Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  The police officer stepped back to Dayuki. “Was anything damaged?” She shook her head. “I have a report form you’ll need to fill out to press charges.”

  “No, thank you,” Dayuki said timidly.

  “I can certainly understand your reluctance,” the man sighed, “but it doesn’t help anyone to let them get away with it. Here’s my card; contact me if you change your mind or have any more trouble with these three idi­ots. I can arrange a ride to take you home, if you like.”

  “No, I will walk. Thank you for your help.”

  “All right, then. I’m going to deliver these three to their parents. I hope the rest of your day is more pleasant.”

  Dayuki didn’t relax until she was aboard the bus where she consciously avoided speaking to anyone least she subject herself to gaijin unpleasantness thrice in one day. She let the policeman’s card fall to the floor, wondering if Ma­jor Maalan Bragg would have been as helpful had he known who and what she was.

  Assend: 2710:09:11 Standard

  Chas “Pit Bull” Bunker was as tenacious, deadly and physically imposing as his namesake. He was begat of an unfortunate dalliance between a gene-engineered Bodyguard and his charge, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a high ranking Family official who took undue advantage of her protector’s predisposition to do as he was told. The girl hid her pregnancy for as long as possible, and then vanished until after the delivery.

  If she thought that the Family would let the matter rest once her offspring was an irrefutable fact, she was mistaken. Only her father’s intervention and the expenditure of a great deal of political equity kept the infant from being euthanized immediately. Chas was given over to those responsible for managing and training the Bodyguard line.

  Unfortunately, Chas inherited his mother’s sharp intellect as well as his father’s physique, a combination of traits that confounded his guardians and frustrated the young boy to the point of violent tantrums. Again his grandfather’s influence stove off the fate that commonly befell untrainable Bodyguards and he was taken into foster care by a thin-blooded couple that made their living on the periphery of Family society as muscle for hire and occasional assassins.

  Political necessities relegated Chas to the same peripheral existence as his foster parents, despite his thick Family blood, while his biological mother climbed the hierarchical ladder. She must have felt some obligation to her ill-begotten son, however, for Chas began to receive assignments normally reserved for moderately well-connected relatives, although they never brought him too close to the centers of Family power.

  Chas developed an infamous reputation in places like Assend and it didn’t surprise him when his arrival at the portmaster’s office at Poole’s Landing sent port officials and security personnel scurrying like ants.

  Jan-Michael Perrier, the port’s head of security, appeared moments after Chas cleared entry control. Although Bunker’s physical opposite: short, scrawny and high-voiced, Perrier’s wit and experience made the men equal in the things that mattered. They’d encountered each other professionally a time or two, not always with common interests.

  “Good to see you, Pit,” Perrier lied pleasantly. “Does the purpose of your visit include any wetwork?”

  “No plans for it,” Chas rumbled. “Your cooperation will help keep it that way.”

  “I’m sure we’ll do what we can,” Perrier replied. “I’ll need specifics, of course.”

  “It seems that some misguided soul is using your network to auction off Family property,” Chas explained. “We want it back.”

  “Matters of trade are outside my area of responsibility,” Perrier said, “but why don’t you step into my office while I find someone who can help you.” Chas nodded, and Perrier signaled his backup to stand down. He led the Family enforcer through a mantrap into the port’s restricted access zone where he kept his office.

  Chas slid a small plastic anti-static carton containing a dark, semi-opaque wafer across the table to the pleasant-looking young woman who arrived a few minutes later. “This came from one of the small lots sold through your network,” he said. “We’ve confirmed that it came from a larger consignment of our property that went astray several months ago.”

  “I sympathize, of course,” she replied, “but let me be frank: better than ninety percent of the goods that change hands on Assend went astray at some point. We offer our services to those who wish to parlay such goods with no questions asked. Interceding on your behalf would not have a desirable effect on our credibility.”

  “I’m authorized to compensate you for your assistance,” Chas offered. “The Family will cover the commission you would have received, based on the average commission paid on lots already sold.”

  “A very compelling offer,” she agreed, “but not sufficient to justify the seizure of our client’s goods. However, if you could compel our client to surrender them voluntarily—barring, of course, any coercive action against them within the sanctity of the port—we would consider your offer more than fair.”

  “And you will divulge the identity of your client,” Chas surmised.

  The woman rocked her head noncommittally. “We could arrange an introduction,” she said. “Ascertaining identity will be up to you.”

  Terson awoke from a narcotic stupor to find himself in a strange bed, in a strange room, next to a strange body that seemed somehow familiar, though it took only an instant to realize it wasn’t Virene. I am in a lot of trouble, he thought.

  Then the pain hit.

  His entire right leg seized up in a violent cramp from the hip down, drawing an involuntary moan from his throat that woke the person next to him. She flipped back the covers and went to work, massaging the muscles until they loosened, avoiding the tender spot where the metal-laden mass of nanites and muscle tissue had been removed. “Druski told you not to walk on it too much,” Liz scolded. “Want another pill?”

  “No!” Terson exclaimed, “I barely know where I am now.” The rebellious leg relaxed, reducing the pain to a dull throb, and Terson let out a relieved sigh. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” Liz got up and padded to the room’s small refrigerator where she took a cold pack from the icebox. Terson peeled back the elastic band holding the used one in place and gave it to Liz to put back in the freezer. “Need help to get up?”

  Terson tried to stand on his own but the leg wasn’t ready to forgive the previous day’s abuse. He had to throw an arm around Liz’s shoulder to get to the bathroom where she indecorously yanked his underwear down to his ankles and lowered him to the toilet. At least she had the decency to step out while he did his business. Terson locked the door to keep her out and used the sink to lever himself back up.

  The incision in his leg was healing nicely, though the area immediately surrounding it was still red and puffy. He tucked his chin into his chest to inspect the shaved patch on the top of his scalp in the mirror. Nothing but a scab remained where the surgeon’s probe had penetrated his skull.

  “You fall in?” Liz demanded from the other side of the door.

  “Hold your horses!” He shifted his weight to the gimp leg experimentally. It seemed ready to work with him, though he exhibited a pronounced limp when he exited to make way for Liz.

  The young woman’s duties had kept her dirt-side almost continually and her time away from the Embustero brought about profound changes that the rest of the crew was beginning to comment on. The absence of the insular shipboard environment forced her to come into her own, at least in the short term. The test would come when they left Assend and she found herself ship-bound once again. Would the others accept the new person wearing her face, or would she revert to the cold, distant Liz they were accustomed to?

  She had, in fact, reverted briefly after the theft of the Embustero’s cargo from the tarmac came to light. Terson entered the port quarters they shared during his infrequent RONs to a palpable chill and impersonal stare.

  “You want me to leave?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “Do what you want,” Liz replied emotionlessly.

  “We’re a little too familiar for this shit now,” Terson said. “Tell me what’s bothering you or get over it.”

  Liz peeked past her armor with a frightened look, that in itself a sign of how far she’d come. “Aren’t you mad at me?”

  “For what?”

  “I’m the one who figured out that cargo was missing and told Shadrack,” she explained. “I wasn’t trying to get you all in trouble; I didn’t know you’d…” She fell silent, perhaps fearful that the anger she expected would erupt if she said too much.

  “Done anything wrong?” Terson finished for her. “You did your job; we got an ass-chewing we deserved. As far as I know your name never came up. Even if it did, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Liz retorted bitterly. “The others don’t like me as it is.”

  “You come across like you want some distance,” Terson told her, “and they respect your wishes. You want to make friends, it’s up to you to make the first move. It worked with me, didn’t it?”

  “So you think we’re friends, huh?” she replied with more than a hint of defiant challenge.

  “If we weren’t friends we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Terson said, “and you wouldn’t care if I’m mad at you.”

  “Take it easy today,” Liz said when she came out of the bathroom to find him buckling on his shoulder holster.

  “I told Lytle I’d help her open up,” Terson said. “Why don’t you stop by the store? We can grab lunch.”

  “No time,” she said apologetically. “I’m working an issue for Shad.”

  “See you later, then.” Terson stepped out into the hallway and caught Cormack MacLeod coming out of Michelle Lytle’s quarters. The old man covered his surprised expression with a sly grin.

  “Top o’ the morning, Joey! Where you off to?”

  “Got some stuff to pick up at the mall,” Terson said, “and I’m helping Lytle open up shop.”

  “Aye? Maybe I’ll tag along.”

  “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Seems Markland talked Shadrack into a couple days of stand-down,” the old man grinned. MacLeod hummed happily in the elevator, clearly pleased with himself. Terson found the idea of Cormack MacLeod fornicating with Michelle Lytle incredibly irksome.

  “So you and Lytle hooked up, huh?”

  “Aye,” MacLeod replied. “She’s a bonny lass, she is; makes up with enthusiasm what she lacks in experience.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got real feelings for her,” Terson snorted.

  MacLeod looked him up and down. “She’s a big girl,” he said, “and you ain’t her daddy or her brother, so cork yer pie hole.”

  The elevator doors swished aside before Terson could formulate an appropriately acidic reply. Drop it; he’s right. They ambled past the front desk into the lobby, where Markland stood speaking to a man built like a battle tank. The first mate’s stance suggested a confrontation more than a conversation. “Check two o’clock,” Terson said.

  “See it,” MacLeod confirmed. “I’ll go left.”

  “Cargo Three-seventeen?” a voice rumbled as Markland made his way across the hotel lobby. He turned his head toward the voice instinctively, caught himself, and kept going. A hand the size of a dinner plate, with tendons like steel springs, clamped itself around his left arm, jerking him to a stop.

  He turned toward his assailant, reaching for his holstered beamer with his right hand. “My apologies,” the man said easily, releasing his grip and raising his hands palms forward. “I’m not accustomed to being ignored.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Markland said neutrally. Joey Pelletier and Cormack MacLeod walked into the lobby then. Pelletier saw the confrontation and said something to his companion. The two spacers slowed their approach and casually drifted apart to flank the stranger. “What do you want?”

  “I believe you’ve come into possession of property that belongs to the organization I represent,” the giant explained. He reached into a pocket slowly and withdrew a familiar object sealed inside an anti-static carton. Markland didn’t offer to confirm or deny the assertion, and he went on: “I wish to reacquire any portion of the shipment that remains unsold.”

  “What are your terms?” Markland asked.

  “A finder’s fee of ten percent of the material’s current market value.”

  “I’ll pass your offer along to my superiors,” Markland said, “but we can get eighty percent or better at auction.”

  “They’ll find it more convenient to deal with me,” the man said. He offered Markland a business card that looked ridiculously tiny in his massive hand. “This is a local message drop. Feel free to use it when you change your mind. If I have to contact you again my terms drop to five percent.” With that he turned and walked away, surprisingly light on his feet for his size.

  “Anybody we know?” Pelletier asked as he and MacLeod approached.

  “No,” Markland sighed, “but I’ve got a bad feeling we’re going to get better acquainted. Spread the word about this guy; tell everyone to watch out.” His eyes lingered on MacLeod for a moment before he headed off to inform Shadrack of the encounter.

  Terson and Cormack caught a port taxi outside the hotel, which carried them as far as the main entrance. Terson stopped at the currency and credit exchange to convert some of his ship credit to euros and Terran dollars, careful to shield the transaction so MacLeod couldn’t tell how much he had or which pocket he put it in.

  Leaving the port was a simple matter of walking down a corridor past a one-way checkpoint, but upon stepping foot outside Terson found himself in a markedly different world. The structures surrounding the port were covered with graffiti; windblown sand and trash collected in the corners. A handful of port security personnel patrolled the street just outside to keep the exit clear, but their demeanor was considerably more tense than that of their brethren inside.

  Pedestrians leaving the port proceeded unmolested for a few dozen meters, but once beyond some invisible but mutually recognized threshold they were surrounded by beggars, pickpockets and barkers advertising any number of services and distractions in ten different languages. A gaudy, double-tiered bus slowly pushed its way through the rabble, horn blasting while the driver made obscene gestures from inside the pressurized cab. Armed liverymen jumped from the running boards and waded ahead to clear the way, laying about with the butts of their weapons without regard for age, gender or disability. They swung back aboard as the vehicle cleared the press and stopped to unload its passengers.

  Terson dropped a few coins in the collection tube as he boarded and Cormack followed suit grudgingly when it became apparent that the younger spacer wasn’t paying his way. The passenger cabin wasn’t pressurized, and many of the windows were cracked or missing entirely. The bus lurched ahead, quickly gaining speed only to throw on the brakes again when the waiting crowd of thieves and supplicants closed around it, thrusting hands through the openings to plead for alms or snatch what they might from unwary passengers.

  The liverymen beat them back, giving the driver room to get back up to speed. A few trailed along persistently, pleading in pidgin until they approached a second unmarked but mutually recognized border. Quiet, predatory eyes sized up the bus, lingering on the weapons the liverymen carried, then the beggars in its wake. The latter suddenly realized how close they were to becoming victimized themselves and retreated.

  The swap meet was a study of stark contrasts. Extravagantly dressed traders rubbed elbows with ragged beggars and hard-eyed mercenaries. Deals were struck; money, goods and services were exchanged within the anonymity rising from the ever-present respirators. Rough street vendors and panhandlers made their pitches in front of simple stalls of scrap sheet metal, which went up in minutes and came down even faster, squeezed between hardened, pressurized facilities advertising everything from high-class escorts to pious sermons.

  The M
all rose above the chaotic warren like a blunted medieval castle stained by smog and pitted by dust and wind. The bus weaved its way toward the edifice, lurching with sudden starts and stops as it accelerated toward openings in the traffic or braked to avoid collisions. Additions to the dome’s original construction came into view: two rings of smaller overlapping domes that reminded Terson of dirty bubbles rising from the ground.

  The Mall was the largest private concern going outside Poole’s Landing, but maintained a fairly close relationship with the port. It employed its own security force and the facilities, while not up to the standards expected by genteel patrons, were clean, organized and relatively safe compared to the immediate surroundings.

  Terson and Cormack’s port documents got them inside with minimal inconvenience at the security checkpoint and they both stripped off the damnable respirators. The crowd inside was predominantly human, an aggregate of cultures and ethnic groups ranging from those directly descended from old Terran stock to recombinations of culture, genes and language that might never have occurred naturally.

  The percentage of non-humans was relatively low, but not so low as to make sighting one unusual. In the space of a few minutes Terson spied members of half a dozen species he recognized and twice as many that he didn’t, though he couldn’t honestly say that all were sentient. The variability of life frequently made it impossible to discern sentient from animal.

  Terson shied away from contact with the non-humans, not only because of the negative experiences associated with the one alien race he’d had intimate contact with, but out of a visceral repellence from those who were obviously, inarguably, Other. Many of the aliens, too, appeared uncomfortable among so many humans and gravitated toward others of their kind or, as was often the case when one’s own species was scarce, to any sentient being with whom they knew they shared at least one characteristic in common: being other than human.