Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
Teddy Ross was annoyed by many things, but what infuriated him most was not being taken seriously. That damned brute not only nearly strangled him but also talked to him as if he were mentally deficient, and in the end, just stepped over him as if he were a pile of trash.
Teddy couldn't immediately rush off in pursuit — he sat motionless for a couple of minutes, just glad to be alive. For a moment, he was even tempted to drop everything, return to the editorial office, and pretend nothing had happened. But that was a moment of weakness — had he spent almost a year hanging around "The Liberty Standard", the only place that hired him not because his father had paid for it, for nothing?
Teddy had escaped the nannies assigned to him by his father, boarded a stream-train, and a couple of days later burst uninvited into the office of The Liberty Standard's editor-in-chief. The man listened to Ross melancholically, muttered something about youth reading too many stories about Farhad Jamal and his journalistic feats, and then told him to start tomorrow, at eight in the morning.
Ross started and since then had thrown himself at the hottest topics, writing articles without mincing words or fear of poking the pillars of society. And here were the Weisbergs — not just a topic, but a volcano! Teddy was green with envy of every journalist who had managed to touch it, even with a fingertip. If only he could dig up something like that! And then suddenly, in a bar right opposite work, appears a dark-haired giant with mismatched eyes — clearly a being of military designation — and starts a devilishly interesting conversation about donors and organs.
"Oh no, I won't let you slip away that easily," thought Ross. As soon as his knees stopped shaking and his hands trembling, he jumped up, ran out of the alley, and just caught sight of a taxi disappearing into the distance. Fortunately, Teddy had heard the brute repeat on the move: "Fourteenth? I'll be there soon," and immediately concluded it was about a hospital. Otherwise, why would a being bolt off with such a grim expression?
Ross rushed to the parking lot in front of the editorial office, luckily just a block away, jumped into his car, and arrived at the location twenty minutes later. The taxi that had gotten away from him was nowhere to be seen; meaning, the being was either already inside, or Teddy had gotten the address wrong. Well, only one way to check...
"Hey!" he shouted, barging through the doors and hurrying to the reception desk. "Have you seen my friend? In a dark grey suit, huge like an orangutan, with a face that looks like he wants to kill everyone, but his eyes are kind, mismatched..."
He was addressing, of course, not the registration terminal, but the nurse who was frantically tapping on her keyboard. At Ross's voice, which most colleagues compared to the screech of a nail on glass, the woman jumped and nudged her monitor with her hand. Teddy pressed against the window and caught a glimpse of the file she was filling out: "Car accident, one victim in critical condition, delivered today at 11:34."
"Our colleague was hit by a car, I came as soon as I could," Ross declared; his heart froze in his chest. Car accidents were rare, but in a resort city where one bunch of golden youth or another was constantly getting drunk...
"Oh God," the nurse exhaled. "Mr. Brandt, right?"
Ross nodded, just in case.
"He's in the ICU, our best surgical team is operating on him. Mr. Fontaine is already there, you need to go to the second floor in the third building. We've called your doctor..."
"Our doctor?" Ross repeated in confusion.
"The chief physician of your Express, she's already here. I can escort you, sir," the nurse stood up, adjusting her uniform, but Teddy, having figured something out, said:
"Don't let me distract you, thank you. I'll find them myself."
"Well, that explains a lot," he thought as the moving staircase carried him to the third building. If this brute, Fontaine, and the victim, Brandt, were from the crew of an elite express, it was no wonder everyone was jumping around them. The police had probably already buried the driver in the asphalt with their bare hands.
Teddy took out his phone, typed *"transgalactica-2 express"* into the Siona search engine, and then searched the official website for the surname Fontaine. By the time the staircase delivered the journalist to the doors of the third building, he had found what he was looking for: a photo of the brute among the crew of the express "Briareus", captioned "Axel Delano Fontaine, Head of Security Service." And a brief service record, the mere sight of which sent a faint shiver through Teddy.
That's why Ross crept cautiously towards the operating room on the second floor, trying not to catch anyone's eye. Soon he saw two people: the sought-after brute in the company of a tall, very beautiful woman in a light beach dress and a medical coat. Ross took out his voice recorder, set it to maximum sound pickup, placed it on the floor, and hid behind a large flower pot. He wasn't particularly keen on meeting Fontaine again just yet, especially when the man was clearly in a bad mood. He caught snippets of the conversation, from which it became clear that the brute's colleague had been hit by a car with a driver at the wheel, but the police, for some reason, couldn't catch the speed enthusiast.
"Strange," thought Teddy. "Usually they catch everyone. Then they let the necessary ones go, but to not catch up at all? Hmm, a souped-up car with a different engine?"
He'd driven one like that himself in his first and second years of university, but he'd been lucky — he'd never hit anyone. Such car modifications were illegal, though not punished too severely. But still... maybe there's a story here?
The brute was about to leave. Teddy grabbed the recorder and ducked into the nearest restroom. Fontaine walked past, carrying a large, beautiful bouquet. Ross waited a bit and set off after him. And just five minutes later, he lost both Fontaine and his way, getting lost in the completely identical hospital corridors. To make matters worse, no one came his way, and the direction signs only confused Teddy more.
"Topographical cretinism and journalism are incompatible, Ross!" the editor would sternly pronounce every time Teddy got lost on his way to an assignment. Well, what could he do, not everyone could navigate space without a navigator, and the damned hospital resembled a maze.
Finally, Ross reached some door, pulled the handle without much hope — and suddenly the door opened. Teddy emerged into the open, under the midday sun blazing with all its might. Glancing at the lock, the journalist discovered it was broken, and seemingly quite recently. Though who the hell knew, Ross was no expert on locks.
The heat hit Teddy's face like a red-hot frying pan. The time was approaching when even the natives of Almonzeia tried not to leave their homes. Ross hurried towards the parking lot, staying in the building's shadow. He needed to reach his car before the temperature climbed to forty and he passed out.
Up ahead, he heard someone's voice. Teddy perked up and hurried towards the people. But as soon as he clearly made out the first phrase, he froze in place:
"...and the damn little cook survived. They're operating on him now and might just pull him back from the other side."
Ross took out his voice recorder and clicked the button. Judging by the short pause before the next phrase, this man, a tired, irritated male voice, was talking to someone on the phone.
"Yeah, I'm at the hospital, where else would I be... the fourteenth... Everything was going perfectly until you, cross-eyed imbecile, smashed full speed into a pedestrian who turned out to be... what?!"
Ross pressed himself against the wall of the building. Lord, just don't let this man head in his direction!
"What the hell?!" the man suddenly roared so loudly that Teddy jumped and dropped the recorder. Luckily, it fell silently onto the soft lawn, not the path, but the stranger's fierce roar made Ross freeze in place, arm outstretched:
"Have you completely lost your mind?! Do you even understand that now you can't even fart in this city without those freaks from MT popping out from under the ground?! We've spent so much effort, so much time, and you..."
Another pause, and then another, quieter voice, a woman's, spoke up:
"Now calm down. Hector knows what he's doing."
Ross was petrified. There were several of them!
"I don't give a damn about your ideas!" the man growled, clearly unconvinced by his interlocutor's arguments. "We can't even go to ground now because..."
"Stop yelling. Someone might hear us," said the woman.
"Screw you! This is why you don't get involved with idealistic brats! One ham-fisted cretin jerking the wheel all over the place — and another who can't even press the damn call button on the damn phone to say they've got a tail!"
Another pause, this time a long one. Teddy dropped to his knees, trembling, reached for the recorder, and grabbed it like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
"Enough of this bullshit," the man suddenly said much quieter. "I'm tired of you as it is. I'll be back and we'll talk. Is Hector already there?" — pause. — "Well, good. Premature idiots!"
"Hector knows how to fix everything," the woman said. "No need to be so nervous."
"How should I be? Seventeen cars without trackers — and on the last one, this degenerate managed to screw up. Even though all he had to do was pick up Hector on the street! That's it!"
"Do you have to yell like that under the hospital windows?"
"What windows?! It's a blank wall here!"
"Then why do I hear someone breathing, and that someone isn't you?"
Teddy went cold despite the heat, scrambled back to the door, and slipped inside like a mouse into its hole. The sudden temperature change made him dizzy, and his legs turned to jelly, but understanding perfectly well that those two would find this door any moment, he rushed down the corridor, not caring where he was going.
The corridor ended at the now-familiar staircase, but it was moving so slowly, and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and those two as quickly as possible, so he raced down it like a rabbit.
Teddy's heart was already pounding in his throat when he flew past the reception area, burst outside, ran down the stairs to the parking lot — and would have collapsed, gasping from the run and the searing heat after the hospital's cool air. Actually, he would have collapsed if someone hadn't caught him by the scruff of his neck.
"Easy now, easy," a calming baritone voice broke through the ringing in his ears and the frantic pounding in his temples. "You just came from there, do you really want to go back so soon?"
Darkness swam before Ross's eyes. He clutched at someone's shoulder, trying to inhale the hot air, but it refused to enter his lungs. Teddy, half-fainting, hung onto the stranger, whose face he couldn't even properly see. The man clicked his tongue sympathetically, picked up the journalist like a ragdoll, and asked:
"Where's your car?"
"O-o-over there," Ross forced out. "White Bella Polaris, plate 47K-210-16..."
He probably passed out then from the heat and his racing heart, because he came to with his entire body enveloped in the pleasant coolness of air conditioning. Teddy blinked, took a few deep breaths, and suddenly an open water bottle was at his lips.
"Drink," came the same baritone. "What possessed you to run around in this sun without a hat or even water?"
The journalist gulped down the soda dejectedly; finishing the bottle, he looked a bit higher and flushed with heat. Ross had always liked girls and guys of one particular type, and his past lovers, Elia and Justin, were even mistaken for brother and sister. And this man, who looked about forty-five, was so exactly his type that Ross blushed from the roots of his hair to his neck.
"This is yours," the stranger said and placed the voice recorder on Teddy's lap. "You almost dropped it. I turned it off."
The man was very swarthy and very broad-shouldered. From under thick brows, strangely black, expressionless eyes without any shine looked at Ross. Above the stranger's full lips were fluffy black mustaches, at his temples — short, soft sideburns, and when he turned in profile to adjust the air conditioning, Teddy nearly choked on his own saliva. He had rarely seen such large, curved, almost predatory-beak-like noses and instantly lost all willpower at the sight.
"I see you're feeling better," the stranger concluded. "Go home, better with the autopilot on, and don't go outside until the heat subsides. All the best," — with that, he opened the car door and was gone. Teddy didn't even have time to ask his name. He jerked to get out of the car, but the heat outside had already become such an inferno that he slumped back into the seat and muttered:
"Bella, autopilot. Home."
"Good afternoon, sir," the car replied. "Route home set."
"Send a letter to the editor at the work email," Teddy groaned and stretched out on the seat, closing his eyes. It seemed he had heatstroke again. "Good afternoon, this is Ross. I have a story for an article. I'll transcribe the voice recorder and send it later, but it concerns the Express 'Briareus' of our dear MT Corporation."
***
"Briareus" towered over the platform like a colossal mythical serpent — its smooth, dark blue body adorned with elegant silver patterns. One hundred twenty-four multi-deck cars rose skyward, their pointed, stained-glass-patterned portholes glittering. Ax had served on the elite express for five years, but he still felt awe and reverence looking at this creation of MT engineers.
The train's giant shadow covered the entire platform. Fontaine had spent much time on trains racing through stream-tunnels from planet to planet, but Transgalactica-2 class expresses were special. And "Briareus" was the best of the special. Over the years, Ax had never regretted choosing the post of Security Chief here from all the offers after his service.
A crew of one thousand four hundred thirty-seven humans and beings catered to every need of the rich and famous passengers. It had everything to ensure a comfortable and safe journey through the colonized arm of the Galaxy — a medical car equipped with the most modern equipment, restaurants and cafes, cinemas and theaters, strip bars and shopping decks, pools and fitness halls, gardens, erotic clubs, and even a library with a number of real books.
One thousand technical and service personnel meticulously ensured the express ran like clockwork and the passengers had an excellent time, wanting for nothing. Ax and his four hundred soldiers ensured the safety of passengers and crew. He shared this heavy burden with the IT department — they handled information security, and Fontaine and his subordinates handled, so to speak, the physical kind.
The SS of the express occupied seven cars closer to the train's tail — only the expedition department and baggage cars followed them. The SS cars housed well-appointed barracks, training halls, a recreation area, a mess hall, an arsenal, and even prison cells — the SS functioned as police during the voyage.
Axel had a work office with a reception area and his own cozy compartment, but no matter how much he wanted to get there, he first had to notify the Chief about what happened to Ferenc. And give Claude the bouquet before the heat finished it off.
The command car occupied by the train's Chief followed right after the engineering and technical cars and the locomotive with the huge "MT" monogram on its shield. Like the other management and life support cars, they differed from the passenger ones in a darker blue color, with almost no silver trim. Instead of portholes, they had screens with sensors; instead of elegant wrought-iron stairs — metal grating steps. Ax ran up them and touched the sensor on the door. The panels slid silently aside, and Fontaine almost tripped over a technician who was meticulously examining something in the long lines of cables under the floor panels. The carpet was rolled up and pushed against the wall.
"Excuse me," said Ax as the technician threw him a glance full of silent indignation and unspoken epithets. "Is Miss Reneal here?"
"Hasn't passed by me," the technician grumbled and dove back into the car's belly. Pre-departure technical inspections ran around the clock, on a very tight schedule.
The dispatcher of "Briareus", Claude Reneal, a charming, plump blonde, sat in the reception area at a terminal and instead of a greeting, met Ax with a stern question:
"Did you buy it?"
Fontaine handed her the bouquet, and the girl scrutinized it critically. Everything done for the train Chief's anniversary had to meet the highest standards. The previous two bouquets Claude had rejected as insufficiently refined.
"Fifty-five flowers?"
"I hope so. Didn't count. Is she here?"
"Yes, but busy. Reviewing the route."
"I need to speak with her. Ferenc is in the ICU."
"Oh Lord!" Claude's eyes widened in fright. "What happened?!"
"Hit by a car. Thank God, the hospital thought to call Frina. She's monitoring the surgery."
"My God, how awful! Who did it?"
"Don't know yet," Ax hissed. "But I'll find out soon."
"Poor Ferenc! I hope he'll be alright!" Claude pressed a button on the phone. "Anna Dmitrievna, Mr. Fontaine is here to see you. It's... it's urgent."
"Let him in," came the cold, low voice of the train's Chief, and Fontaine crossed the threshold of the office.
The fragile figure of Anna Lavrova, Chief of the Express "Briareus", was lost behind the massive desk. Bending over a panel in a frame of black oak, she was cross-checking the route sent by the dispatchers with the one approved by the directorate. Ax respectfully froze at the opposite edge of the desk, waiting for permission to speak.
Anna Lavrova was just over one and a half meters tall, just under fifty kilograms in weight, and she had inspired awe in Ax from their very first meeting. Her displeased voice could raise blisters on sensitive skin, and her angry gaze had the impact force of a neuro-paralytic taser. Always with snow-white bobbed hair, in black-rimmed glasses and a blue tunic, she somehow reminded Ax of his platoon commander — though outwardly there was no resemblance between his brick-like mug and Lavrova's narrow, swarthy face.
"Speak," the train's Chief finally said.
"Our head pastry chef, Ferenc Brandt, was hit by a car this afternoon."
Anna Dmitrievna straightened up sharply; her bright blue eyes flashed like a tigress discovering a missing cub, and she asked abruptly:
"Where is he?"
Ax gave a brief report on the situation. Anna Dmitrievna pressed the intercom button to the dispatcher:
"Claude, I need the data on Brandt's insurance. Send a request to the fourteenth hospital. If they claim the insurance doesn't cover the treatment, send them my order to use the reserve fund. And add another day to Dr. Akinola's vacation."
"Yes, Madame."
Lavrova turned to Fontaine:
"Has the police found out who did it?"
"Not yet. Or rather, they haven't spoken to me yet, but I think they'll gather the courage soon."
"Have you informed his family?"
"I'll contact Eliza as soon as Frina returns with the latest news. Dr. Akinola," Ax added, "believes the surgery will be successful, but Ferenc won't be able to make the voyage."
"Naturally. How much time will he need to recover?"
"Frina said at least a month."
"Poor man. I'll arrange to pay for Eliza's tickets and hotel," the Express Chief frowned. "I think under these circumstances, celebrating the anniversary would be inappropriate."
"But Ferenc would be very upset," said Fontaine. "He baked cakes and pastries all night yesterday. Plus, we now need a new head pastry chef, and quickly."
"Also true. We could, of course, depart without a head pastry chef, but..."
"The other cooks will simply be overstretched if they have to handle the pastry section too. The chiefs of the 'Altair', 'Vega', and 'Galatea' are invited to the celebration," Axel added pointedly.
Anna Dmitrievna drummed her fingers on the oak frame. The cream of society traveling on the express wished to savor the most exquisite desserts on demand. It was frightening to imagine the scandal a world-famous singer or a prime minister's daughter could cause if not served their crème de fleur with pineapples.
"Very well," the Chief decided. "I'll ask my colleagues about possible candidates. And you provide the police with full cooperation in finding this driver. Even if," she added with a hint of threat, "the police resist."
***
Fontaine returned to his office deep in thought. On Almonzis, owned by the MT Corporation, the wish of the Express "Briareus" Chief was law. When deposits of raw material necessary for DNA recombination were discovered on this planet eighty years ago, MT conducted terraforming that turned a scorching hell into a less scorching one. The result was two habitable belts in the northern and southern hemispheres, where the Corporation built factories, stream-train stations, depots, and a capital which, without further ado, was named after the planet. MT owned everything here, and Transgalactica-2 expresses were the crown jewels.
Ax had no doubt that if he started the investigation himself, the police would provide him with all possible assistance, even if they hated every minute of their cooperation. All the stranger, then, that not a single officer had yet contacted him or even the train's dispatcher. Were they that afraid?
Fontaine turned on the terminal and immediately saw six new passenger verification requests. You could always buy a ticket for a Transgalactica-2 class express (if you had that much money), but the Security Chief decided whether you entered the compartment. A train packed to the brim with politicians, billionaires, stars of all kinds and magnitudes — was a great temptation and a constant target...
Who hadn't Axel discovered in the passenger lists! One could write a book about who and why tried to get on the express — if not for the non-disclosure agreement. Sometimes Fontaine thought he'd seen fewer terrorists in his years of service in the stream-troopers than in five years of pre-voyage checks. As for deranged fans and fanatics, swindlers of all stripes, and ordinary thieves, it wasn't even worth mentioning.
Fontaine opened the first request. Since almost all tickets were already sold, he had released his officers on leave and was conducting the final checks himself. However, before he could load the first passenger's photo and biometrics into the General Registry, the phone rang. And not the work one, but his personal.
"Yes?" Ax inquired, just in case — uninvitingly. A hesitant sniffling sounded in the earpiece.
"Mr. Fontaine?"
"Hmm."
"Security Service Chief of the Express 'Briareus'?"
"Still me."
"We regret to inform you that your employee..."
"I'm already aware," Axel cut off the speaker, wondering why all this was being relayed to him not by an auto-dispatcher. Did the police there have nothing to do, that live employees wasted time on calls with standard text? "To whom do I have the honor?"
"Captain Lidmann, sir, head of the Department of Serious Crimes Against the Person. We would like to see you in person, to..." the speaker swallowed. "You see, the thing is, this incident... this unfortunate occurrence..." — a short noise, like a struggle for the phone, sounded, and a completely unexpected, familiar voice clarified the situation:
"Ax? It's Phan Thi Linh. Long time no see. How are you?"
"Phan!" Fontaine exclaimed; his spirits lifted. How long had it been — five years? "It's you!"
"Yes. I arrived to investigate a certain incident."
"With the pastry chef from my express who was hit?" Axel asked in surprise.
"No. Not exactly. This isn't a phone conversation. I'm waiting for you at police headquarters. Can you come?"
"Of course," Fontaine replied with relief. Finally, a reasonable being! "I'll be glad to see you. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Excellent. See you then."
Phan hung up, and Ax canceled the passenger check. Before shutting down the terminal, he quickly scrolled to the end of the list of ticket buyers and, not believing his eyes, stared at the last photo with the caption: "Theodore Edward Ross, journalist of 'The Liberty Standard'." What the hell did he want here?
***
The white police building seemed to sway slightly in the heat haze rising from the streets of Almonzeia. Ax, fanning himself with his hat, dove into the blissful cool of the conditioned air and gladly strode toward Phan Thi Linh. Her narrow palm disappeared into Fontaine's hand. The major smiled warmly.
She hadn't changed a bit in the five years since they'd last seen each other — slightly above average height, delicate as a figurine, with smooth, glossy hair like black silk and radiant dark eyes. Fontaine grinned. Many made the fatal mistake of taking her for a sweet, harmless kitten because of her plump cheeks with charming dimples.
Apparently, the police officer hovering behind Phan was no exception. His fleshy face wore a fixed, almost mournful expression.
"Captain Karl Lidmann," Phan introduced him. Ax shook his hand.
"We deeply regret what happened," the man muttered, carefully avoiding looking at Phan. "The Police Chief is expecting us in his office, sir."
The reason for their grief and anxiety was as clear as day to Axel. No sooner had the police begun their investigation than it turned out the pedestrian hit was from the crew of an elite express. After which, an officer from the MT Corporation's Inquiry Service had instantly materialized on the police department's doorstep. How could a man not go grey — especially when that officer was someone like Phan? But why? What business did the Inquiry Service have with a hit pastry chef?
"Congratulations," Ax said quietly as they ascended to the high command's office, nodding at Phan's gleaming major's insignia. "You don't regret taking the voluntary contract, I see."
"Thank you. I never doubted it for a minute."
Lidmann also glanced at Phan Thi's green uniform, but not at the insignia — at the "epsilon" badge, and with such a martyred expression, as if the entire police force had something to hide. Though Ax wouldn't have been surprised at that.
The Police Chief, a tall, grey-moustached man named François Morel, spent a long time trying to shake Fontaine's hand, repeatedly assuring him of their sincere sympathy and readiness to provide every assistance, though Ax was sure Morel would gladly have strangled him. All police hated cases involving MT, as the Corporation watched over its property with the vigilance of a mountain eagle. Police interests were nothing to MT when it came to its assets or people.
"So what actually happened?" Axel asked once they were all seated in the soft armchairs. "I've gathered that our head pastry chef was hit by a car without a tracker, with a driver at the wheel. Have you been able to identify him?"
Judging by the policemen's faces, both his assumptions were correct, and neither Lidmann nor Morel liked it.
"It's rather more complicated, Axel," said Major Phan. "We've had, um, a theft, and the car that hit your pastry chef is on the list of vehicles used by the perpetrators."
The Police Chief swallowed weakly; Ax caught the scent of sweat cutting through Morel's cologne.
"A theft?"
Phan looked at him intently. Fontaine tried to clear his mind, focused on emptiness, and the major's mental voice sounded in his head:
"Someone robbed one of our plant's laboratories. It was producing... material for recombination. Sorry, Ax, no details. You're no longer with the service."
"Understood," — the mental conversation came less easily than before. Ax hadn't spoken with anyone this way in a long time. "But why haven't you caught them? How did they slip away?"
"It's very difficult to explain to someone without clearance. The point is, they had an entire fleet of vehicles; they kept switching cars, hoping to throw us off the trail, and when one of them finally got caught in the suburbs of Almonzeia..."
"An entire fleet of cars without trackers?"
Phan was silent, but he could feel the full force of her frustration.
"I need to interrogate all the witnesses you've managed to find," said the major. "Review all the camera footage. I'll also be interviewing your staff. Don't worry, it's completely painless, as you've already had occasion to verify."
Morel and Lidmann stared at Ax as if he had just witnessed him endure inhuman torture. What were they so afraid of? Phan had never harmed anyone... without cause.
"The Chief of 'Briareus' has instructed me to provide every possible assistance to the investigation," said Fontaine. "Since the victim is an employee of a train owned by MT, Amendment Sixteen comes into effect. That's in case you weren't aware."
"Y-yes," Morel mumbled. "I... We know. We will place at your disposal everything... everything you need."
"I've ordered the witnesses brought in," said Lidmann. "The first six are already waiting for you downstairs."
"Thank you. We'll begin immediately," Phan turned to Ax: "Do you want to observe or participate?"
"Participate. I remember the rules. Watch, but don't touch, and all that."
The police officers left first. When Phan and Axel were alone, she rose on her tiptoes and patted his shoulder reassuringly:
"I'll find whoever hit your guy, Ax, I promise. But I have a security clearance now, and I can't tell you everything anymore, which makes my job a hell of a lot harder. Why did you leave in the first place?" she exclaimed with half-joking reproach.
"Well, you know, civilian life isn't so bad. The kitchen crew on the express are great people, and the food is excellent."
"You and your stomach," Phan snorted. "Always were that way — wherever we were deployed, your first priority was finding something to scavenge and eat."
"But I always shared what I found with everyone, might I add."
A flicker of disgust crossed Phan's face — perhaps she was remembering the giant slugs the troopers, lacking meat and other provisions, had fried during the siege of Ellana.
"Don't think I'm prying into your clearance," said Ax, "but just how big is this thing that was stolen? Could they split it into pieces and take it in different directions?"
"It's a tube, twenty-five centimeters long, twelve in diameter. It weighs about a kilogram, but the thieves won't be able to open it to divide the contents."
"Hm. A pity they didn't make off with a fifteen-ton centrifuge; those are harder to carry around unnoticed. Still, you can't exactly slip a tube like that into your pocket. You've sealed all the stations, I hope?"
Phan looked at him intently. Axel waited in silence. He'd already figured it out anyway.
"The depot where the Transgalactica-2 expresses are berthed," said the major. "It can't simply be sealed off or have passengers' luggage searched."
"But it can, if you have a friend who's head of Security Service. Though I'd still need authorization from the train Chief. And she's only responsible for 'Briareus'."
"But you could put in a good word with the other express Chiefs?"
"As if you really need that. Surely they've given you enough authority to tear Almonzeia apart?"
"Not when it comes to prime ministers or multi-billionaires," Phan said gloomily. "Besides, I've been strictly ordered not to make a fuss. And if I do, it won't be authority they give me."
"Alright. After the interrogation, I'll contact Anna Dmitrievna and try to do something for you."