The Tartarus Directive

Chapter 10

Griff traveled down to G level and went to the office of the communications technician assigned to the mining outposts. He explained that he needed to contact a laborer named Zoller there. The technician sat behind his console eating a sandwich and drinking a bottle of soda.

"Can't do it," the technician said through a bulging cheekful of sandwich. "That station has been offline for a coupla weeks now. Dust storms and high acidity I reckon--corroded the communications array most probably."

"What about the other stations?" Griff asked.

"No can do. Dust storms," the technician repeated. "Makes it near impossible to get a signal through. Lots of metal in the dust causes interference."

Griff grew angry with the technician's apparent indifference. He knew he could not tell the comms officer why he needed to contact the mining station so urgently.

"This is a matter of ship security," Griff insisted.

The technician took another bite: "I said I can't do it."

"What about the shuttles?" Griff asked.

"What about 'em?"

"Do they still make runs during dust storms?"

"Sure. They're all on a tight schedule. Pay gets docked if they don't make the runs on time. Ain't safe to run things that way if you ask me, but then again I just work radios."

"How can I get on a shuttle?"

"Need a permit for one, but if a shuttle pilot's got extra space on board he might let you hitch a ride."

"Any pilots leaving for the surface soon?"

"One sec, lemme check."

The technician swiveled and rolled around in his chair to face his computer console. He typed into the computer with his free hand and brought up the flight schedule and perused it.

After a moment, he returned to Griff. "Harry Morgan. The Queen Cassiopeia. Shuttle bay four. Scheduled to leave in three hours."

Griff thanked the technician and made a beeline for the shuttle bay.

#

Harry Morgan sat atop a shipping crate beneath a faded, peeling sign that read: "No smoking in the shuttle bays." A smoldering Kratom dangled from his frowning mouth. He was about forty and wore brimmed black cap cocked to one side pulled down over his right eye. He wore a dark blue neckerchief with a baggy khaki pocketed shirt, a wide belt, a pair of generously-cut brown poly cargoes, and a set of fuzzy synth leather roughouts on his feet.

"You Harry Morgan?" Griff asked.

"Who's askin'?" Morgan replied.

"I hear you might be willing to take someone down to the surface."

"I might be. For the right price."

"You're a smuggler?" Griff asked dryly.

Morgan smiled wide and toothy and let out a short chuckle. He pushed his cap onto the crown of his head and looked Griff up-and-down with a pair of sparkling eyes.

"I run supplies back-and-forth." He said this with accompanying hand gestures. "Occasionally, some rich A-levelers who want a better view of the ship ask for a lift--who am I to say no to a few credits?"

"And contraband?"

"Is there such a thing?" Morgan rose from his seat and his smile disappeared. He stuck his thumbs into the front of his belt and squinted hard at Griff. "Anyway what are you, a cop?"