The wild card was MacLeod’s knowledge of the Embustero’s piratical activity. No one was likely to file charges based on a third party’s allegations, but if the old man could convince one of the Ladybird’s customers that they’d been robbed, the freighter would quickly find itself in the sights of half a dozen Navy ships.
Shadrack sent the message, hoping it would have its desired effect. He didn’t relish the idea of killing MacLeod; he preferred not to consider the necessity. If it came to that the Embustero’s captain would neither see nor hear evil while ones such as Markland took care of it.
“Sir, there’s a taxi requesting permission to dock before we depart the platform,” the bridge informed him. “Passenger is one Joseph Pelletier.”
The certainty with which Terson made the decision to return to the Embustero faded during the twelve-hour taxi ride to the freighter’s docking platform. The fare cost him every last euro he possessed and there was nothing left for the ride back if Liz’s assurance proved false. Terson would be trapped on the platform until it mated with another ship and dispatched its pod again.
The loading dock below the passenger gantry was deserted, eerily quiet compared to the activity he’d witnessed days before. His footsteps rang on the deck, echoed emptily through the cold, sterile space. The passenger lock at the opposite end had not yet opened. A niggling worry in the back of his mind was sure that it wouldn’t; the Embustero’s permission to dock was nothing but a spiteful farewell from her captain.
But the hatch did open. Shadrack ducked through alone, met Terson in neutral territory a few meters from his ship. The two men stopped, facing each other—spacer and groundhog, captain and vagabond.
Terson got straight to the point: “I changed my mind.” He meant it as no more than a statement of fact, but it sounded arrogant when it left his mouth. He added a humbler “If you’ll have me,” a moment after the fact.
“This isn’t a cruise ship,” Shadrack replied gravely. “You understand that you’re making a binding legal commitment once you sign the contract. You will be subject to my authority and discipline—and that of my officers—in all matters.”
“Yes,” Terson replied, “I understand.” There was more freedom in submitting to Shadrack’s authority than Terson had experienced in a long while. This time submission was completely and totally at his discretion. The responsibility for his decision rested with no one else.
He followed Shadrack through the ship, gear slung over his back, all the way to the captain’s office. The crewmen they encountered in the corridors paused to make way as the pair passed, and many commented in tones too low to make out upon sighting Terson. It wouldn’t be long, he knew, before the entire crew knew he was back.
Shadrack went straight to his desk and removed the unsigned contract from the same drawer in which he’d placed it a few days earlier. Terson read it over perfunctorily, satisfying himself that it contained no unusual codicils or stipulations, but his hand paused over it with the stylus nonetheless.
“A problem?” Shadrack rumbled.
“The name,” Terson said. “It’s not exactly accurate.”
“Ah.” The captain clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the desk. “A name is only what you wish to be known by. There is also what you are known as: an honest man, a lazy man, a man to be trusted or one to be avoided—those are what matter. Sometimes what a man is known as gets so closely associated with what he’s known by that it doesn’t fit anymore. Sometimes it is a wise thing to cast aside a name that’s saddled with too much baggage.”
“Sounds like you’ve given that issue some thought,” Terson noted.
Shadrack spread his hands, fingers splayed. “Ship’s name, man’s name—same concept.”
Terson applied Joseph Pelletier’s signature without any apprehension.
Shadrack extended a huge hand solemnly. “Welcome aboard the Embustero, Mr. Pelletier.” He motioned for the first mate, who Terson realized had been standing just outside the hatch. “Figenshaw is going to certify you at the helm, so you’re assigned to first watch. Mr. Markland is the officer of that watch, as you know, so I’ll leave you in his hands to get settled.”
“Aye, sir.”
Markland didn’t speak until Shadrack was out of earshot: “A couple of people won’t be happy that you’re back.”
“That includes yourself, sir?”
Markland fixed a vitriolic gaze on his new crewman. “It does,” he responded flatly. “I’ve met your type before—a lit match in a powder magazine. A magnet for trouble.”
Guess you got me pegged there, Terson admitted silently. “I never poked at anybody that didn’t poke me first,” he replied, “and just so there aren’t any illusions: I will poke back.”
Markland jabbed him in the chest with a stiff index finger. “Anybody pokes you, you handle it next station-call or take it through proper channels, got it?”
“Aye, sir.”
Markland escorted him the rest of the way to his quarters—the same he’d used earlier—in silence. “We’re half way through first watch now,” he said as Terson slung his bags from his shoulder. “I’ll take you up to the bridge to meet Figenshaw; once she’s done with you you’re at liberty until shift-start tomorrow.”
“I’ve got something you should take charge of,” Terson told him, bending to open a bag while Markland glowered impatiently. He straightened and handed the gun case to the first mate, curious to see his reaction. The officer frowned as he accepted it, frown deepening as he broke the seal, and his lips compressed in a thin, hard line when he opened it to find the pistol and a loaded magazine. Terson could see the gears turning in the man’s mind, trying to decide if he should be furious that the weapon came aboard undeclared or relieved that an unwelcome crewman whom he didn’t trust was honest enough to turn it over.
“I’ll see to it that it gets to the armory,” was all he said.
Markland took him forward to the command deck, a familiar route after Terson’s repeated visits to the Embustero’s armory and captain’s office. This time, however, they continued into a corridor that sloped sharply upward for several meters and terminated at a high-security airlock nearly identical to the one leading to the armory. The first mate gained access via the same biometric security devices, and they had to traverse another man-trap. Gaining access to the bridge itself at the other end, however, depended entirely upon the approval of the personnel on duty.
“Who’s that with you?” inquired a voice from a grill above the hatch when the first mate buzzed for entry.
“Helmsman trainee Joseph Pelletier,” Markland replied. “Shad just took his contract within the last hour.”
“Stand by.”
Terson expected the mate to express at least irritation at the challenge and delay while the crew on duty verified his statement, but Markland remained surprisingly placid. A few seconds later the hatch emitted a loud hum accompanied by a loud snap as the bolts in the frame retracted. Markland pushed it open and motioned Terson to precede him.
The lighting inside was dim and muted, allowing for better views of the various monitors and status displays mounted on the bulkheads and ceiling. Terson recognized the deck officer—Han-Ju—who straightened from chatting with the navigator and offered his hand. “Helmsman trainee Pelletier,” he said for the benefit of the other bridge crewmen. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir,” Terson replied.
“He’s all yours,” Markland said before stepping back through the hatch leaving a muttered: “Good luck…” in his wake just loud enough for Terson to hear, though he was fairly certain the well-wishing wasn’t intended for him.
“Who do I report to?” Terson asked.
“Have her for you in a sec,” Han-Ju said, and keyed his headset. “Figenshaw, got your new pupil here.”
One of the active positions blinked from green to amber and the console backed out of the bulkhead with a whine of servos. Terson walked over as the console’s occupant u
nlatched her restraints and stood.
Lita Figenshaw’s appearance bore a strong resemblance to that of a rodent: narrow, pinched facial features made her nose appear longer than it was and only served to enunciate an unfortunate overbite. Her eyes seemed to align at different angles, as though the right were looking at Terson while the left gazed off in another direction. The errant eye slowly tracked back in line with an eerie independence.
“Something wrong?” she asked in a clear, musical contralto.
“You’ve had the bends,” Terson guessed.
Figenshaw’s face twisted into a wry grin. “Perceptive.”
“I have a bit of a condition myself,” he confided. “A bullet. Right about…” he put the tip of one finger on the top of his head, “…here.”
“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just ‘cause you’re a fellow defective,” she said with a wink, and held out her hand. “Lita Figenshaw.”
“Joseph Pelletier.”
“Well, Joseph Pelletier, tell me what you’ve flown.”
“The T-98 through the 108,” he replied. “I’m certified for aerospace transition, and I’ve got around five thousand hours in fixed-wing and rotary aircraft, about ten percent of that officially logged.”
Her eye wandered into oblivion and she picked at her overbite with a thumbnail. “No multi-engine, or super-heavy, huh? That’ll make it a bit more difficult, but you should be able to swing both ratings at once if you apply yourself.
“I don’t know what your flight school put up with, but an ego doesn’t sit well with the way I do things. I monitor you the whole time; I won’t take any lip when I belay one of your orders. You can do whatever you want once you’re rated and sitting left seat, but I have final say on everything until then.”
“I can live with that,” Terson nodded.
“Great.” She opened a pouch on the side of her seat and pulled out the Embustero’s three-centimeter thick Statistics and Position manual. “Take this back to your quarters and start reading. You’ll assist with cast-off tomorrow. Be here at shift-change, sharp.”
Terson didn’t try to retain the entire manual. The basic theory behind operating a spacecraft was common across the board; it was the specific procedures and control positions that changed from ship to ship. He read it through once, then went back and studied the parts that dealt specifically with cast-off until his eyes ached. At the sounding of bells to announce the end of first watch and the beginning of second he put the manual down and headed to the commons for chow.
Word of his return had already reached his crewmates, so his appearance elicited no particular surprise. Mackey and O’Brien welcomed him with warm ribbing as they passed on their way out, and he got by with no more than brief small talk on his way through the line. He saw Liz at her usual spot, once again ensconced in her chosen attire and persona.
She didn’t acknowledge him when he sat down across from her. He considered making some kind of overture, but Druski walked up to the table before he’d considered it too much. “Hello, Joseph,” she smiled.
“How’s it going, Doc?”
“Markland brought that pistol by,” she said. “I see you didn’t waste any time getting to work on it.”
“That was kind of by accident,” he told her. “I was getting ready to sell it and one thing lead to another. What did you think?”
She held up her right hand to show the bruise beginning to discolor the palm. “I think the thing kicks like a god-damned mule. You’ve fired it yourself, I assume?”
Terson held up his own hand in answer. “I got some history on it from one of the armorers on the station,” he said. “I’ll fill you in when I get time.”
“I’m interested to hear it.” She cocked her head at him. “Just curious—what made you change your mind?”
Unseen by Druski, Liz’s gaze snapped from her plate to Terson’s face, no longer cold and aloof. Her brow creased almost imperceptibly.
“Just needed some time to clear my head, I guess,” Terson said. It was true enough, after all, and if Liz didn’t want it known that she played a part in helping him do that, so be it.
“Well, welcome back,” the medic said before wandering off to make her rounds of the rest of the room.
Liz kept her eyes on him until Druski was far enough away to miss the quiet: “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
THIRTEEN
Nivia: 2710:03:33 Standard
“Played out?” the Old Lady questioned. “You’re certain of this?”
“The tailing samples McKeon acquired held no trace of ore,” Tamara replied. “The material wasn’t even from the right kind of strata.”
“This does not bode well,” the Old Lady murmured. Her gaze drifted away from the video pickup for several moments, unfocused and distant as if she’d forgotten her kinsmen. Hal was not surprised; the events of the last few months had taken their toll on his mother, laid burdens on her more easily borne by younger shoulders. The steel in her gaze was hard as ever, but brittle, less resilient when faced with change—a quality Tamara had tried to describe to him about her own parent.
Animation returned to the Old Lady’s face. “Commence phase three immediately,” she instructed. “Expect transport to arrive within the month.”
Sergio Cirilo’s visage grayed at the announcement. “Ah, Madam Chairman, perhaps that is a bit hasty.”
“How so?” she demanded. Sergio’s mouth opened and closed several times; he cast an imploring look at his daughter, who jumped to his aid.
“Timing,” Tamara explained. “Cold weather will lessen the effectiveness of the disease vector we selected to neutralize the Minzoku population. We’d planned to deploy it in the spring.”
“I agree,” Hal put in. “We should engage in a slow, orderly withdrawal over the winter; move families and non-essential personnel to safe houses on Alpha continent, then ferry them off-world in small groups via commercial traffic.”
The Old Lady regarded him speculatively. “That would make it simpler to spirit your mistress away.”
Hal flushed, caught off guard by his mother’s mistrust and angered at her accusation. It hadn’t crossed his mind, despite his intentions. “That’s not an appropriate topic of discussion,” he said evenly.
“I say it is!” the Old Lady snapped back. “I’ve indulged you too long, hoping you’d come to your senses. As that hasn’t happened, you are now officially instructed to terminate Lieutenant Dayuki.” She leveled a finger at Sergio and Tamara. “You two are witnesses. You will see that it’s done if Halsor won’t.
“Other comments?”
Sergio raised a trembling hand. “If I may, Madam Chairman?”
The Old Lady rolled her eyes. “What now?”
“The Minzoku are, ah, painfully aware of the importance we place on the, ah, elements in question,” he stammered. “They will expect sanctions if they fail to deliver. Unusual activity on our part will put them on a high state of alert.”
“Hm, yes, thank you for bringing that to my attention, Sergio. It is imperative that Den Tun suspect nothing. How do you propose we accomplish this?”
Sergio took a breath, opened his mouth to speak, closed it a moment later and deflated like a balloon. “I don’t know.”
“If the IGA production facility was damaged, we wouldn’t need the raw materials,” Hal offered.
The Old Lady considered it, nodding agreement. “Something obvious, noisy—smoke and fire. They wouldn’t expect repairs to be completed for several weeks, at the earliest. The Minzoku will assume movement of equipment and personnel are related to the rebuilding.
“Yes, see to it. Serious injuries, a casualty or two to make it more believable.”
“But how would we get the bodies?” Sergio asked, wide-eyed.
The Old Lady waved her hand dismissively. “The technicians on the project are all contract workers, are they not? Their contract compensates for disability and loss of life.”
“Those people are my
colleagues!” Sergio cried, horror finally overcoming his fear. “I’ve known them for years; some are personal friends!”
“This is what comes of getting on too well with the help,” the Old Lady commented. “You and Hal can work out a swap if neither of you have the stomach for it.”
“I-I can’t do it!” Sergio insisted. “I won’t do it! It’s insane!”
“Enough!” the Old Lady thundered. “These are dangerous times, and not one of you has ever sacrificed what I have to make this Family what it is; you’re as soft as any gaijin! Sacrifice is not merely an expectation—it is a requirement! If you don’t have the spine to make those sacrifices then you may be sacrificed!
“Do I make myself clear?” She continued to glare at the three stunned Onjin until, satisfied that she had or too angry to continue, she broke the connection.
Stan McKeon came to recognize certain patterns during his tenure as the Fort’s Chief of Security. Although it wasn’t unusual for the community’s high-ranking Family members to confer at length with the Old Lady, they rarely excluded McKeon from the entire proceeding. When they did, something significant always came of it and he did not expect this occasion to prove an exception.
He often wondered what went on, but never with the anxiety he experienced now. Of course, he’d never had anything to hide before, either. The overriding fear was that he’d failed to conceal some comparatively minor transgression that might cause his employers to trust a bit less, to dig a bit deeper, to discover that their good and faithful servant was pursuing an agenda counter to their own.
McKeon stared at the signal indicators illuminating his monitor. The temptation to tap the hyperlink was almost unbearable, but if detected such an act could prove to be the small mistake he feared most. He could infer certain things by what the indicators showed him, however; more patterns he’d come to recognize over the years.
Embustero- Pale Boundaries Page 18