procession of armored Shock Troopers trailed after them. These Borealans were career warriors who were either taking shore leave while their carriers resupplied, or were stationed on the Pinwheel in a security role. Moralez had worked with them before, they were brutally efficient, just the kind of people you wanted by your side in a crisis.