“Cargo Three-one-seven, you are cleared to follow us in. Looks like you boys had a rough time of it. You take fire coming in?”
“Negative—damage was preexisting.”
“Roger that. How’s your handling?”
“Handling fine, thanks for asking, but I’d like a rolling landing, if possible. Don’t want to strain the VTOL until we get it checked out, over.”
“You are so cleared, Cargo Three-one-seven. You’ll be met on the ground. Escort out.”
They led the lander into a fast, steep descent, leveling out in a chute-like valley surrounded by mountains on either side. Terson spotted a metallic glint against the rock and pointed it out to Lita. “Anti-aircraft guns.” The valley spilled out into a wide, flat plain stretching to the horizon, unbroken save for a cluster of hills and peaks rising above the haze of dust in the distance. Before long the dark lines of a paved runway emerged from the haze. “Gear down,” Terson announced. Drag caused the airframe to vibrate slightly.
“And to think I won’t fly with Grogan,” Figenshaw lamented. “I’ll just close my eyes now.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Terson chuckled.
More detail emerged as their altitude dropped. A line of anti-aircraft emplacements marched into the distance below. Ahead, leading up to the runway threshold, stood row upon row of warehouses. Plows, dump trucks and front-end loaders were at work around some of them clearing dunes left by a recent storm.
Dozens of roadways led from among the warehouses onto the huge tarmac surrounding the runway. Several dozen vessels dotted the expanse and ground vehicles, some empty, some laden with cargo, flowed along the roads in orderly fashion. Directly ahead, off the other end of the runway, began a series of low, rolling hills stacking higher toward the blister of mountains Terson saw during their approach.
The fighters kept going and rolled out as he flared and touched down with a thud that forced a squeak of fright from Lita. The nose dropped and he reversed thrust, slowing in time to turn onto a taxiway where an armored Follow-Me vehicle sporting a gun turret waited with lights flashing atop the cab.
“Welcome to Poole’s Landing, Cargo Three-seventeen. Please follow us to the staging area. Your permanent chalk will be assigned after you check in with the portmaster’s office.”
“We’re parked,” Lita Figenshaw said over the intercom. “Feel free to move about the passenger compartment. Temperature outside is thirty-six degrees Celsius, winds are light and variable. Humidity is zero, visibility two-point-five kilometers.”
“Alright, get your gear,” Markland ordered. “Grogan, O’Brien, prep the cargo sled.” Grogan had been uncharacteristically civil on the flight down, quiet to the point of gloominess as if realizing for the first time that he wasn’t as indispensable as he thought. His face lit up at the news he wasn’t being replaced as sled pilot as well.
Pelletier and Figenshaw descended from the flight deck once they secured the lander. “I want one of you to remain aboard at all times,” the first mate said. “It’s our only way out if there’s some kind of trouble.” Lita, spacer born and uneasy at being out of doors, quickly volunteered. “We’ll check in every couple hours,” Markland told her. “Button up tight once we’re gone and don’t let anyone board without prior clearance from O’Brien or myself.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Pelletier, issue weapons.” Everyone got a gun but Lytle, who wasn’t rated, and MacLeod, whom Markland didn’t trust. He cast a dour look at the large bore slug-thrower Pelletier strapped on but didn’t order him to replace it with a beamer like the others wore. There wasn’t any danger of depressurization from a wild shot and its stopping power could prove useful. “Mind where you point that thing,” he cautioned nonetheless.
They descended into the hold and boarded the cargo sled. Markland took the jump seat in the cockpit between Grogan and O’Brien while the others squeezed into the cramped passenger compartment. The rear cargo ramp extended and the sled eased out onto the tarmac where the Follow-Me waited. Lita waved at them from the lander as they accelerated away.
The Follow-Me kicked up a cloud of dust as it led them across the massive tarmac. Markland peered up at the sky. It was the same color as the dust—a weak, sick yellow instead of the deep blue his preconceptions insisted it should be. Or black. Black was the other proper color for sky, black flecked with shining stars. It would turn black when night fell, but in the meantime the oxygen-poor atmosphere struggled to take color from whatever might be available.
They passed a few other craft on the way in, most of them more similar to the Embustero’s lander than not. Closer in sat a fleet of shuttles nearly identical to each other—the port’s own for-hire transport. They did a brisk business if the number of ground transports moving among them was any indication.
The port’s administrative offices, hotels, markets and residential buildings rose from the surface of the landing field with the contour of the hills. The portmaster’s office served as the gateway to the rest, one side accessible directly from the tarmac.
The Follow-Me directed Grogan into a parking slip and pulled aside to stand guard until they cleared with the officials inside. “Liz, Pelletier, with me,” Markland said. They positioned respirators and crowded into the sled’s airlock. The transition went quickly enough without the threat of vacuum or deadly gasses to contend with on the other side. The respirators generated enough O2 to sustain them at light to moderate physical exertion but humidity was another matter. Markland’s sinuses began to dry out the moment the local atmosphere hit them, likewise exposed flesh. They crossed to the entrance quickly and passed through a soft lock into the building proper.
The facilities inside were not what people pictured when they thought of Assend. The clean, modern guise seemed at odds with a clearinghouse for stolen cargo and contraband, not to mention the planet’s reputation for cloak-and-dagger intrigue. Markland stepped up to a window where an attractive, professionally-attired woman in her mid-thirties worked at a data terminal.
“Cargo Three-seventeen,” Markland told her, “just in from—“
“No names necessary,” she interrupted. Markland bristled inwardly, angry with himself for a slip that identified him as a novice to the local conventions, now a target for any number of scams. He wondered what she’d say if he told her he’d been to Assend once before, a junior officer in a Navy torpedo boat squadron sent in to deal a full hand of retribution to one of the Terran-aligned ports. “Your reservation number is all we need.” He gave it to her with a smile and her fingers went to work on the keyboard. Presently she pushed a sheet of printout and two key-cards across the counter to him. “The cars are parked in the lot to the right of the exit,” she said. “The compartments on these models are not pressurized; you may upgrade for twenty credits a day, if you like.”
“These will be fine,” Markland said. Shadrack had insisted that they cost-cut at every opportunity. Markland arranged a permanent chalk for the lander—the cheapest available, not far from where it sat on the tarmac.
“You have a map to the warehouse there; the route is marked in yellow. Have you been to Poole’s Landing before?” Markland shook his head. “Have a seat,” she pointed. “A representative will meet with you shortly.”
Markland pocketed one key and handed the other over to Pelletier with the map. “Take one of the cars, check out the warehouse. We’ll meet you there when we’re finished.”
“Sure. See you later.”
Liz nodded once in response and Markland realized the comment wasn’t directed at him. He looked from Pelletier’s retreating back to the flat, inscrutable expression that was Liz. “I’ll be damned.” There’s no accounting for taste.
“Markland,” Liz whispered, “Don’t say anything. Please?” Never a “sir” or “ma’am” from this one, an eccentricity that should have irked him, probably would have if she were a new sign-on like Pelletier.
“Not my business, long as it doesn’t affect the job, Ms. Dubois.�
�
It wasn’t long before a young woman stepped out from the honeycomb of cubicles. “Cargo Three-seventeen?”
“Here,” Markland called out, getting to his feet. She looked enough like the receptionist to be a niece or sister, at least. Maybe daughter, if Mom had her very young. She led them into a smallish room bisected by a wide table, guiding them to the chairs on one side with a gesture as she took one on the other.
“I’m Francine Kluesner, your liaison,” she said. “Any problems or questions, I’m the one to ask for.”
“Glad to meet you, Francine,” Markland said, extending his hand.
The woman performed a slight tilt of her upper body in return, regarding the appendage with mild caution. “We don’t shake hands here,” she explained, “decontamination being lax as it is.” She slid a map of the port and surrounding area across the table. “The Port Authority controls everything within the perimeter, outlined in blue. The red shaded areas within the port are restricted to permanent residents. The enclaves are fenced and guarded; there isn’t any chance of wandering in by accident, so intruders are shot on sight.
“All businesses, food services and lodgings inside the perimeter are inspected and decontaminated regularly. Unpackaged food and water is relatively safe to consume. There are a number of equivalent concerns available outside the gates, but they are by no means associated with the Port Authority and we do not vouch for them. Any disputes that may arise are between you and them.
“Poole’s Landing offers access to a registered commodities exchange and escrow services. Anything you purchase though our exchange has been independently inspected to ensure the accuracy and quality of the items advertised. Likewise, anything you may wish to offer on our system must be made available for inspection and audit. You may establish an account at any time, and our commission of ten percent covers the costs of these services. It’s well worth it to avoid fraud or theft, and you’ll find that certified goods sell more quickly, at better prices, than they would otherwise.
“There are a number of flea markets and swap meets outside the gate. Consumer products are varied and very affordable, overall. We can provide you a list of independent businesses that conform to our standards of quality and service—the Port Authority will agree to arbitrate in some circumstances.
“Any questions so far?”
“Is your exchange limited to this port?” Liz asked.
“No. Our system is connected to a loose planetary intranet. However, we do not provide escrow on goods outside our system, and any exchange with third parties must take place outside the perimeter.”
“What currency do you prefer?”
“We don’t have direct electronic access to either Commonwealth or Terran financial systems, of course,” the young woman smiled, “forcing us to operate on a cash and barter system. We accept Commonwealth euros, Terran dollars, precious metals and certain commodities. Exchange rates are updated on an as-available basis and non-negotiable. Lacking cash, as most of our clients do, you may deposit commodities as port credits to pay incidental charges. Any remaining account value upon departure may be left on account or redeemed in commodities of our choosing at established rates.”
“Our needs may exceed our cargo value,” Liz said, “but we have Commonwealth bearer instruments.”
“We can make arrangements to accept those,” Francine said, “but you may not be able to draw against them until they’ve been physically transported and deposited through laundering. The delay can be significant and, given the nature of our business, there is significant risk to you if the instruments are lost, confiscated or destroyed in transit.”
“Carry of weapons?” Markland asked.
“Highly recommended, outside the port perimeter,” Francine said. “We don’t restrict them in the port, but our own security forces do not attempt to distinguish between perpetrator and victim in the case of a firefight. Any aggressive act will be met with deadly force, without warning. Along those lines, Poole’s Landing accepts the patronage of any party that adheres to our regulations, few as they are. That includes Terrans, Edenese, privateers, pirates and the like. The Commonwealth Bureau of Investigation and Terran Intelligence Service maintain a presence here, also.
“Consider what I said about firefights if you run into an old enemy.”
“Stop riding his ass, Grogan!”
“He drives like an old woman!” the big spacer snarled back. Cormack rose up in the jump seat between Grogan and O’Brien where he’d taken refuge to relieve the crowding below to peer over the sled’s nose. The groundcar ahead of them struck one of the many deep dust-dunes that crossed the road, sending fine particulate billowing into the air. The vehicle bogged down but Grogan didn’t slow. The car vanished in front of them for a moment then reappeared with a burst of speed only to slam into another dune.
Pelletier was on the outs with some of the Embustero’s crew. There was always a pariah or two among groups of close-quartered men and women, and always a needler who got his kicks sticking it to the ones standing at the social fringe.
Cormack hadn’t discovered the source of the animosity—he was beyond the fringe, himself, an outsider to whom the crew did not tell tales about their own. The lad had defenders in management as did the other misfit, the frosty little dish they called Blizzard. Sometimes that was all it took to antagonize folks like the big son-of-a-bitch driving the sled.
Pelletier hit a clear stretch of road and gunned it, prompting Grogan to accelerate to keep pace. The car’s tires locked suddenly and it slid sideways in the sled’s path, catching Grogan off-guard. He swerved hard left to avoid a crash at the same time the car shot through an open gate. He overcorrected trying to pull the sled back on the road, all the while cursing at the tops of his lungs as the passengers below voiced their criticism of his intelligence and ability.
He got stopped and backed up to turn into the fenced compound where Pelletier waited, leaning against the front fender with a grin so wide it was visible beneath the respirator. Neuchterlien appeared at the top of the ladder well behind Cormack, red-faced and fuming. “You get your license out of a goddamned cereal box, Grogan?”
“It was Joey!” Grogan protested.
“Joey ain’t in the driver’s seat!” the engineer shouted. “We got enough to fix without you adding to it! Stop screwing around!”
Grogan turned to Cormack and O’Brien for support and found blank faces and averted eyes instead. “Well, fuck this!” He flipped off his harness and nearly ran Cormack over in his haste to exit the cockpit. He slid down the ladder well but instead of continuing aft to the passenger compartment, he threw the handle on the port crew access hatch and hit the ground in a full-tilt charge at Pelletier.
“Bloke forgot his respirator,” Cormack pointed out.
“Crap!” O’Brien keyed the intercom. “Grogan’s outside without his oh-two!”
Joey popped up from his casual slouch to meet the attack, one hand dropping to the butt of the big automatic he wore. Fortunately Grogan was too far gone with rage to consider drawing a weapon and threw a wild roundhouse that caught nothing but air as Joey ducked under it and skipped away. Grogan spun after him like a mad bull.
The rage in his face melted into a bewildered expression, then panic. The half-dozen breaths he’d taken since leaving the sled had expended what residual oxygen was left in his lungs and the level of CO2 in his blood shot up like a rocket. His body tried to rid itself of the useless gas and his hands clutched at his chest as he hyperventilated, which only made it worse. His eyes rolled up in his head. He fell to his knees and pitched face-first into the hardpan.
O’Brien, Mackey and Neuchterlien arrived and dragged Grogan back into the sled. O’Brien wiped blood off his face—his nose was clearly broken—and strapped an oxygen mask onto him. “Where’d he leave the respirator?” Neuchterlien demanded. No one remembered seeing it. A call back to Figenshaw at the lander confirmed that he’d left it behind. “Damn lot of use he is now.
What was he doing out there?”
“Dunno,” Joey shrugged. “Guess he was in a hurry to get this show on the road.” He looked to O’Brien.
“Said he wanted to hit the bar ASAP,” she confirmed. “Isn’t that so?” she asked Cormack.
“Aye, so he did.”
“Liz can check out the idiot when she gets here.” They left Grogan aboard, groggy and bruised, nose leaking blood, a cold pack pressed against his face which couldn’t do anything about the black eyes sure to develop by morning. Neuchterlien opened a panel and pulled the main fuse out of the power buss in case Grogan got any other bright ideas.
The warehouse was nearly as large as the Embustero’s main hold. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in some time: the yard contained piles of wind-blown debris; sand dunes lay off each outside corner of the building. One side door stood partially open, allowing garbage and dust inside as well. A few empty crates and containers lay about.
The walls were little more than sheet metal, patched here and there where weather or burglary had peeled the skin back from the frame. The huge overhead lights only managed to cast pale, yellow illumination, evidence that the power cell was undersized or spent. A metal stairway just inside led up to a fairly roomy self-contained office with large windows overlooking the length of the building.
Cormack and Neuchterlien checked the hoses and fittings in the tank rack below the office. Mackey and Joey lugged a pair of oxygen cylinders from the sled and hooked them up. Ten minutes later the telltale on the respirators indicated that the atmosphere inside the office was breathable. The air was nosebleed dry, but all in all it wasn’t the worst place Cormack had ever lived, not by a long shot.
A place to sleep and food to eat on somebody else’s dime, even a good chance of female companionship he didn’t have to pay for. All Cormack had to do was expend his time and expertise, perform as little actual grunt work as possible, and get the Embustero on its way before one of her naïve officers or crew made the kind of mistake that drew fatal attention.
Embustero- Pale Boundaries Page 28