Chapter 158 · Overdue

Eli finished the last of his breakfast, pushed the empty bowl aside and reached automatically for the reader beside his cup. It had become part of the routine by now. Wake. Check the sensor. Eat. Check again afterward if the meal had contained anything particularly ambitious. Take the enzyme capsule. Get on with the day.

He barely thought about it anymore.

He passed the reader over the sensor fixed to the back of his left arm. A soft chime. The glucose reading appeared first.

Eli glanced at it, satisfied. “Happy pancreas.”

Across the table, Stent looked up from his caff. Eli, as usual, showed him the reading. Stent nodded and continued with his breakfast.

Eli was about to put the reader down when a second notification slid onto the screen.

He stopped.

IMPLANT RESERVOIR LOW
REFILL RECOMMENDED

“Oh.”

Stent looked up again. This time Eli was still staring at the display. “What?” Eli turned the reader slightly so he could see it. Stent read the warning. “The insulin reservoir.”

“Yep.”

“You expected this.”

“Eventually.”

That earned him a look.

Eli sighed and checked the detailed status. The implant still had enough insulin for a little while; this was not an emergency warning. Just the first notification that the reservoir had dropped below the recommended refill threshold.

Which was exactly what the physician on Baros had told him would happen.

Approximately six weeks. Reader would warn him. Refill before it ran dry.

Perfectly straightforward.

Eli put the reader on the table.

Stent watched him.

“What?”

“You stopped moving.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You have been instructed how to refill it.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the necessary supplies?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you thinking about?”

Eli looked toward the medical drawer. The refill kits had been sitting there since Baros.

Sealed. Untouched, apart from the afternoon when he had opened it to make sure the hospital had actually packed everything they claimed to have packed.

He knew exactly what was inside. Insulin vials. Sterile refill needles. Skin cleaner. Anesthetic spray. And The small positioning interface that allowed the reader to locate the implant's refill port beneath the skin and guide the needle into it.

Eli looked back at Stent. “I’m thinking that reading the instructions was considerably less disturbing when the needle was theoretical.”

Stent considered this. “You should refill it before Stygeon.”

“Yes.”

They were less than six hours out. And Stygeon had already been waiting for them far longer than it was supposed to.

The original delivery window had been perfectly reasonable when they left Sembla. Then came the queue, the unplanned port stop, the attempted theft of the Faded Glory, and seven days spent searching for a ship that Tee had successfully rescued without consulting either of them.

At this point, Eli preferred not to calculate exactly how late they were.

He picked the reader up again. The warning remained patiently on the screen. Not urgent. Just something that had to be done. “All right,” he said. “Before Stygeon.”

Stent stood.

Eli looked at him. “You don’t actually have to help me.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to anyway.”

“Yes.”

Eli sighed and got to his feet. The reader chimed once more as he put the dishes in the sink. Routine, Eli reminded himself. It was all routine. Right up until the part where he had to put a needle into his own abdomen and hit a reservoir he could not see.

Stent opened the medical drawer while Eli cleared the breakfast things away.

The refill kit sat exactly where it had been for the past several weeks, still packed in the pale gray case from Baros. By the time Eli returned to the table, Stent had already opened it and was reading the instructions displayed inside the lid.

“I have read those.”

“I assumed you had.”

“You’re reading them anyway.”

“Yes.”

Eli sat down and lifted his shirt enough to expose the faint surgical scar low on his abdomen. The implant itself was almost impossible to see now unless he knew where to look. He could feel it beneath the skin if he pressed there, which was something he had discovered once and had seen no compelling reason to repeat.

He activated refill mode on the reader.

A positioning display appeared immediately, locating the implanted reservoir and placing a small target over the access point.

Eli studied it.

Stent studied it too. “That is reasonably precise.”

“Comforting.”

The anesthetic spray was less dramatic. Cold, briefly unpleasant, then numb. Eli waited the recommended interval, picked up the refill assembly and looked between it and the reader.

Stent watched him for perhaps ten seconds. “You may give it to me.”

“I can do it.”

“I know.”

That was the irritating thing about Stent. He could make an offer sound entirely neutral while making it obvious that he had already noticed every reason the offer might be useful.

Eli adjusted the position once.

The reader asked him to correct the angle. He corrected it.

Then stopped. Not frightened, exactly. Just profoundly unconvinced that this was something he wanted to learn by trial and error on himself.

He held the refill assembly out. “Fine.” Stent took it without comment. “You’re not allowed to look pleased.”

“I am not pleased.”

“You have the face.”

“I have one face.”

“That is demonstrably false.”

Stent ignored him.

The reader did most of the difficult work, guiding the alignment and confirming when the refill port had been reached. Eli chose to watch the screen instead of the procedure itself.

A progress indicator appeared.

Twenty percent. Forty. Sixty.

He let out a breath. “That’s it?”

“So far.”

“That sounds unnecessarily ominous.”

Stent glanced at him. “The reservoir is filling normally.”

“Better.”

The display reached one hundred percent and chimed.

REFILL COMPLETE.

Stent finished, applied the small sterile patch supplied with the kit and began putting everything away.

Eli looked down. Nothing dramatic had happened.

Good.

He preferred medical procedures that ended without anyone using the word complication.

The reader updated. ESTIMATED RESERVOIR INTERVAL: 43 DAYS

“Forty-three,” Eli said.

Stent closed the case. “Acceptable.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“You were the one who described this as routine.”

“I described checking the sensor as routine. This is an entirely different category of routine.”

Stent returned the kit to the drawer. “Next time you will know what to expect.”

Eli lowered his shirt. “That was dangerously close to reassurance.”

“I was stating a fact.”

“Of course.”

Tee rolled into the common room and chirped.

Eli pointed toward the closed medical drawer. “Finished.” The droid gave a softer tone. “Yes. Everything is fine.” Another chirp. “No, you do not need to log it.”

Tee turned his dome toward Stent. Stent said, “He probably already has.”

Eli sighed.

The ship had apparently decided that his pancreas was now a collective project. At least it was a well-organized one.

The cockpit alert sounded a moment later. Six hours to Stygeon had become five hours and fifty-eight minutes.

Eli stood. “Back to the other problem.”

Stent looked toward the cockpit. “The overdue delivery.”

“The very overdue delivery.”

They had stopped calculating the delay somewhere around the sixth day without the Faded Glory. It had ceased to be useful information and become merely an accusation.

Now, with the ship recovered and the sealed case still untouched in the cargo compartment, the number mattered again.

Eli followed Stent forward. Tee was already plugged into navigation by the time they reached the cockpit. The Stygeon approach corridor stretched across the display.

Normal commercial traffic. Normal beacon activity. Normal local control.

Eli found that reassuring for approximately three seconds.

Then Stent brought up the delivery instructions from Sembla. The original contact window stared back at them. Expired. By a lot.

Eli leaned back in his chair. “There’s no graceful way to phrase this.”

“We do not require grace.”

“We’re traders arriving more than a week late with sensitive Rebel hardware.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds worse when you say it plainly.”

“I did not say it.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

Stent ignored that.

The package itself remained sealed and powered down exactly as instructed. Communications encryption hardware and authentication modules. Nothing explosive. Nothing that would interest an ordinary port inspector unless someone opened the case and knew what they were looking at.

Which, Eli suspected, would be the least of their problems if the Stygeon cell had spent the intervening days wondering where their couriers had gone.

He brought up the identity packet.

HORATIO FIGG registered commercial operator.

Beside it:

REN VIROS crew and co-owner.

Those were the names the cell had been given. Or should have been given.

Eli stared at his own false name. “How much do you think they checked?”

Stent understood immediately. “We missed a delivery window involving sensitive equipment.”

“So extensively.”

“Yes.”

Eli rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Wonderful.”

“They may simply require verification.”

“They may.”

Stent glanced at him.

Eli looked back.

Neither believed that would be the whole of it.

Stygeon announced itself first as weather.

A broad front of gray cloud covered most of the hemisphere beneath them, cut by flashes of distant electrical storms. The commercial approach lanes threaded through it in clean controlled vectors, each ship separated by local traffic control with a degree of discipline Eli had not seen in several systems.

That was either encouraging or deeply suspicious.

He had not decided which.

“Faded Glory, registration confirmed. Maintain vector three-seven. Reduce approach velocity by twelve percent.”

Eli complied. “Faded Glory reducing.”

“Destination?”

“Commercial berth request. Short stay.”

There was a pause. Nothing unusual. Probably.

Stent’s attention remained on the passive sensor display.

Eli gave the controller their cargo classification, crew count and intended duration.

Another pause. Slightly longer this time.

Then: “Faded Glory, hold present vector.”

Eli and Stent looked at each other.

There it was. Tee gave a quiet whistle.

“Could still be routine,” Eli said.

Stent did not dignify that. Thirty seconds passed. Then forty.

Other ships continued around them, assigned descending vectors toward the surface.

The Faded Glory remained in place. At fifty-two seconds, a different voice came over the channel.

Male. Older.

No traffic-controller cadence. “Faded Glory, confirm pilot identification.”

Eli’s posture changed by perhaps half a degree. “Horatio Figg.”

“Crew?”

“Ren Viros.”

Another pause.

This one was not administrative. “Stand by.”

The channel closed.

Eli stared at the comm panel. “Well.”

Stent folded his hands behind his back from the copilot’s seat, which was somehow possible and irritating.

“They have been expecting us.”

“That would appear to be the optimistic interpretation.”

Two minutes later, traffic control returned. “Faded Glory, you are cleared to surface. Vector attached. Do not deviate.”

A route appeared. Not toward the main commercial landing field.

Eli studied it. “Industrial district.”

“Yes.”

“Still registered as public access.”

“Nominally.”

“I hate that word.”

The route took them away from the largest port complex and toward an older district near the edge of the city, where warehouses gave way to repair yards, freight depots and low manufacturing blocks.

Not isolated. That was deliberate, Eli suspected. An isolated landing pad would attract notice.

A forgettable industrial berth would not. He followed the vector.

No further messages arrived.

The landing site appeared through the clouds: a rectangular pad wedged between two old cargo structures, paint worn almost completely away from the edge markings. A fuel line ran along one side. Several stacked containers blocked most sightlines from the neighboring lanes.

There were no visible Rebel markings.

Naturally. There were also no ground crew.

“Comforting,” Eli said.

Stent scanned the surrounding buildings. “Four possible observation points.”

“Only four?”

“Visible.”

“Better.” Tee chirped. “No,” Eli said. “That was sarcasm.” The droid made a noise suggesting he knew.

They touched down.

The engines wound slowly toward idle. Nothing happened.

Eli waited. Thirty seconds. One minute. Two.

Then the comm panel lit.

Not on the port frequency. A narrow-band local transmission. Encrypted.

Tee processed it automatically. A single line appeared on the display.

FIGG AND VIROS REMAIN ABOARD.

Eli leaned back. “Friendly.”

Stent read the message. “They know exactly who they are addressing.”

“That part I actually prefer.”

Another message arrived.

CASE REMAINS SEALED. DO NOT ACCESS EXTERNAL COMMS. WAIT.

Eli looked toward the cargo compartment behind them. “Well. At least nobody’s pretending this is routine anymore.”

Stent shut down the long-range transmitter.

Tee objected.

“We were instructed not to transmit,” Stent said. Tee chirped again. “Yes. That includes complaining to anyone outside the ship.”

Eli unfastened his harness but did not stand.

Through the forward viewport, Stygeon continued being completely ordinary.

A freight hauler passed beyond the stacked containers. Someone drove a repulsor cart down the adjoining service lane. Rain began tapping against the canopy.

Nobody approached. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Eli checked the time. “This is either very cautious or very theatrical.”

“Caution is more likely.”

“That’s less reassuring.”

At fourteen minutes, Stent spoke. “Movement.”

Eli followed his gaze. Two people had appeared from between the warehouses.

Civilian clothes. One human woman, middle-aged, dark jacket. One Duros.

Neither carried visible weapons. Which meant very little.

They walked past the Faded Glory without looking at it. Kept going. Disappeared around the next building. Eli waited.

Three minutes later, a third person approached from the opposite direction. Young human man. Tool case in one hand.

He stopped beneath the port landing strut as though inspecting it, crouched, opened the case and remained there for less than a minute.

Then stood and walked away. The comm lit again.

LOWER RAMP. BOTH CREW. NO DROID. CASE STAYS ABOARD.

Tee gave an immediate, furious burst.

Eli looked at him. “I know.” Another burst. “We're not leaving you.” Tee continued.

Stent stood. “You will remain connected to the ship.” That made Tee stop.

Stent looked toward him. “If the ramp is forced or the vessel moves without authorization, you respond as you judge appropriate. You know how to take good care of the ship.” Tee’s photoreceptor brightened.

Eli pointed at him. “Within reason.” Tee beeped. Eli looked at Stent. “He ignored that.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Stent checked the compact holdout weapon beneath his jacket.

Eli noticed. “So we’re taking weapons?”

“No.”

Stent removed it and set it in the cockpit locker.

Eli frowned. “You think they’ll search us.”

“Yes.”

“Then taking one just gives them something to object to.”

“Yes.”

Eli sighed and removed his own knife from the inside of his left boot. It joined Stent’s weapon.

Neither of them particularly enjoyed being unarmed. Both had learned that sometimes carrying a weapon into a tense conversation made the conversation much shorter than intended.

They left the cockpit and headed for the ramp.

Stent stopped at Ch’eth’s enclosure on the way. They had put him inside before beginning the landing sequence, as they always did. The kivren was awake now, stretched long against the transparent front panel. His water was full, food still sat in the dish, and apparently neither fact compensated for the indignity of confinement.

Ch’eth scratched at the panel as soon as Stent approached.

Stent checked the latch. Secure.

Ch’eth scratched again.

“No.”

The scratching became more determined.

Eli stopped beside him. “He has a compelling argument.”

“He has food, his bedding, and toys.”

“Not the same thing.”

Stent looked through the panel. Ch’eth immediately put both forepaws against it and stretched upward, plainly expecting this to improve matters.

It did not.

“You remain here.”

Ch’eth scratched once more.

Stent straightened.

“He ignored that too,” Eli said.

“Yes.”

They continued toward the ramp.

Eli sighed. “Figg and Viros.”

“For now.”

“And if they know anything else?”

Stent looked toward the sealed ramp.

“Then we discover how much.”

Eli keyed the controls. The ramp began to descend. Rain-wet air entered the ship.

At the bottom stood four people. Not two.

Not one mechanic. Four. All armed. Not aiming at them.

Yet.

The woman at the front looked up. Her gaze passed over Eli first. Then Stent. Something changed in her face. Not recognition. Confirmation. That was worse. “Horatio Figg?”

Eli stepped onto the ramp. “That’s me.”

Her eyes moved to Stent. “Ren Viros.”

Stent gave a slight nod.

The woman looked between them once more. Then said: “You’re nine days late.”

Eli had been hoping nobody had done the arithmetic.

Apparently they had.

“Yeah,” he said.

“We noticed.”