“Yes,” he sighed, “of course.”
“It is best, Mistress, that he tell you in private.” Dayuki freed herself from the woman’s grasp and stood. “I will step outside until you summon me,” she said. Then added: “If venturing out alone is safe, Hal-san?”
“Yes, it’s quite safe,” he allowed.
She touched his shoulder as she passed by and stepped through the hatchway into the airlock. The outer hatch opened and the boarding stairs folded out, extending with a whine of motors as the thick humid air outside rushed in.
The smell of salt and rotting vegetation was nothing like the crisp scent of evergreens she was used to, but really no more objectionable than the sterile filtered and recycled atmosphere she had breathed aboard the shuttle for the past several weeks. More disconcerting was the cacophony of strange calls emanating from the thick foliage a few meters away from the base of the stairs. She considered returning for a weapon, but did not wish to interrupt Hal-san’s conference. Remaining in sight of the shuttle should offer safety enough from threatening wildlife, and if any gaijin were about they surely would have fled or somehow revealed themselves by now.
The beach beneath the shuttle had been churned and cleared of debris by the thrusters upon landing. Elsewhere along the strip of sand the tide had deposited mounds of flotsam in long, uneven rows parallel to the shore. The high, weathered walls of the crater deflected both wind and waves from outside, leaving the surface of the small lagoon smooth and serene. The bottom dropped rapidly away from the shore, changing color from sandy to green to deep blue in only a matter of meters. She could see schools of small tropical fish skimming for insects just below the surface, while larger creatures patrolling the drop-off hove in and out of sight like spectres.
Dayuki decided not to venture near the water, given the way in which the rapid change of depth might allow a large predator to venture close to shore without being seen.
The winding, aimless trails of small creatures covered the sand beyond the reach of the shuttle’s disturbance. Her gaze followed the tracks as they criss-crossed their way along the beach until an odd smudge of darker sand some distance away caught her attention. The tiny denizens responsible for the trails scuttled and scampered in and out of cover among the fronds and driftweed as she walked toward it.
The odd color, she soon discovered, resulted from charcoal and ash mixed together with the sand in a wide patch some two meters across, too circular to be mere chance. Her keen eye found flecks of melted plastic among the remains, and the tip of a deformed aluminum pole, possibly from a tent, protruding from the ground.
Dayuki looked about, studying the jungle again more carefully. She could see no obvious trail in the undergrowth along the beach, but the rapid reconstitution of the tropical plants would certainly reclaim the evidence of human passage within days. The remnant of the fire looked old, but frequent rain and the action of salt water might age such things faster than one might expect.
She’d given Hal-san and Mistress Cirilo enough privacy, Dayuki decided, and set off back to the shuttle at a more purposeful pace than she’d departed.
Hal-san emerged just then and descended from the hatch with slow, heavy steps. He saw her, and his cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “That,” he said, “was rough.”
“You could do nothing for her father,” Dayuki pointed out. “Surely she understands this.”
“Understanding and accepting are two different things,” Hal-san said. “Sergio’s death made this very real for her, very fast. McKeon’s involvement didn’t help her mental state, either. She blames herself for not catching it, and so by extension she’s to blame for her father’s death, too. She’ll need time to come around.”
“That time must pass elsewhere,” Dayuki said, and pointed down the beach. “I found evidence of gaijin.”
“My ship should be in line-of-sight later this morning,” Hal-san told her. “The shuttle can slave to its com system and I’ll contact the safe house in Saint Anatone to let them know what’s happened. They should be able to get in touch with our gaijin contacts and arrange a cover identification and flight plan to get us to the mainland.”
“And medical attention for Mistress Cirilo,” Dayuki reminded him—unnecessarily, she was sure, but Hal-san was no less susceptible to the trauma and stress of Den Tun’s treachery than his kinsman.
I may be the last Minzoku who observes the Covenant, Dayuki thought as they re-boarded the shuttle. Cha’Cain claimed the pact moot, but that could not be true as long as even one held to it, and as long as at least one held to it the honor of the Minzoku as a people was whole. The responsibility is mine, Dayuki realized. Her role as guardian of Minzoku honor would become untenable if Hal-san confirmed Mistress Cirilo’s claim and Dayuki failed to end her life voluntarily, thereby eliminating the last of her people who held the Covenant sacred.
She prayed that Fate would spare her the necessity.
The Onjin’s safe house sat in plain view, one of several unmarked, nondescript commercial buildings in a quiet complex on the edge of Saint Anatone’s northernmost district. The halls were abuzz with activity; the structure now housed more people than at any other time Hal could remember.
Unfortunately, except for the staff on normal rotational duty from the Fort when it fell to the Minzoku, most of the personnel were employees destined for other Family compounds who did not possess skills helpful in the current crisis.
Hal fell to hiring gaijin contractors to install the networking and communication equipment necessary to establish a new command post. Secrecy prevented him from obtaining the high-end equipment used at the Fort, as that would invite too many questions. Gone also was the back-door access to Nivia’s communication and data networks. His only communication with the Old Lady until the present moment had been through text files transmitted through the commercial system. While the actual messages were unbreakably encrypted, the encryption itself was detectable if anyone happened to look and might raise questions as to the purpose of so many secrets emanating from a hitherto minor commercial concern that wouldn’t ordinarily use so much bandwidth in an entire year.
“We have the carrier, sir,” a technician informed Hal. “It should be only another minute or two.”
“Thank you,” Hal replied. “Consider this room a secure area until I say otherwise.” Secure area meant a guard at the door rather than the elaborate anti-surveillance system installed in the Fort’s secure conference room, but there was nothing he could do about it at present. The small monitor before him flickered to life, displaying a test and calibration image. A moment later the image dissolved to static then resolved into the Old Lady’s face.
His mother’s appearance was startling compared to their last face-to-face meeting: she’d lost weight and the lines in her face had deepened noticeably. Her formerly straight spine and squared-off shoulders slumped now, sagging like a neglected barn. “It’s good to see you, Hal,” she said.
“It was a close thing,” Hal replied. He had to wait a few heartbeats and heard his own voice emanate faintly from the speaker at the other end of the circuit before she replied.
“And to think that it was McKeon,” she said sadly. “How did we fall so far out of touch? This has been an unmitigated disaster!”
“We were complacent,” Hal told her. “All of us.”
“So,” his mother agreed. “What is Tamara Cirilo’s condition?”
“She’s doing well, considering,” Hal said. “Itching to get back to work.”
“I imagine she needs something to occupy her mind. It must have been a difficult thing for her, to see Sergio die like that. Have you been in contact with Den Tun and his cohorts?”
“Yes. The network tunnel between the safe house and the Fort ist blocked at that end, but the secure comm link is still operational. We can patch you through whenever you wish.”
“I have no desire to lay my eyes on that old devil. Has he made demands?”
“Just to be left a
lone,” Hal replied. “Tammy says it will take him some time to consolidate his position. I imagine that taking the Fort was a technological windfall for the Minzoku; he may not demand anything for a while.”
“The longer we wait, the harder it will be to shake him out,” the Old Lady said, “and at a higher cost to us, both in logistics and lives.”
“We’ll have to be patient,” Hal said. “He can’t hold out forever.”
“Hal,” the Old Lady said sternly, “we may not have the luxury of time. The Family Council has expressed concerns about your judgment—and mine. We’re not in immediate danger of losing the Chair, but if we don’t make significant progress in certain areas that will change. I may require you to do some…unpleasant things.”
“You can depend on me,” Hal assured her with only the slightest twinge of guilt.
“I know I can. I’ll send you some operational outlines in a few days. It will be up to you and Tamara to determine their feasibility. That’s all I have for now.
“Good luck, Son.”
TWENTY-THREE
Assend: 2710:08:17 Standard
“The concept of flying into the ground on purpose gives me the willies,” Lita Figenshaw confided as she taxied into the lander’s assigned parking space.
“Any landing you can walk away from is a good one,” Terson replied sagely, “and a landing is just a controlled crash. Therefore any crash you can walk away from is a good landing.”
“Now that bolsters my confidence,” she said wryly.
“How do you think I felt the first time I had to dock?” Terson asked. “Intentionally flying into another vessel wasn’t considered a valuable skill in my previous line of work.”
“I guess we both expanded our horizons,” she grinned. “You ready to let me solo?”
“After you put down in a good crosswind a couple of times,” Terson said, “and you might get a chance to do that if this keeps up.” He indicated the moderate gusts whipping across the tarmac. The horizon was hazy with dust and getting darker. The local weather reports indicated the possibility of a strong late-season windstorm that could disrupt port operations for several days.
“We’d better get back in the air before it hits,” Lita advised. “Neuchterlien and MacLeod need the lander to pick up some new hull plates.” She took up the binoculars and scanned the tarmac. “Where the hell is Grogan? I swear it takes that dumb sonofabitch longer to get here every trip.”
The crewmen staffing the warehouse had taken to playing cards to pass the time, but lately it seemed some of them were more interested in the game than their jobs. So far it hadn’t been anything other than a persistent annoyance, but if Markland caught them there would be hell to pay. A gust struck strong enough to rock the fully loaded aerospacecraft.
“Storeroom, this is Cargo Three-seventeen,” Terson radioed. “We are dirtside awaiting transport. What is your ETA, over?”
“Thirty to forty-five minutes, Three-One-Seven,” someone replied.
“What’s the holdup?”
“Ah, still off-loading. Will depart ASAP.”
“Offloading!” Lita exclaimed, keying her mike: “You assholes had six hours to unload! Get your butts in gear!”
“Roger, Three-One-Seven. Will advise as soon as we depart.”
“One more time I swear I’ll report them to Markland,” Lita groused. Another strong gust hit the lander.
“I know you aren’t keen on going outside,” Terson said, “but we might get socked in if we don’t get the cargo on the ground right now.”
“Alright,” Lita nodded unhappily. “Let’s get it over with.” She put the lander in an aft kneel and lowered the rear ramp, exposing the hold to Assend’s anemic atmosphere. The shipping containers rolled out the back on their own when Terson and Lita released the clamps and ground to a halt on the tarmac. The wheels on the manual jacks were almost too small to negotiate the rough surface, but Terson’s strength was enough to get them moving while Lita steered.
The promised forty-five minute delay was up by the time the jacks were stowed and the hold buttoned up again, with no sign of the cargo sled. The air was thick with dust and the gusts struck at closer intervals, promising one howler of a storm to come. Terson stripped off his respirator and slipped on his headset.
“Storeroom, this is Cargo Three-seventeen. Where the hell are you?”
“Just leaving now,” someone replied. Static obscured the speaker’s identity, but it sounded like Grogan or Hussein.
“We’re already unloaded,” Terson advised. “You’ll have to bring one of the cars to watch the goods, copy that?”
“Copy, Three-One-Seven.”
“Okay. We’re lifting off before the weather gets any worse.”
Figenshaw grew more restive as Assend’s buffeting atmosphere faded away and she resumed her accustomed role of trainer. Below, a great smear of dust completely obscured Poole’s Landing and the terrain for hundreds of kilometers around, vindicating their decision to leave when they did. “Watch it, now,” Lita admonished.
Terson dragged his full attention back to the task at hand.
Within days of her arrival, the wounded Embustero had vanished inside a cocoon of ballistic fabric taken from between her hulls and fastened to a support structure built from her own scrap, effectively “beached” and helpless. Immobility was a minor issue in normal circumstances, but Assend’s low orbits were polluted with several decades’ worth of debris from wrecked ships and lost cargo.
The port employed a small fleet of sweepers to collect or deflect flotsam but it was impossible to stop everything. Some was too small to perceive as anything but a vague mathematical cloud while other wreckage was too large to safely intercept. A healthy ship could move away from such hazards as necessary and withstand the onslaught of spurious fragments but the Embustero had to strike a balance between the opposing dangers of foreign object damage and assault until the crew completed their repairs.
The ship hovered in a high parking orbit at the fringe of the port’s influence where there was no guarantee of help if she came under attack. Hopefully no one would look beyond the cocoon’s obvious purpose—to provide a barrier against small orbital objects—and discover the extent of the Embustero’s damage. The freighter’s crew had witnessed the destruction and looting of several vessels with less striking vulnerabilities than her own. The show of strength she made upon entering the system wouldn’t leave a lasting impression given the fast turn-around of most traffic.
On reflection, the system’s short collective memory may have proven to be the Embustero’s most effective defense. Few if any of the ships presently in orbit had witnessed the freighter arrive and the simple lack of information about the veiled ship generated enough uncertainty to convince opportunists to look elsewhere. Terson and Figenshaw occasionally picked up bursts of speculative chatter on the subject and did what they could to steer speculation as far from the truth as possible.
Viewed from a certain perspective, the cocoon itself appeared menacing and mysterious. Its interior flashed and flickered as plasma torches and welders bit at hullmetal. Brilliant shafts of light lanced through gaps in the covering, illuminating a faint cloud of gas and solids sublimed by the cutting like some unspeakable horror undergoing metamorphosis within a hellish pupa. Terson himself wouldn’t go anywhere near the damned thing if he didn’t already know what lay within.
“Home base, this is Cargo Three-seventeen,” Lita radioed. “Request permission to dock, over.”
“Permission granted,” the Embustero replied. “Stand by.” The cocoon’s internal fires winked out as repair crews cleared a path for them. A section of fabric drew aside like a curtain and Terson eased the lander through an opening just large enough to admit it.
The sight inside was as awesome as it was ugly: the ship’s hull was missing along the entire length of the center hold as if some gargantuan predator had taken a ragged bite out of her belly and spat it out again. A tangled mass of viscera was l
ashed to the scaffolding nearby and a steady stream of suited figures transported bits and pieces back and forth as needed.
The stump of the old superstructure was gone. The bases for two smaller structures were complete and most of the material removed from around the hold was destined to be recycled in the new cosmetic construction.
Terson docked at the main passenger lock but kept the spacecraft’s systems on line while Figenshaw opened the hatch to admit the relief crew. Neuchterlein and MacLeod entered followed by the second watch helmsman who was receiving tutelage in atmospheric flight from MacLeod.
“Joey-me-lad,” the old man nodded as he slid into the copilot’s seat. “I’ve got’er.”
“No problems on the way up,” Terson informed him as he made way for Vasquez to take the pilot’s position. “Weather dirt-side was going foul when we lifted.”
“Aye. Shouldn’t be a problem where we’re headed.”
Assend’s surface was littered with bone yards, although most were nothing more than chaotic tangles of scrap where the various ports dumped hulks after they’d been stripped. Taking a jaunt into such places could be life-threatening given the total absence of safety standards. Without the proper equipment and knowledge there was no telling where unexploded ordnance, deadly chemicals or lethally radioactive substances might lurk.
MacLeod’s knowledge of spaceframes and components, combined with Neuchterlien’s probes and sensors, allowed them to penetrate the dumps deeper than most others were willing or able and to salvage material left behind by less experienced or poorly equipped scavengers.
“Hopefully it stays foul for a while,” Neuchterlien commented. “We’ve been running this old girl pretty hard. I’d like to take her out of service for a few days of maintenance.”
“Singing to the wrong crowd, Nuke,” Lita said. “We just fly her. You know who tells us where, when and how often.”
“Shadrack doesn’t understand the limits of machinery,” Neuchterlien complained.
Embustero- Pale Boundaries Page 33