Free Transference Station by Stephen Hunt Page B

his shoulder. ‘Then I shall leave you to give the supplies a very thorough going over. Considering the reputation of our mutual patron, perhaps we will both need to “satisfy” ourselves of our intentions later?’
    Calder instructed one on the robots to guide the professor to the cabin reserved for her and watched her board the ship, opening a lock inside the hold that led to the ship’s internal transport system. She had proved a lot more interesting than he had expected.
     
    Even if Calder’s attention hadn’t been focused on her willowy figure, it’s doubtful if he ever would have noticed the addition of an extra robot joining the gang of hundreds labouring inside the station’s cargo chamber. Clambering on top of one of the containers moving toward the Gravity Rose ; drilling a hole large enough for a metal tentacle to slip through, whipping around inside. Searching for the perfect place to conceal the very expensive and advanced tracking device that was the highest piece of technological art alliance intelligence manufactured for its co-conspirators… including corporate accomplices such as Pitor Skeeg and the Hyperfast Group.
     
    ***
     
    Zeno walked into the laundry. There was a single member of staff slouched behind the desk, the same old woman as the last time he had visited. She showed no signs of recognizing him, though, as distinctive as the robot’s golden skin must be to her eyes.
    ‘I need to use your terminal out back,’ said Zeno.
    ‘Fuck you,’ said the dour-faced woman.
    ‘I’ve only got twenty-three dollars left on my phone,’ said Zeno. ‘And it’s not enough to call my uncle.’
    ‘My terminal is broken.’
    ‘You’re in luck. I’m carrying the spare parts to fix it,’ said Zeno.
    She grunted and raised the counter, without further complaint or conversation. Zeno had rattled through the same series of pass phrases on his last visit, too. He went through a doorway, dozens of specialised cleaning robots ignoring his presence, so narrowly designed that all they could perceive were the clothes they were steaming and pressing and ironing. The laundry’s terminal was built into a wall in a little office beyond the main washing chamber, old and rickety and all camouflage, right down to the little faded sheets of paper taped to it (including the passwords into its fake top-level interface). Zeno passed a minute of electronic challenge and counter challenge to get through the security protocols, and then a polymer-thin screen extruded itself from the floor, sealing Zeno off the world outside. Just him and the terminal. After the secure connection was established, Zeno pulsed across the data he had on Abracadabra’s atmospheric sample, and then settled down to wait. It took a while for the transfer to be acknowledged. That was to be expected. Zeno’s data packets were passing along a hideously expensive network of hyperspace communications relays. There was another delay for the sample to be matched against survey data from hundreds of worlds and nations in the Edge, as well as everything the alliance had from its many deep space missions. If there was an answer recorded somewhere within humanity’s almost limitless bulk of knowledge, then he would be able to find it. A silhouette formed on the screen, a male voice sounding from the terminal’s speakers, its tenor faintly distorted by the tachyon signal bouncing through an impossibly expensive relay of wormholes and comms satellites.
    ‘So, you are leaving Transference Station quickly. I had thought it would take you a while longer to secure a job.’
    ‘That sample was extracted from wherever it is we are going. Running exploration cover for a deep space development company. Said company part-owned by Dollar-sign Dillard.’
    ‘DSD? That pickled old criminal. Why does your news not surprise me?’
    ‘I need a real coordinates match for that sample and any information you’ve got on the local system. So far I’ve got to go on