He set to work sabotaging the cambot before the Embustero reentered normal space but didn’t introduce the malicious logic to its processor until just before he disengaged from the freighter’s hull. He let his tiny vessel drift into the shadow of the Embustero’s stern where he held position close to the larger ship’s thrust tubes—dangerously close if it lit its drive.
MacLeod’s immediate concern was how to maintain contact with his erstwhile host. He didn’t have enough O2 to last another jump if he didn’t fill up, and he doubted that the Embustero would leave her umbilical connections active after his earlier parasitism. In other circumstances he’d simply find out what Shadrack’s next port of call was and ride another vessel to the same destination.
That luxury no longer existed if Cormack’s attempt to spook the Embustero’s captain into abandoning his route had worked, as it appeared to have. There was no telling where the freighter would go next if she chose to jump out of controlled space. Cormack might spend years looking if he lost her now.
But staying with the Embustero would do him no good if he came out of jump a hypoxic corpse.
Jetting off to one of the stations orbiting Tammuz carried its own set of risks. Tammuz attracted baffle-riders because of the high volume of traffic to and from destinations throughout the Commonwealth. The challenge of managing the flight paths of so many ships was problematic enough without adding hundreds more which were hard to detect by design and operated by individuals who were less than attentive to regulations.
The local authorities levied stringent, zero-tolerance regulations on the little ships that were virtually impossible to comply with on a hobo’s budget. Penalties for the most minor infractions were unconscionably stiff. More baffle-riders found themselves planet- or station-bound on Tammuz than any other port in the Commonwealth.
Cormack preferred to remain on his host’s hull rather than run the gauntlet to the nearest station and back. When the option wasn’t open to him, as now, he chose to avoid notice rather than detection.
He waited until the arriving docking platform obscured the freighter’s radar and scooted away with a short burst of his OMS. He preferred a bit more velocity, but one element of his fuel was the same substance he breathed and he wasn’t eager to waste any. He took note of the platform’s designation on his way by and activated one of several illegally altered transponders scavenged from the boneyard on Nivia.
As far as Space Traffic Control was concerned, and unless he gave them a reason to believe otherwise, he was a law-abiding citizen in a private Recreational Vehicle ferried into the system by the freighter he’d just left. Cormack lost his brogue when he spoke to Space Traffic Control and complied with every instruction to the letter. The patrol ships never had reason to approach within visual range of the baffle-rider since everyone knew that baffle-riders abhorred transponders.
The sky around him was filled with thousands of bright, steady stars strung together on invisible threads or moving in ways that gave them away as man-made objects. Cormack wasn’t completely familiar with what constituted normal traffic density in the system, but it looked like there was an unusual number of ships parked around the planet. He struck up a conversation with a fellow RVer outbound to meet a ferry and inquired into the matter.
“The Navy closed a navpoint,” the retired gentleman informed him. “Rumor is an incursion by the Khold or trouble with the Terrans. Pretty deep into the Commonwealth for that, though. More likely piracy.”
Cormack doubted that but didn’t bother to share his opinion. Any navpoint used enough to cause the traffic jam he observed would have a Navy patrol on point at all times. Any pirate foolish enough to ply his trade in such a place wouldn’t be a very good one. The more likely explanation was some sort of accident.
The gridlock extended to the passenger/cargo modules attempting to mate with the station, Cormack saw as he drew nearer. The station had a finite amount of storage space and a long-term disruption in the flow of cargo caused a severe case of constipation. Modules carrying passengers held priority over all others, leaving quite a number of cargo-laden modules stalled in queue indefinitely, and the more in queue meant fewer available to service newly-arrived ships.
Cormack requested an RV slip when STC passed him off to STATCON. The one he received wasn’t in the most convenient location and didn’t offer any amenities other than basic utilities but he was more than happy to get it. Once docked he checked the ETA of the module en route from the Ladybird and was pleased to find that it was listed as carrying passengers.
MacLeod wouldn’t have long to wait to see who disembarked.
Terson stuffed his pitifully meager possessions into the laundry bag and cast a quick glance around the bare cabin to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The lack of jetsam was more poignant than the memory of possessions left at the apartment or lost with the hydrojet. His poverty now was such that he could not afford to leave behind items he’d once abandoned without a thought.
It could get worse, he thought as he made his way through the ship. None of the property he held had come aboard with him, including the clothes on his back. Nothing said that the Embustero would not demand its return. The possibility seemed ridiculous, but caused him some concern nonetheless.
Both shifts were fully engaged with transferring cargo and restocking provisions, leaving the Embustero’s corridors deserted. He expected to exit the ship without notice but found a trio of crewmembers waiting for him when he reached the lock.
O’Brien and Mackey shook his hand and wished him well with the sadness of someone bidding goodbye to a friend they could not reasonably expect to see again. They quickly vanished into the ship, returning to duties interrupted by the farewell, leaving him alone with Druski.
Terson held out his hand with a grin. “Thanks for everything, Doc.”
Druski took his hand in both of hers with a sad smile. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you here,” she said. “I hope you find what you’re after out there.”
“Me too, Doc.”
“I have something for you,” she said, and held out a black plastic case. “Make sure you get a station Customs seal on it.”
It was heavy, and Terson guessed the contents before thumbing open the latches. The pistol lay inside, snug in foam padding. The corner of a note peeked from beneath the grip but he let it be, respecting Druski’s desire that whatever it said remain unspoken. He latched the lid and stepped to the hatch. “Thanks again, Doc.”
“Joseph,” Druski called after him. He paused and looked back. The medic’s face was deadly earnest. “Whatever you’re going to do,” she said, “choose wisely. And good luck.”
The enclosed catwalk spanning the distance between the Embustero and the platform’s transport module vibrated with the noise of machinery moving stacks of crates and pallets out of the center and aft cargo locks fifteen meters below. Some were marshaled aside, others driven into the module’s hold. Two thick pipes crusted with frost replenished the Embustero’s supply of liquid oxygen and deuterium near the forward cargo lock. The doors at the other end of the catwalk slid open at his approach.
Terson was the module’s only passenger. He stowed the laundry bag in an overhead bin and unzipped the front of his shipsuit to get at the money belt buckled around his midsection. He emptied the contents into the seat beside and sorted them. His real identification and all documents referring to him by name went back into the pouch.
He paused holding his debit card. The plastic wafer represented several hundred thousand euros that he desperately needed, but he had to consider himself a fugitive. Withdrawing a dime from his account, if it hadn’t been frozen, could bring local law enforcement down on him in minutes and he’d find himself back in Commonwealth custody. He tucked it into the belt with his other papers and put the counterfeit I.D. and its supporting documents in his breast pocket.
That left Den Tun’s data plaque and the small pouch holding Virene’s wedding ring. The data storage
device was next to worthless, now. He’d done his best; there was no reason to keep it other than as a perverse memento. But you never know. He secured it in his belt as well.
A less than convincing hologram of a flight attendant suddenly appeared to give him safety instructions in five different languages. Terson finished stowing his belongings and buckled in. The module detached from the platform for the six-hour voyage to Tammuz Station Three.
Terson opened the small jewelry pouch and carefully shook Virene’s ring into the palm of his hand. The stone blazed in the light as brightly as the last time he’d held it. Memories and emotions flooded in and he closed his hand around it, squeezing it tightly in his fist.
His spirit perceived it as a sacred object, the last physical connection to the woman who’d helped him crawl from a pit of hopelessness to enter a universe where life was more than base survival. The ring was a gift, to be cherished for what it represented. To the cold, practical Terson Reilly, the ring was an asset that could allow him to return to Nivia to exact revenge on Virene’s killers. But if it was to be sacrificed, it had to be sacrificed to a more noble cause than mindless revenge.
His head bobbed forward, startling him awake. The ring still lay in his hand; sleep hadn’t helped him decide what to do. He returned it to its pouch and tucked the pouch into the money belt. A check of the time revealed that his doze was longer than he thought; Tammuz Station Three was just over an hour away. Terson made his way to the latrine to relieve himself and chased the last of his drowsiness away with a splash of cold water.
Back in his seat he opened the gun case again and pulled the scrap of notepaper from beneath the pistol, flattening it against his leg to make out the hand-written message:
Mason-Grant Hotel. Confirmation 13237059—seven days pd. In full.
“Damn, Doc. You didn’t have to do that.” He was grateful, however. He had a place to stay, and more time to formulate a plan. He folded the note and slid it into his breast pocket next to his I.D.
ELEVEN
Tammuz: 2710:03:30 Standard
The module arrived at Tammuz Station Three on time, but entered a holding pattern instead of docking. The screen in the seatback ahead of him put the estimated time-to-dock at just under three hours. Terson tapped the information icon on the lower corner and discovered that traffic was backed up all around Tammuz due to the closure of several navigation points on a handful of key outbound jump vectors.
Good thing he wasn’t in a hurry.
He took advantage of the delay to check the station’s Customs regulations for anything out of the ordinary. There always was—usually trivial to the average traveler—since every station in every system seemed to insist on pushing the variances allowed by Commonwealth regulations to their limits, a symptom of human nature’s tendency to push back against authority and/or express individualism even at the cost of becoming a pain in the ass to travelers.
Tammuz’s authorities were fixated on the import of religious materials for the purpose of evangelism and employed an immense, convoluted statute to control it. Terson had no idea what might constitute materials intended to “demean, contradict, undermine or otherwise challenge the holy morals and customs of Amishlam,” and, frankly, he suspected that inquiring of it would subject him to either closer scrutiny or a lesson in religious doctrine. One he couldn’t risk and the other he couldn’t tolerate. He’d simply have to take his chances.
The peculiarity that would affect him the most was a prohibition against importing euros or Terran dollars of any amount as cash with the exception of coins and notes intended for numismatic collection, study or display. One could register as a numismatist for a nominal fee prior to exiting Customs (though if five thousand euros constituted “nominal,” Terson didn’t want to encounter exorbitant) and failing that, he was expected to turn over any cash in his position for immediate conversion to electronic funds—for a nominal fee.
As Tammuz encouraged a thriving game-hunting industry to reduce crop losses, the usual restrictions on firearms had been waived and reduced to the application of an RFID seal—no charge.
The corridor leading from the module’s passenger hatch into the station was wide enough to walk four abreast, dim and chilly. It joined with another corridor, slightly wider, better lit, and less chilly, which joined to yet another. Terson was still alone when he reached the third, though he could hear activity and voices in the distance behind him, presumably station personnel or passengers from other modules making their way through the chutes. The customs agent held out his hand for Terson’s documents, and it occurred to him for the first time to wonder how good Den Tun’s forgeries actually were.
They didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow, though, nor did the massive handgun when he presented it for inspection and seal. Moments later he was on his way, two hundred euros in pocket money reduced to fifty after a nominal charge, the gun case wrapped by an RFID seal that would, he was warned, set off all manner of alarms if he opened it in an unauthorized location.
What began as a murmur ahead as he left the customs station grew to an ominous rumble as he approached the hatchway leading into the station. The blast of noise that struck him when the door opened hit with a shock as potent as falling into a glacial pool. He found himself in a cauldron of humanity; trapped in a dense crowd numbering more people than he’d ever seen at once in his entire life. The respiration of so many lungs overwhelmed the scrubbing system leaving the air heavy and stale. Perspiration soured the atmosphere further, and the stink of combined perfumes made his stomach roll. Jostling bodies unbalanced him and a passing shoulder struck him a glancing blow. Terson jumped back only to rebound from another body which sent him stumbling deeper into the current of pedestrians.
A hand caught him by the elbow, anchoring him in one place long enough to regain his footing. “Whoa, there laddie! Step aside for a breather.” The Samaritan guided him to the side of the corridor where he rested against the wall to gather his wits. It took a few moments before he could thank his attendant.
“Aye, it’s a bit bewilderin’ after a voyage,” the man grinned, “all these groundhogs movin’ in herds.” He was slightly shorter than Terson, slender to the point of skinniness and wore a frayed and patched shipsuit. A black patch covered one eye. “First time at Tammuz, then?”
“Yeah,” Terson admitted.
“Thought so. Where you headed?”
“Mason-Grant hotel, wherever it is.”
“I’d be pleased to show ye,” the man offered.
“That’s not necessary,” Terson objected. “I’ll find it.”
“No trouble; it’s on me way.” He set off at once without looking back. Finding himself dependent on a total stranger wasn’t comfortable, but Terson knew he wasn’t apt to find anyone willing to assist him as cheerfully as the wizened starhound and followed close on his heels. The spacer cut through the crowds aggressively, deflecting others from his path with stubborn determination. It became harder to move the farther they penetrated the terminal; passengers who’d given up fighting for headway stood along the walls layered three deep in places like plaque constricting an artery.
“Is it always like this?” Terson asked.
“Nay; never seen it so bad,” his guide replied. “I hear there’s lots o’ delays; Navy closed a navpoint.”
The tension grew palpable. More and more security personnel appeared in the press watching for potential riot-sparking incidents as if they stood a chance of stopping it once started.
The public address system keyed up loud enough to overcome the deafening babble of voices: “Attention please: By order of the Station Commander incoming and outgoing quarantine is closed until further notice. Vessels shuttling from gates three, eleven, twenty-five and fifty-four are boarding early. These vessels will be boarding from now until their scheduled departures. Taxi service to the following starliners is free of charge until further notice: Northstar, Haiku Maru and Star of India.
“Achtung, bitte:�
�”
The announcement repeated in several languages. The crowd’s collective attitude lightened slightly and traffic picked up speed as those stalled along the walls began moving again.
Terson followed the spacer into an auxiliary stairwell and they bounded up the steps without impediment, emerging into a less populated corridor two decks up. This level of Station Three housed the long-term visitors and the attire tended toward businesslike or touristy. The spacers’ hard-used clothing made them conspicuous but didn’t earn them more than a tolerant glance.
There had likely been a great deal of spillover from below during the crisis as well as a sudden backlog of travelers from the surface suddenly trapped on the station. The strict decontamination protocols the Commonwealth enforced made those who’d already endured them reluctant to cross back to the local side of the station, doubly so considering the requirements worlds such as Tammuz levied.
Every Commonwealth planet with a native biosphere received a station paid for by the Commonwealth with no strings attached save one: that each planet maintain a Secure Terminal Area to buffer the biosphere from the rest of human-occupied space. The Secure Terminal Area was intended to prevent the spread of exotic diseases and life forms from one planet to another by limited and strictly controlled access. Everything and everyone that came up from the surface went through decontamination as it entered the STA. Everything and everyone coming in from space went through decontamination as it left. Not even air passed between the STA and the rest of the station.
Most human habitations, by virtue of their artificial life support systems, were considered “safe” by the Commonwealth and demanded only cursory precautions of those who disembarked. Planets with natural ecosystems like Nivia, Tammuz and Algran Asta required decontamination as or more intensive to enter than the Commonwealth did. There was no such thing as a quick jaunt to the other side of the station; crossing back and forth might be a matter of days and no one crossed more often than absolutely necessary.
Embustero- Pale Boundaries Page 15