by Daniel Gibbs
At that report from his executive officer, James Henry could only sigh at the utter predictability of the League of Sol's bureaucracy. New Hathwell was just one small colony among many that the League had planted in its foothold in Sagittarius, but even here, the League kept all of the accouterments of power its system seemed to thrive on. You could set your watches by them. Which, Henry mused, was the point.
Light from the plotting holotank in front of his seat played over Henry's face, a grid of gold and crimson light over his dark skin. The blinking crimson dot that now lit up over his forehead drew closer to the center of the display. He didn't need to hear his piloting crew confirm the numbers he already crunched in his head; they would intercept the Shadow Wolf about five minutes before they were far enough from New Hathwell and its gravity well to initiate their Lawrence drive.
Seated to his right, at a control panel that monitored ship systems, Tia Nguyen gave Henry a concerned look. "I told you this would happen," she warned. Her skin had a bronze tint to the faint yellowish tone that reflected her ancestral origins in East Asia, just as Henry's tone testified to the ancestors who hailed from the continent of Africa. Gray eyes met his brown eyes with irritation and a degree of challenge. "And we don't have a legitimate export license."
"There's no such thing as a legitimate export license for what we're carrying. Not with the League," Henry reminded her. In the cargo hold of the Shadow Wolf were containers loaded with lithium ore mined from New Hathwell. While on a planetary level it was not always rare—on Earth, it was one of the less-rare elements—at the scope of an interstellar stage, with the voracious demands that an interstellar economy could have, lithium was much rarer. "But don't worry."
"Don't worry?" Tia frowned at him. "You're telling me not to worry about the League catching us with a load of export-restricted cargo? They'd send all of us to a gulag for that."
"And space poor Oskar," another voice added. The lilt of Cera McGinty rose from the pilot seat. The diminutive Irishwoman, from the independent world Connaught, kept her eyes on the controls. "Just say the word, Cap, and I'll show th' sassenach what my girl can do."
"The last thing I want to do is let the League know about the Wolf's fusion drives," Henry said. "And there's no point in running otherwise. Trigger deceleration. Signal we're standing by for customs inspection."
Cera's face betrayed her worry, but she obeyed.
"Time to intercept is now ten minutes," Tia said. "Do you mind telling us lesser mortals what you've got in mind, or should I get down on my knees and pray?"
Henry looked at her with amusement. "Says the agnostic."
"Retorts the lapsed Methodist," Tia replied.
"I wouldn't call myself lapsed, so to speak. Vidia thinks I'm just spiritually scarred." He stood up. "Let Oskar know to take Brigitte and put up the quarantine sign. Just in case."
"I'll inform the good doctor now," Tia said. There was still worry in her voice. "Jim…"
Henry looked back to her from the hatch leading out of the Shadow Wolf's control bridge. At his height of nearly two meters, he could be imposing, if a little on the lanky side. But there was nothing intimidating about the confident grin. "It's handled. Don't worry, and let's not give them a reason to be suspicious, eh?"
"Right," Tia breathed. "We're just a perfectly innocent cargo ship, nothing suspicious or wrong about us. Just the load of export-banned ore worth a fortune."
"That's the spirit." Henry left the bridge at that point. The hatch slid closed behind him.
The League customs cutter was not an impressive ship by any means. Thirty meters long and eight meters wide, with just two internal decks, the little vessel was shaped somewhat like a supersonic airliner without wings. The cutter was no match for a torpedo skiff, let alone any real warship. Even an armed merchantman stood a good chance of turning it into a cloud of debris, if the owner was willing to risk the wrath of the League.
It went without saying the vast majority were not.
The Shadow Wolf had a certain aesthetic charm of its own. At one hundred and thirty-three meters length and thirty-two meters width, it did have a rough, boxy shape, but the four landing struts gave it the look of having legs when lowered, and there was an almost lupine shape to the control bridge jutting from the front. It was painted with a shadowy dark gray hue. The top of the hull included the housing for the atmospheric stabilizers that helped the ship burn through the atmosphere for planetary landing, while the bottom of the ship had take-off thruster ports for getting the vessel out of a gravity well. Both port and starboard sides had the benefit of large airlock loading hatches and man-sized airlocks for docking with smaller craft.
It was the rear port hatch that the League cutter pulled up to. From this distance, anyone on the Shadow Wolf could look out a port-side transparent alloy viewing port and see the lithe shape of the cutter approach, its hull alabaster white in color, and the League's emblem in full color on the main body of the ship. The sun outline with a clenched fist was not the most pacific of symbols, but it did the job, conveying the League's determination, will, and readiness to act, even violently, to further the goals and purpose of Society.
When the airlock opened, Henry was waiting in the presence of one of his crew. Like Henry, Felix Rothbard hailed from the Terran Coalition, but there was no visible sign of that origin, nor would it have particularly mattered given the independent nature of their ship.
The Caucasian man was stockier than Henry, four centimeters shorter, and sporting a thin beard of wheat-colored hair that matched the hair on his head. Both were wearing crew jumpsuits typical for this kind of ship, dull gray outfits with cargo pockets on arms and legs as well as hips, all capable of being sealed by zipper. The jumpsuit's collar looked rigid, necessary for it to seal correctly with a helmet in case of an emergency. While it was no EVA suit, it could function as the layer of clothes underneath such a suit, and provide limited protection in case of atmosphere loss.
"You know what you're doing, right, Jim?" Felix asked.
"I've dealt with customs before," Henry answered. "I know how to talk to them."
"They say that Hell hath no fury like a League bureaucrat who's been crossed," Felix noted.
Henry blinked at him. "I thought it was 'a woman scorned'?"
"It used to be."
The light above the airlock door flashed from red to yellow. The Shadow Wolf's environmental systems were cycling breathable atmosphere into the chamber. After about thirty seconds, the light turned green. The panel beside the airlock lit up to inform them that someone had opened the outer door.
"Isn't it rude to open someone's outer door for them?" Felix asked.
"Not if you're a customs agent."
Seconds later, the inner door opened. A man in a dark gray jumpsuit appeared. Emblazoned over the heart was the seal of the League Secretariat of Trade and Resources' Trade Enforcement Bureau. It was essentially the same as the League emblem but with a stylized "T" and "R" to either side of the fist. He had a faint bronze complexion, the kind people used to associate with the Mediterranean, with a shaved face and close-cut brown hair.
Henry didn't let himself curse. Now he was worried. This wasn't just any League customs officer, it was a new customs officer. All kitted up, full of piss and vinegar and ready to prove they can boot-stomp merchants' faces with the best of 'em. Henry started to wonder if he shouldn't have had Cera gun the drives as she'd asked.
Too late to reconsider.
"I am Trade Inspector 3rd Class Orlando Montaine," the young man declared. Henry figured he hadn't sounded like that since he was a fresh lieutenant. "Your vessel is under inspection by order of the Trade Enforcement Bureau for suspicion of violating the Trade Secretariat's export restrictions."
"I see."
"I require access to your holds."
"Of course." Henry ignored the look he got from Felix. "This way."
From the airlock door, they traveled astern to a hatch. Henry noted the air-tight sealan
t looked loose along the right side. He’d have to get Brigitte on that later, if they had a later.
After a flight of metal stairs to the middle deck of the Shadow Wolf, they emerged into a corridor leading to more hatches. "Your vessel is a Holden-Nagata Mark VII Medium Cargo Hauler, is it not?" Montaine asked in an officious, clipped tone.
"It is," Henry said.
"So you have six standard holds. Yet you are passing by the stern ones. I consider this suspicious."
Henry sighed and led him back to a hatch they had just passed. He tapped a key at the panel and brought up the status screen. "We had a micro-asteroid strike a couple of months ago while hauling ore from the Alpha Trifid Belt Refinery," Henry explained. "Hulled our two stern holds. I haven't been able to get an atmospheric patch applied yet."
Montaine considered the screen. He pulled a handheld scanner out and held it up to the door. As Henry expected, it verified that there was no atmosphere in a hold that was empty. "Take me to the other one."
Henry sighed. The temptation to smack this twit revived itself. But he didn't feel like dodging League ships whenever he was moving around the Trifid Nebula region, so he complied.
Once Montaine was satisfied with the status of their two rear holds, they journeyed to the mid-port hold. Once inside, the crates of plastic were visible, unstacked, but filling the hold. He walked down the nearby metal steps to the ground floor.
Henry followed and waited for the inevitable.
One scan and Montaine smirked at him. "We have a problem, Captain. Or rather, you do." He tapped a key, and the top of the crate slid open, revealing raw ore. "This is lithium ore with a composite match from the New Hathwell Lithium Refinery. This is an export-restricted substance and is banned from export by the Secretariat of Trade." He looked back to Henry with an even wider grin. "I now have the authority to order your vessel impounded, and you and your crew arrested for violation of export laws."
"Before you do that, you might want to speak to your superior."
The triumphant look on the young officer's face shifted slightly. Triumph became leavened by confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I want to speak to your superior."
Montaine's confusion grew. "What could you possibly gain by that? My superior will merely confirm your guilt! Why should I bother him to burn his way out here for such a silly purpose?"
"Oh, please." Henry crossed his arms. "You're a Trade Inspector 3rd Class. Bureau rules stipulate that you be under the supervision of no less than a 1st Class Inspector until your promotion to 2nd Class. I know New Hathwell isn't the busiest office for the Bureau, so the only 1st Class inspector is the Chief of Inspections for New Hathwell. He's on your cutter, and I want to see him. Now."
"You have no right to order me…"
"And you can't order our arrest or impounding on your own; you need his approval," Henry retorted. "I will not surrender myself or my ship unless your chief orders it."
"Fine," snarled Montaine. "Be a fool. You'll learn your lesson in the socialization camp for wasting his time."
By the time they returned to the airlock, Felix was joined by another of the crew. Vidiadhar "Vidia" Andrews was a wide man, though not portly, with a ready, toothy smile. His dark hair was arranged in cornrows, and his beard was a big bunch of fuzz on his chin. His paled dark skin was from mixed African and Indian ancestry. He was in a jumpsuit as well. "Ah, Captain, I heard we had visitors," he said, his accent distinctly Anglo-Caribbean from New Antilla.
"That we do, Vidia," Henry answered him while Montaine stepped through the airlock.
"He found the ore?"
"He found the ore."
Even Vidia's smile thinned at that. He spoke with a low, conspiratorial tone. "Yanik has his toy ready. He wanted you to know that."
As entertaining as the thought was of letting the big Saurian greet Montaine's return through the airlock with a hail of plasma bolts from Yanik's treasured heavy plasma gun, Henry only answered with a nod.
When Montaine returned, still purple in the face and snarling, he was joined by a big fellow. This one was in the same uniform, had five centimeters on Henry, and was every bit as broad as Vidia. A bit of a paunch to his belly indicated he lived quite well for an official assigned to a distant, struggling colony. "Captain James Henry of the Shadow Wolf, correct?" His accent was North American, but not distinct to any region.
"Yes, sir. Chief Inspector Donner, I believe?"
"You remember." Donner nodded. "Good."
Montaine finally spoke, as if he could no longer restrain himself. "Sir, this man's ship is loaded with lithium ore from our mines. You may scan it for yourself if you wish, but my readings…"
"...are quite accurate, yes," said Donner. He never looked toward Montaine. "Captain, this is a grave matter. I hope you have a good explanation."
"If you will accompany me to my office, Chief Inspector, I believe everything will be made clear."
"Alright." Donner glanced toward his frustrated subordinate. "Wait here, Montaine."
"But, sir, are you sure…"
"I will be perfectly safe," Donner insisted. "the Captain here knows to lay a hand on me is to guarantee our fleet and agents will hound him for the rest of his miserable life. I will get this cleared up, and we will get on with it."
"If you say so, sir," muttered the disbelieving Montaine.
With that, Henry led them toward the bow of the ship. His office was built into the hull just astern of the bridge, across the corridor from his personal quarters. The door slid open at the touch of his thumb to the access panel. The inside was not too large, with only a meter or so of clearance space to either side of the plain plastic-manufacture desk. The wall nearest the door had an old, Saurian War-era pulse rifle mounted on it, a family weapon brought home by one of Henry's forebearers.
Donner glanced only briefly at the rifle before he followed Henry in.
The League bureaucrat waited patiently while Henry stepped around his desk and knelt behind it, facing the shelf. With quiet diligence, he opened his captain's safe with a metallic shunk.
When he stood to full height, he had with him a single box that smelled of a tangy, tropical scent with a fine synth-silk ribbon around it of crimson color and gold trim. He set the box into Donner's big hands. The League customs agent slid the fabric off and opened the box. Nestled in brilliant green felt backed by careful padding was a bottle with a dark red liquid inside. The bottle's label depicted a cluster of purple grapes, and the name "Cunhal Port" emblazoned around them.
"A gift from Minister Vitorino," Henry said. "He's always out to promote Lusitania's wines."
"They are truly exquisite. Cunhal Port? 2489 on the old calendar? A good year, or so I've heard." The last bit of the line was added with a twinkle in Donner's eye. "The good minister has been a valuable trading partner, I am told by the Secretariat. Our relations with Lusitania are quite vital."
"So you are told, I'm sure."
"Yes." Donner eyed the wine again and smiled widely. "Certainly a handsome gift, Captain."
"It is." Henry leaned against his desk. He met Donner's eye and matched his smile. "I'm sure the Minister would be flattered to hear you say that. And I'm sure he would love to handle this misunderstanding about the cargo he ordered from New Hathwell. Sadly, he isn't here. As things stand, it seems my ship is to be impounded, and I'm going to be arrested. While acting on the Minister's behalf." Henry let his words sink in for a moment. "That means everything aboard will be inventoried and cataloged and probably seized by the State." Henry tapped the wine bottle. "Including this magnificent wine. the Minister will be very displeased. I'm sure you'd hate to see that happen."
"Indeed not." Donner nodded. "I would be loath to report to the Trade Secretary that I had slighted a minister of the Lusitanian government. No less the Trade Minister himself." He quietly closed the box. "This is a terrible misunderstanding. Certainly, an exception was filed on behalf of Minister Vitorino that was lost by carelessness. I sha
ll clear the matter up immediately, Captain."
"My thanks to you for your cooperation, Chief Inspector," Henry replied, nodding back. "And I'm sure the Minister will feel the same way when I tell him of your assistance with this issue."
"Cooperation with our fellow humans is the cornerstone of the League," Donner declared. "I am always ready to assist with these matters." With that, Donner stepped out of the office, the box with the wine secured firmly in his left arm.
Henry closed his safe, verified the lock, and left his office. Tia was standing there. "So are we going to the gulag?"
"Nope," he said. "Have Cera get ready to burn us out to the limit. Normal burn, no need for theatrics."
"This was cutting it way too close, Jim. You're going to give us ulcers."
To that, he shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do about it. "Just the cost of business, Tia."
2
The count read ten hours on Miri Gaon's EVA suit. Ten hours of being alone in the void. Her oxygen was down to fifty percent. She was consuming it a little more quickly than she'd imagined.
Her stomach gurgled, stimulating feelings of the last time it had felt empty in this way. Fifteen years in the past, in the League "re-socialization" camp on the occupied world Lowery.
Lowery, a member world of the Terran Coalition, fell to League forces that year. The League enacted its usual occupation plans, sending all of the residents into the camps while their homes and business were taken over by League authorities and military forces. Only after "successful socialization" were they to be released, to be then integrated into the Society's command economy and system.
Rationing in the camp was severe enough, but food was scarce after the planet's economy shut down from the process. The League used its soldiers on the farms, of course, and eventually camp labor, but between sabotage by owners and incompetence by authorities, it wasn't nearly enough. A world with food self-sufficiency was reduced to reliance on food imports from other League worlds, and the camps were the lowest priority. People went hungry. One thousand calories in a day was virtually a feast day. And the work? It had to continue. The Society would not tolerate inactivity. Its entire mission was that everyone must work for the betterment of Society. So even the starving had to put in the requisite eight hours of labor and six hours of socialization classes and lectures. Shirking meant demerits, which meant not getting the "socialized" status that meant freedom from the camps and restoration to a home and a regular job.