Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  “Please!” Vasquez moaned, “Don’t get him started again!”

  “Sorry,” Figenshaw chuckled. “See you on the flip-side.” She and Terson shouldered bags full of sundries requested by ship-bound crew. Eager hands relieved them of the burdens as soon as they crossed the threshold into the Embustero’s corridors. “Tell you the truth,” Lita confided on their way to the commons, “I’m with Nuke. Be nice to take a few days off.”

  “Don’t say that too loud,” Terson cautioned. A number of crew unfortunate enough to have EVA experience hadn’t taken leave since the refitting began. There were already some hard feelings, and Colvard didn’t possess Markland’s skill at channeling the disgruntled undercurrents in positive directions.

  “Got a minute, Joseph?” Druski called from a side corridor as he passed.

  “Depends on how many needles are involved.” Terson followed her back up the corridor to sickbay.

  “Have a seat,” Druski invited. “Do you remember our conversation about the bullet in your head when you first came aboard?”

  “Vaguely,” Terson said.

  “There will be neurological consequences if you don’t have it removed.”

  “I know it’s a possibility,” Terson replied, “but the medics on Nivia said an operation was too risky. Besides, I’ve never had a problem.”

  “So far,” Druski amended. “You will eventually—that’s a medical certainty—and it will happen when it’s least convenient. I inspected the port’s medical facilities on my first trip dirt-side in case something came up. They’re state of the art and there are ways to remove it that weren’t available on Nivia.” She went on: “I’ve spoken with a surgeon. I think you should seriously consider getting it done while we’re here.”

  “Doc, I just don’t have the money.”

  “Ship pays,” she said. “Shad already approved it—and stipulated we work it in around your ferry duties,” she added as he opened his mouth to object on just that point.

  “I don’t know, Doc.”

  “Listen: I’ll make an appointment to meet with the surgeon,” Druski suggested. “We’ll see what he says, and then you can decide.”

  “All right,” Terson agreed reluctantly. I guess it won’t hurt to talk to him.

  Colvard caught Terson as he left the commons after breakfast. “The captain wants to see you.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Terson quipped as he followed the second mate. “You couldn’t prove it if I did.” The look Colvard cast back told him that, whatever the problem, it was no joking matter. Shadrack’s door opened as they approached and Lita Figenshaw emerged, her face pale and strained. “What’s going on, Lita?”

  Figenshaw looked at Terson, then Colvard, lowered her face and hurried past with barely a shake of her head. Terson pivoted with her, but Colvard laid a hand on his arm lightly. “The captain is waiting.”

  Terson entered, took in Shadrack seated at his desk with a stormy look on his face and Markland standing stiffly at parade rest to his right, face as empty as a blank page. Terson came to attention respectfully. “Crewman Pelletier, reporting as ordered, Captain.”

  “Describe your last run to the surface and back, in detail,” Shadrack ordered. Terson did so to the best of his recollection, sweating under the piercing gaze. Shadrack seemed to be interrogating him by reading facial nuances and posture, letting him talk himself into a hole (or out of one, he couldn’t tell which). By the time he finished he understood Lita’s unsettled demeanor.

  “That will be all,” Shadrack said, giving no hint as to whether or not he was pleased by what he heard. “You will proceed directly to your quarters and remain there until you are called. You will not speak to anyone but Colvard or myself. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Terson about-faced and stepped back into the corridor where Colvard waited with Lad Hussein. Lad opened his mouth to launch an acidic wisecrack, but shut it again at Terson’s warning shake of the head. It wasn’t until he reached his quarters that he realized that Markland was included among those he was prohibited from speaking to.

  Colvard came for Terson a few hours later and led him down to the commons. By now everyone on the ship knew something was up and the crewmen they encountered made way hastily, avoiding direct eye contact. The commons was unnaturally silent, given the number of people standing in line at attention. A quick mental check confirmed that all of them were on the crew assigned to work the last dirtside rotation at the warehouse, except for Lita Figenshaw and himself.

  Terson joined the group and waited. Colvard returned with two more crewmen and stepped out as Markland and Shadrack entered. The first mate took his place at the center of the row, facing Shadrack, who paced back and forth silently, hands clasped behind his back, face grim. “We’ve been through a lot in the last couple of years,” Shadrack said quietly. “I’ve made some allowances for that, let some things slide by that I shouldn’t have. For that I hold myself fully responsible.

  “That’s going to change, starting right now. I will not tolerate lapses in discipline from my crew or my officers. Disrespect and dereliction of duty will be dealt with harshly and immediately.”

  “Sir,” someone left of Terson said, “what did we do?”

  “Don’t interrupt me again.”

  “But we’ve got a right to know—“

  “I said SHUT UP!” Shadrack bellowed, red-faced with fury. Michelle Lytle, just right of Terson, burst into tears. “Is it not enough that I’ve kept this crew together all this time?” he demanded. “Have I not been fair and generous? There are names I could mention that send a chill down my spine: cruel, vicious bastards by any standard, infamous for torture and spacings, who were nonetheless vindicated by Admiralty Law!

  “Let me tell you something, ladies and gentlemen: the Embustero’s departure is in serious jeopardy. We lost a lot of cargo in that attack, and we might not have enough resources to pay for refitting. If we can’t you’ll all be looking for work and I guarantee you won’t find a berth as pleasant as the one you have now!

  “So it pisses me off to no end when someone takes what they’ve got for granted, acts like their responsibilities and obligations are optional, and leaves ten tons of cargo sitting on the Goddamned tarmac because it’s too much trouble to safeguard it!”

  Shadrack resumed pacing, making a visible effort to regain control of his temper while the words sank in. “Someone else is enjoying the fruits of our labor because of your lack of judgment. Now the rest of the crew has to go without to make up for it, and their best efforts might not be good enough.

  “In other circumstances I’d throw every one of you off this ship,” he went on. “At the very least you’d be confined on bread and water. But that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the crew, because without your labor we don’t stand any chance of getting out of here. So you get one more chance. But mark my words: some of you might not be leaving with the rest of us.”

  Shadrack turned and strode out the hatch leaving a stunned silence behind him. Markland turned to face the group. “I’m going to be on your asses like flies on shit,” he informed them. “I will personally hang anyone under my supervision that so much as appears to do anything even half as stupid again.

  “I don’t want to see a single deck of cards, a backgammon board, a cock-and-titty magazine or any other distraction on dirt-side rotation. At any given moment I want you busting your ass, eating, or sleeping, with the emphasis on busting ass.

  “Figenshaw, Pelletier: Neuchterlien is done with the lander. I want that bird turned around in one hour, and all of you aboard in an hour and a half. Transport will commence on a twenty-four hour basis starting now.”

  Markland followed the cargo sled onto the tarmac, lagging far enough behind to avoid the worst of the dust. The winds had finally died out only to be followed by a period of utter stagnation. The dust kicked up by human activity hung in the air like smog, covering every surface with a sickly yellow, clogging respirator filte
rs in minutes and following personnel everywhere.

  Grogan backed the sled up to the lander guided by whoever had drawn the short straw—O’Brien, it looked like. Markland pulled up as close to the port crew hatch as he could. Druski and Pelt dropped to the ground and hurried across, filling the cab with a cloud of powder during the seconds it took to climb in. Figenshaw waved to them from the pilot’s seat as they drove away.

  “Finally let her solo, huh?” Markland asked Pelt.

  “She got lots of practice the last few days,” the young man replied tiredly. Shadrack’s grueling schedule was taking its toll on everyone, but if the lander pilots expected the ops tempo to slow when the last of the Embustero’s cargo hit dirt they were wrong: Shadrack already had plans to hire out the craft. Lita Figenshaw was about to fly the last deadheading mission the captain allowed. From then on the lander would launch with cargo in the hold one way or the other—if not the Embustero’s then someone else’s.

  They could only keep it up for so long before fatigue resulted in quarrels and accidents. It was too soon to suggest a safety stand-down to the captain, but Markland intended to press the issue before too much longer.

  The first mate gave his entire attention over to driving as the road merged into the arterial running through the center of the port. High traffic volume kept the surface relatively free of dust, but vehicles also tended to drive faster, kicking it up from the edge in billowing clouds that reduced visibility to zero and had already resulted in collisions. The port’s security forces found themselves taking on the unfamiliar task of traffic cop and more often than not their inexperience snarled things further.

  Driving conditions improved when they reached the side streets and Markland pulled into the loading zone next to the port hospital to drop off Pelletier and Druski. “Call me when you’re ready to leave,” he told them. “I have to handle a cargo issue.”

  Liz met him in the foyer at the escrow office. “A buyer claims one of the containers wasn’t what we said it was,” she explained. “The escrow officials are holding payment until we resolve it.”

  “Why didn’t the goddamn inspectors catch it?” Markland demanded. “I thought that’s what we’re paying for!” Liz didn’t have an answer and Markland repeated the question to the official waiting inside.

  “Exotic material is difficult to vet,” the man explained. “We can only ensure that the material matches the given description to a reasonable degree. If the container says ‘grain’ and we find bolts, that’s one thing. If it says ‘widgets’ and the contents look like widgets we don’t have much to go on unless the buyer complains, as they did in this case.”

  They followed a connecting corridor into a warehouse full of frustrated cargo where the containers in question had been pulled aside and flagged. The shipping documentation indicated that they originated on Caliban Station, at Nivia, and allegedly contained five-terahertz crystal oscillators. The components inside were individually packaged in transparent pink anti-static cartons. Markland held one up to the light.

  The object inside was a flat, dark, semi-opaque wafer about two centimeters square and not much more than a millimeter thick. The rest held objects made of the same material that varied in size. “What are they, if they’re not crystal oscillators?” Markland demanded.

  “You see our difficulty,” the official said. “If you can’t provide some kind of proof that they are what you claim them to be, then the buyer receives the benefit of the doubt and may void the purchase. You, the seller, are responsible for our handling fee, and we will not vet this particular lot for future sale unless it is properly identified.”

  Liz had walked behind the official, ostensibly to check the paperwork on the other crate. She peered at the contents, then caught Markland’s eye. Might know what is, she signed quickly. Talk privately.

  Markland shoved a handful of cartons into his leg pouch. “Convey my apologies to the buyer,” the first mate said. “I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you.”

  “Very good. You have a twenty-four hour grace period before storage fees begin to accrue.”

  The hospital was just what Druski claimed—clean, modern and professional—but Terson wished it otherwise moments after entering. The last time he’d entered a hospital was the night of the attack that took Virene’s life and nearly his own. He hadn’t set foot in one since, so wasn’t prepared for the visceral revulsion brought on by the bright, sterile light and antiseptic odor. If not for Druski’s presence he would have executed a sharp about-face immediately.

  The lift in the lobby carried them to the specialists’ suites on the sixth floor where she led him to the office of Dr. Dennis Uskabi, the surgeon she’d arranged to meet. Uskabi was nearly as tall as Shadrack, though significantly more slender, and dressed in robes woven with Masai patterns. A cylindrical hat of the same fabric perched atop his shaved head, and small round spectacles softened his sharp-featured face with an intellectual air.

  He clasped one of Druski’s hands in both of his warmly. “Dr. Druski, it is wonderful to finally meet you in person. And this,” he said, turning his attention to Terson, “must be the young man you spoke of—Joseph, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir,” Terson replied politely. “Joseph Pelletier.”

  Uskabi shook his hand firmly and gestured to a couch. “Sit, please, both of you. Dr. Druski: how is Mr. Hussein’s dental work holding up, if I may ask?”

  “He’s very pleased with it,” Druski smiled. “You’re not the only one who needed some work done,” she added to Terson as an aside.

  “Excellent!” Uskabi exclaimed. “It was a simple procedure, really, but even a cosmetic issue can be troublesome if not performed correctly.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Uskabi,” Druski said, eyeing the man, “but where are you from?”

  Uskabi rocked back with a laugh. “That did not take long,” he smiled. “What gave me away?”

  “You shook hands, for one thing,” Druski said, “and your accent is similar to someone from Kwetutamu but not quite.”

  “Ah, yes, the handshake; I admit it is a custom I am loath to divest myself of. You have it correctly—I am from neither Poole’s Landing nor Assend nor the Commonwealth at all. I was born in Nairobi, Kenya. On Earth, of course.”

  “Earth,” Terson interjected in surprise, “you’re Terran?”

  “In that I am a citizen of the political entity you know as the Terran Deadworlds, yes, I am Terran. I am also quite human, I assure you.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It might surprise you to learn that, despite belief to the contrary, several hundred million humans live on Earth. My study and practice of medicine took me to the Commonwealth, eventually, but I found that medical philosophy there was, shall we say, unenlightened.

  “My work here is less lucrative, of course, but no less satisfying. So now: tell me of your difficulty.”

  Druski explained the situation in arcane medical terminology that soon had Uskabi thoughtfully pulling at his lower lip. “Yes,” he said, “very unusual. Joseph, I must ask you to consent to an examination in order to determine what may or may not be done. It will require that you do nothing but remain seated where you are and will not be painful in the least, I assure you. Dr. Druski, however, will need to change seats.”

  Druski complied, leaving Terson alone and suddenly self-conscious under their combined scrutiny. Uskabi manipulated illuminated controls integrated in the desktop before him and Terson felt a slight vibration in the floor and wall behind him. A few moments later a hologram of Terson’s head appeared above the desk. Uskabi brushed at the image with his fingertips, stripping away skin and hair, muscle and bone until only the brain remained. The image of the mushroomed bullet flashed red while the doctor rotated the hologram this way and that, studying the torturous path of blood vessels and nerves inside his skull.

  “I believe,” Uskabi said at last, “that I have a solution.”

  The announcement piqued Terson’s interest. “Really? I’ve been
told that it’s best left alone.”

  “And the person who told you that was quite correct in his or her conclusion, given the limitation of surgical methods permitted in the Commonwealth. I, however, have methods at my disposal that they did not.”

  Terson began to get nervous at Uskabi’s last statement. How deeply had Druski inquired of Uskabi’s record? Replacing a missing tooth was one thing, brain surgery something else again. Happy as he would be to have the spectre of the bullet removed, he was not at all eager to go under the knife at the hands of a self-deluded quack.

  “What do you suggest?” Druski asked.

  Uskabi pressed his palms together. “Are you familiar with the various uses and capabilities of nanites?”

  “They’re dangerous,” Terson replied.

  “They can be, quite so,” Uskabi agreed, “particularly self-replicating varieties, but what I propose is nothing so potentially disastrous. There are varieties licensed for use in the Commonwealth commonly used to mitigate various forms of heavy metal contamination in soils. I merely suggest an off-label application of the same.

  “The foreign object in your body is composed of a common contaminant—lead—and perhaps a bit of copper. Nanites programmed to ameliorate lead contamination in soil will do the same in your body, leaving all else untouched.”

  “How would you carry out the procedure?” Druski asked.

  “I would introduce the nanites via a probe inserted into the brain,” Uskabi explained. “If the bullet were located closer to the Circle of Willis—the primary path of blood through the brain—I would feed a catheter from the groin up the large vessels in the leg, through the heart and into the brain. Given the location of the object in this case, I would enter the skull and insinuate a probe between the hemispheres of the brain, then move laterally along the shortest path to the bullet.

  “The nanites will basically dissolve the metallic mass and transport it through the body to a location of our choosing where they will collect for more conventional surgical removal.”