Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  Liz, waiting for him at the threshold, watched him approach with her characteristic blank stare. “What’s the hold-up, Ms. Dubois?”

  She inclined her head at the corridor behind him just as he heard boots pounding the deck. Grogan jogged up the ramp and offered a nod of recognition as he passed, but no explanation. “You’re late!” Markland barked at his back.

  “Yessir! Sorry ‘bout that—won’t happen again!”

  Markland tabled the matter for later, as the dressing-down the man so richly deserved would only set things farther behind, a fact he knew the big spacer counted on. He shook his head and turned back to Liz, who handed him a clipboard with the shipping schedule clamped to it. Despite the unsettling sensation the woman’s lack of emotion evoked, she had proven to be a logistician of unparalleled skill.

  The Embustero was far too large to berth at Caliban Station proper, so docked instead at one of several hundred semi-mobile platforms scattered through the constellation of factories and processing plants orbiting the planet. The jumble of cargo deliveries, up-loads and trans-shipments between dozens of other vessels and facilities demanded scheduling simultaneously punctual and flexible, a feat few succeeded at and none relished. Whether it was Liz’s initial schedules that wrenched order from chaos or her ability to accept and respond with indifference to issues that reduced normal human beings to sputtering immobility, the end result was cargo transfer smoother than anyone else aboard could manage.

  Skill earned her the right to her eccentricities, and results earned her indulgences that Markland still couldn’t fathom—such as the personal bag at her feet. No one knew where she went or what she did on the solitary station-leave Shadrack allowed her, but her absence had yet to impact operations in any negative way and her remote-com had never gone unanswered to the first mate’s knowledge.

  Markland perused the schedule in his hand.

  The Embustero’s widely-varied load meant multiple points of delivery, many of which would be handled by the lander while Markland took the cargo sled to Caliban Station to meet their contact for disposition of the bush meat. Space-available cargo and loads too small to justify transport with the lander or sled went aboard the docking platform to wait for fee-for-use shuttles.

  The lander’s hold filled quickly once Grogan maneuvered the sled through the approach corridor and into the starboard transfer lock. Markland itched to get the sled’s illicit cargo to the station, but a pallet of small consignments bound for the same destination was blocked in by those going aboard the lander in meticulous order.

  The unavoidable lull left him plenty of time to chew Grogan’s ass.

  The spacer was still in the cockpit running preflights—with unusual concentration, the first mate noted. “Grogan!”

  The man twitched with feigned surprise. “Sir! Sorry, sir, didn’t hear you come up.”

  “What exactly was so important that it delayed your reaching your assigned post on time?” Markland demanded.

  “My own fault, sir—ran an errand for Colvard after chow, but I couldn’t find the dirtsider and spent longer than I should have looking.” Grogan shrugged sheepishly. “Never did find him.”

  “Wait—you’re saying that Pelletier is missing?”

  “Ah, no sir, not that, exactly, just didn’t check in with the second mate for his detail and wasn’t in his bunk when I looked. Sure he just got turned around somewhere in the confusion, is all. Oh, hold on,” he amended, pointing at the sled’s rear monitor, “there he is now!”

  Markland leaned over his shoulder for a better look and saw Joseph Pelletier walking along side a dolly-mounted pallet, spotting for someone as they guided it up the sled’s ramp. The first mate turned and launched himself down the ladder, leaping across the passenger compartment to catch the miscreant before he could slip away or secret himself somewhere in the sled.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Pelletier side-stepped and spun to face him, hands raised half-formed into fists before relaxing as his face assumed a confused expression more convincing than Grogan’s, but no less suspect. “Excuse me?”

  “Why are you here?” Markland pressed. “Why didn’t you report to the second mate this morning? Answer me!”

  “I’m…doing what I was asked to do…”

  “Asked by whom?”

  Jerrell Mackey appeared from the other side of the pallet. “By me, sir. Sorry; I should have checked with the second mate.”

  “Yes,” Markland snapped, “you should have! Now escort mister Pelletier back to where he’s supposed to be and consider yourselves both on report—move it!”

  Mackey snapped to attention as best a straight civilian spacer could be expected. “Aye aye, sir!”

  Pelletier regarded him a moment more before inclining his head. “Yes, sir. I apologize, Mr. Kosunen.” Mackey fell in behind him as he headed back up the corridor.

  It took another moment to realize what had happened. A quick glance down at his uniform confirmed it: Pelletier had just learned the names of both the Embustero’s alter ego and its captain. “God damnit!” He considered chasing them down and escorting the dirtsider himself—right into the brig—but that would only delay his departure even more.

  He turned back to find Grogan standing in the hatch behind him also wearing the flair that identified him as one of the Ladybird’s crew. The smug look on his face slowly relaxed to a cautious neutral under the first mate’s glare. “Uh, something wrong, sir?”

  “Think about it, Mr. Jones!”

  “Aww, shit.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been the hell on time!” Markland glowered. “Now help me get this thing locked down so we can get a move-on. And consider yourself on report, too!”

  Terson might have written off Markland’s ass-chewing as nothing more than bad luck if it weren’t for the smirk spread across Grogan’s face while he got it. He couldn’t figure how his nemesis could have engineered it without help from Mackey, but Mackey didn’t seem the type, wasn’t much good at chicanery anyway, and acted genuinely concerned over the incident. “On report” sounded ominous, and Mackey apologized profusely the entire way back to the main deck, but as Terson typically received the dregs of all possible assignments anyway, he wasn’t convinced it could get any worse.

  The sincerity of Markland’s anger was obvious, as was the reason behind it. Terson certainly preferred not to learn any more about the Embustero’s clandestine activities than necessary, but he found it impossible to ignore when it slapped him in the face. Calling Markland’s attention to it might not have been the smartest idea, but it seemed more decorous to openly acknowledge the slip than leave the first mate, and by extension Shadrack, to wonder what Joseph Pelletier might or might not have noticed.

  The second mate wasn’t nearly as unhappy as Markland’s reaction prepared them for. “The stick the Navy shoved up his ass still hasn’t worked its way out,” Colvard noted with rolled eyes. “You didn’t hear me say that, though.”

  “I should have checked in with you,” Terson offered on the chance he could deflect blame from Mackey.

  “O’Brien told me where you were, and that’s probably where I’d have sent you anyway,” Colvard said. “Don’t worry about it. Keep helping with the cargo.”

  “Markland didn’t seem keen on that,” Mackey reminded him.

  “You don’t work for Markland, you work for me,” Colvard replied. “He can take it up with the captain if he doesn’t like it—and Shad never said Pelletier couldn’t work cargo.”

  “Maybe you should try a little harder to keep me away from things I shouldn’t know,” Terson chided on the way belowdecks. Mackey’s ears flamed red immediately, but to his credit he didn’t lapse into futile evasion.

  “We’ve been at it so long it’s second nature,” he groaned. “I just—forgot!”

  “Don’t worry; I can keep a secret,” Terson assured him. Hopefully Shadrack would trust his assurances if the situation came to that.


  FIVE

  Caliban Station: 2710:01:29 Standard

  Cormack MacLeod arrived at Caliban Station with a number of unanswered questions on his mind: Had Orbital Security spotted his tiny ship scooting away from its unwitting host? Were they even now prying it loose from the service lock he’d used to gain undocumented entry to the station while the on-station authorities prepared to clap him in irons? An hour meandering aimlessly about without spying a tail settled his mind on those immediate issues, freeing him to wonder about the others.

  Had he arrived in time to meet the Ladybird/Embustero? A scan of the traffic boards showed the freighter had preceded him by a few hours, a better result than expected when he left Nivia. The most nagging question simply couldn’t be answered: had minions of the recovery agent Cormack clued in to the Ladybird’s true identity arrived in-system? He wouldn’t know until and unless they moved in to seize the indebted vessel. Cormack, experienced from both points of view, knew repossession of a spacecraft to be a complicated and hazardous endeavor that rarely succeeded without detailed planning, careful preparation, and precise execution.

  Mucking up the operation required far less energy than pulling it off, a truth that suited Cormack just fine at this juncture. And if he failed? M’eh—he still had the second half of his finder’s fee coming. Not enough to pull his balls out of the financial vise, but enough to ease the pressure for a bit. Still, if the skip-tracers figured out he was playing both ends they might not only refuse to hand over the rest of his fee, but also demand repayment of what he’d already received.

  Therefore he couldn’t spring the Embustero from the trap; he had to prevent her from walking into it in the first place. Pulling that off required making contact in such a way as to camouflage his involvement from the skip-tracers, if they were already about, suggest the breadth of his knowledge to the Embustero’s crew without actually giving anything up, and minimize the appearance of his threat as much as possible.

  Trailing the freighter on its previous voyage had led him to discover more than just its identity and the crew’s penchant for poaching: they’d dabbled in crime that carried weight in every jurisdiction of the Commonwealth and penalties far in excess of what a civil court would levy in restitution. He knew the method of the scam that kept them solvent and the identity of their local accomplice.

  He knew that their accomplice had a weakness, and what it was.

  All in all, Cormack MacLeod was fairly confident that he was about to have a good day.

  Liz strode past Markland and through the station hatch without a word of good-by or a backward glance. “Crazy broad could have lent a hand,” Grogan complained as he and Lad Hussein strained against the pallet of cargo. It took Markland’s added effort to get it moving across the sled’s deck and onto the conveyor. “Rest of us shouldn’t have to do all the work.”

  “Earn us as much as Ms. Dubois and you won’t have to,” Markland informed him. “I’d consider it a monumental improvement if you could perform your duties without damaging the ship’s assets, in fact.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the spacer demanded, amending it with a more respectful: “…sir?” at the first mate’s narrowed eyes.

  “Neuchterlien noticed the repairs to the sled, Mr. Grogan—repairs neither he nor his team performed. I’m pleased that you had the forethought to hire a skilled technician and pay for it out of your personal share.”

  “’Course, sir,” Grogan nodded gravely. “Fair’s fair, after all.”

  “I’m proud to supervise a man of such stunning integrity. Now quit bitching and do your goddamned job so I can do mine!”

  Markland was never at ease station-side anywhere within Nivian space—not when so much of the Embustero’s activity violated the don’t-shit-where-you-sleep axiom. The longer they operated here the more residual evidence built up: widespread and seemingly insignificant bits of information that, if viewed in their entirety, revealed everything about them that they desired hidden.

  One too many improbable coincidences, one slip of the tongue, one recognized or recalled face might prove to be the keystone that brought down everything. What particularly irked him were the unnecessary bits: like having repairs done by locals in odd places—and, frankly, bringing locals aboard. How so much could go so wrong in so short a time stumped him.

  And here he was, about to meet a local who dabbled in theft to support a drug habit for the umpteenth time. Probability ensured the man would get caught, and Markland hoped that his record keeping proved as addled as his brain when it happened.

  Markland made a circuit of the seedier bars on the station’s shipping deck, starting with the ones that tolerated, if not profited from, the use of prohibited intoxicants, the ones the Navy decreed off-limits simply to avoid dealing with claims of second-hand exposure.

  He found the dirtsider on his fourth stop.

  Smoke and aerosols combined in a hazy cloud that stung his eyes the moment he stepped through the filtration barrier. The man sat in a booth at the farthest corner of the dim room behind a half-consumed drink in which the ice had almost entirely melted. He watched Markland approach through watery, bloodshot eyes without any hint of recognition.

  “You sober today, Hans?” Markland asked as he sat down.

  “At the moment,” Hans replied, pink-tinted eyes roving across Markland’s face in twitches. The man’s expression transformed slowly from curiosity to insecurity heading toward desperation before dipping to the flair on the spacer’s shipsuit. A relieved smile spread across his face. “Good to see you again! Profitable trip, I hope?”

  “Thirty containers,” Markland confirmed, experiencing a rare twinge of pity. The man likely never considered that his trendy chemical indulgence would thoroughly fry the area of his brain that made distinguishing faces possible. “Packaged as usual.”

  “Wonderful!” Hans pulled a pocketcomp from his jacket. “This will take a moment; you have access to the commodities net?”

  Markland nodded and let his gaze scan the room while the other man’s thumbs tapped at the tiny keyboard. He detested this phase of the transaction; he had no way to confirm if Hans was actually making arrangements or giving the station authorities a high-sign. No one seemed to pay them any attention, but he knew better than to assume apprehension would come immediately, if at all.

  “There we are,” Hans smiled. “Routing and ID certificates are stored in this location,” he held the small screen up so Markland could read the code. “The cache will be deleted in two hours if not accessed.”

  “Understood. A pleasure doing business with you.”

  Another person slid into the seat next to Markland, accompanied by a rank odor that overpowered the drugged smog. The wizened old man looked as if he’d been dipped in filth and left to cure in the desert for a month. He’d lost an eye at some point in his life and did not bother to hide the disfigurement with either a patch or a prosthetic.

  He slapped a small parcel on the table in front of Hans. “Run along now, ye’ve done your part. Off w’ye.” He wiggled his fingers at the dirtsider dismissively.

  “What the hell is this?” Markland demanded.

  “This, ah, gentleman agreed to supply me with a commodity both difficult and inconvenient to obtain in return for this introduction.”

  “Aye, an’ fine work ye do,” the old man offered. “Now git!”

  “Gladly. Gentlemen,” Hans nodded and hastened away.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, mister…” Markland probed. He leaned back slightly and laid his arm across the back of the booth, scanning the room again, more carefully this time.

  “Me name ain’t important; what I got t’ say is,” the geezer replied. “Relax, laddie, I’m alone.”

  Markland nodded, eyes fixed on a stranger across the room. “But I’m not.”

  His visitor turned his head; Markland leaned toward him, tensing to catch a scrawny neck in the crook of his elbow. “Come a wee bit closer, laddie,” t
he codger said without looking at him, “an’ you’ll get the surprise o’ your life.”

  Markland froze, eyes dipping to the tip of a long, narrow ceramic shiv peeking from beneath the old man’s left arm, aimed at the spacer’s ribs. Markland eased away again. The codger turned back to him, eye sparkling with amusement.

  “I’m ugly, not daft.”

  “Obviously,” Markland admitted.

  “I’ll just trot ‘round the table, then. Have a look at this while I do.”

  A small object dropped from the codger’s hand, striking the tabletop with a high-pitched ring. A button; old, tarnished, and heavy, Markland found when he picked it up—a silver button from a ship’s officer’s dress uniform. The face had been buffed to bring the crest into relief, and the sight of it sent ice down his spine.

  The Embustero’s coat of arms.

  “Interesting,” Markland said, flicking it back across the table, “but not something I’m in the market for.”

  The codger pushed it back to him. “Keep it, lad. Wouldn’t want it fallin’ into the wrong hands.”

  Too late for that. “What can I do for you, then?” he asked, depositing the button safely in a pocket.

  “More a matter o’ what I’m doin’ for you,” the codger corrected. “Seems there’s a skip-tracer what knows the alias an’ general location of a ship called Embustero. Somethin’ ye might like t’know.”

  Not exactly the reply Markland expected, given a situation so conducive to outright blackmail, but no less alarming. “And you’re telling me this, why?”

  “I ain’t partial to skip-tracers an’ bounty hunters,” the codger shrugged.

  “But you’d appreciate a gratuity for the warning,” Markland guessed.

  The codger pursed his lips and rocked his head side to side, so-so. “A bit o’ Shadrack’s time, more’n hard coin.”

  “I can arrange that, if you’d like to accompany me,” Markland nodded. “Immediately, under the circumstances.”

  The codger reflected on the offer, hand falling to the half consumed and abandoned drink before him. He swirled the glass, then downed it in one toss and wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. “Aye, still had a bite, it did!” The sight, combined with smoke and anxiety, made Markland’s stomach lurch. “I appreciate the offer, I do,” he continued earnestly. “Thing is, I best wait ‘till your tail’s out o’ the ringer, first. Be a shame if me good deed tangles me up in your troubles.” He sled from the bench and tapped the side of his nose. “Let Shadrack know I’ll be in touch on a more auspicious occasion.” He ambled out the door and melted into the crowd.