Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  “Shadrack see it that way?”

  “I don’t think Shad knows how he sees it, yet. He knows you took a difficult situation out of his hands.”

  “How hard could it have been?”

  Druski puffed out her cheeks. “Most of the crew are normal spacers, Joey—tough people with a hard way of life. They skirt the law sometimes, but so does every other ship. People like you, and me, and Liz have been through things that they’ll never understand. You’re so far out of their league there’s hardly a comparison, and Shadrack knows that, too.”

  Shadrack’s signature footsteps preceded him into sickbay. “How is he, Meg?”

  “Ready to go. No heavy duty until further notice.”

  “I’d have guessed that. You pull shifts with Figenshaw, Joey. I don’t recommend you spend your free time in the commons after that run-in with Grogan.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “That depends on the hearing. Colvard is the acting legal officer. First thing tomorrow you’ll give him your statement. Don’t talk about it to anyone but him. If you feel up to it, I’ll take you to your quarters.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Assend: 2710:09:35 Standard

  Shadrack found the entire concept of a hearing aboard his ship surreal. He let his officers handle discipline, for the most part, but didn’t hesitate to levy judgment on occasions when the offense merited his personal attention. Even then, however, he handled it without ceremony.

  The harshest penalty he’d ever handed down in his long career as captain and master of a vessel was expulsion—the involuntary removal of a crewman from the ship while in port, accompanied by an emphatic negative referral. The influence of such a blot on a spacer’s record virtually assured permanent grounding of the individual in question. Shadrack slept easy in the knowledge that, whatever the crewman deserved for the offense, they’d change their ways or find themselves incarcerated dirt-side, never to darken the hatch of an honest ship again.

  But the Embustero was no longer an honest ship, and mere expulsion would not cover the debt incurred by the brazen theft of cargo and vital equipment, or the death of a crewman in the course of same. Nor could any sane captain consider issuing the ultimate sentence without the full support of his officers and representatives of the common spacers.

  Shadrack took five days to seat a board made up of himself, Neuchterlien, Colvard, Han-Ju, and three crewmen who’d been sequestered before they heard what happened.

  Lad Hussein refused to give a statement, and Druski said the pain medication she’d prescribed made his testimony unreliable in the best of circumstances. No one could corroborate Pelletier’s version of what took place in the sled’s cockpit, but his testimony about the firefight corresponded reasonably with Berriochoa’s. Druski testified as to Liz’s cause of death and Hussein’s wounds, offering her opinion of what weapons were used. “But,” she added, “I can’t deduce intent or motivation from any of this.”

  “The thing that disturbs me the most,” Han-Ju said during deliberation, “is that the big guy seemed to know Joey. If that’s what set Hussein off—the belief that Joey had double-crossed him—then Joey must have been playing them against each other. Maybe his intent was to steal our cargo and the money.”

  “The aftermath doesn’t bear out that theory,” Nuke countered. “He had that—but instead of disappearing with it he drives the sled two hundred kilometers into the badlands and calls Markland. He only shot Hussein after being fired on, and Berriochoa said Pelt never once threatened him. Those aren’t the acts of a murderous thief.”

  “He killed Liz,” Han-Ju reminded them. “What kind of person does that?”

  “He tried to give her mouth-to-mouth,” Sheffield put in, “and Druski said she wasn’t likely to have survived long, anyway. I don’t agree with what he did, but it wasn’t cold-blooded murder.”

  The deliberations went on for hours, and Shadrack finally called a recess. The members filed out and dispersed, and Shadrack returned to his quarters where he found a message waiting from Markland. “I contacted the previous bidders who are still in orbit,” he said. “We won’t get what we might have at auction, but it should be enough to break even on our obligations and get us the hell out of this system.”

  It wasn’t the best he hoped for, but good enough to lift a great deal of the weight from his shoulders—the Embustero and her crew would survive intact. Shadrack’s satisfaction didn’t last long, however. Druski knocked at his door just minutes later.

  “This is off the record,” the medic told him, “but I think it’s something you need to know. Lad told me he tried to steal the cargo and the sled because he thought you were going to throw him off the ship.”

  “Where the hell did he get that idea?” Shadrack exclaimed.

  “Grogan told him that Joey convinced you that the cargo we lost off the ramp dirt-side was Lad’s fault.”

  Shadrack closed his eyes and pressed his thumbs against his temples. “Goddamn that man.”

  Terson worked, slept and ate with a cloud looming over him. Most of the crew was conspicuous in its effort to act like nothing was wrong. Many cast him uncomfortable, suspicious glances when he was about. He avoided them when possible, virtually cloistering himself in his cabin and taking his meals at odd hours, but inevitably it came down to a choice between facing them or going hungry, and he’d be damned if he went hungry.

  A sea of faces turned toward him when he entered the commons. He took a ration and walked on uncertainly, flinching internally every time a pair of eyes turned away too quickly. He stood in the swirl of crewmen, floundering like a swimmer in a river looking for a log that didn’t have a snake on it.

  To hell with them. To hell with all of them. He sat down in the nearest empty seat to eat and looked around when he felt like it, at what he felt like looking at, and if it happened to be a person who happened to look back he offered a gesture of recognition with his head and let them feel uncomfortable.

  A hand settled on Terson’s shoulder; Jerrell Mackey and Sheila O’Brien sat down beside him. “Long time, no see,” O’Brien said.

  “Don’t sit too close,” Terson warned sullenly. “Something might rub off.”

  “We don’t worry about them too much,” Mackey said. “We’ve got each other to take shit from.” A brief, awkward silence followed until Mackey prodded O’Brien with his elbow.

  “Listen,” the spacer said uncomfortably, “we heard what happened. I know she was your friend. We don’t hold anything against you.”

  “You’re about the only ones,” Terson said.

  “That’s because you’re a fucking jinx,” Grogan declared from a table off to the left. He approached belligerently, followed by a dozen or so other crewmen. His nose was taped, and his face was yellow with bruises. Most of those with him carried similar trophies.

  Conversation stopped abruptly when Terson stood to face him, flanked by Mackey and O’Brien. “Give it a rest, Grogan,” O’Brien said. “Nobody wants any more trouble.”

  “He’s been trouble since he got here!” Grogan snarled. “If the captain won’t get rid of him before he gets someone else killed, maybe we should!”

  “Aye, an’ maybe the lot o’ you’ll get your arses whipped,” MacLeod piped up. “Ye’ve not fared well the last couple o’ times ye took him on.”

  “Break it up!” Lita Figenshaw elbowed her way into the space between the two groups. “You people get to your posts—that’s an order!”

  The group thinned but didn’t disperse. Grogan looked down at the small woman disdainfully. “Last guy I knew who was so popular with the ladies could lick his eyebrows.”

  “You just got yourself on report for insubordination, mister! The rest of you’ll get the same if you don’t clear out right now!” Figenshaw warned. The crewmen behind Grogan vanished without a backward glance.

  “Next shore leave, pal,” Grogan promised. “They’re afraid of her, not you.” He turned and strode out of the comm
ons. Figenshaw sprinted after him spitting fire.

  It came as a relief when Markland and Figenshaw arrived at Terson’s quarters and escorted him to the commons a few days later. The room was filled to capacity, leaving only a narrow aisle-way leading to the conference table where Shadrack sat with the rest of the board. Terson stood before them, back straight and arms stiff at his sides.

  Shadrack rose solemnly. “Regarding the charge of assault upon Crewman Lad Hussein with intent to kill, by the unanimous decision of this disciplinary board, Crewman Joseph Pelletier is found…not guilty. Regarding the charge of murder of Crewman Cobi “Liz” Dubois, by the unanimous decision of this disciplinary board, Crewman Joseph Pelletier is found…not guilty.”

  Murmurs of disbelief erupted within the assembly. Markland glared over his shoulder. “As you were!”

  They quieted, and the captain continued: “Regarding the charge of contributory manslaughter of Crewman Cobi “Liz” Dubois, by the unanimous decision of this disciplinary board, Crewman Joseph Pelletier is found…guilty.

  “Crewman Joseph Pelletier is hereby sentenced to confinement in the brig on bread and water for thirty-seven days. Furthermore, all pay and shares due him for business transacted in the course of the voyage are forfeit. The sentence shall be carried out immediately. That is all.”

  The two officers took him by the arms and led him out. The shipwide keyed up before they reached the brig: “In regard to the following charges: Murders of dirt-siders John Doe the First and John Doe the Second, attempted murder of Crewman Joseph Pelletier, contributory manslaughter of Crewman Cobi “Liz” Dubois, kidnapping of crewmen Joseph Pelletier, Cobi Dubois and Nathaniel Berriochoa, and the attempted theft of ship’s cargo, crewman Lad Hussein is found, by the unanimous decision of this disciplinary board…guilty.

  “Crewman Lad Hussein is hereby sentenced, by the unanimous decision of this board, to death in a swift and humane manner. The sentence shall be carried out immediately. May God have mercy on his soul.

  “That is all.”

  Terson lay down on the cot in the brig, folded his hands on his stomach and stared at the light bar in the ceiling.

  The method of execution outlined in The Ship Commander’s Guide to Ceremonies was to lead the condemned, shackled and hooded, into the lock, perform last rites of his or her choosing, then slowly bleed off the pressure until the condemned passed out and asphyxiated, though legality only required that a live human being enter the lock and a corpse leave it. There were enough sadists in command of starships to make spacings as infamous as walking the plank.

  The light bar dimmed to half intensity and the dirge bell sounded the first of the nine rings that signaled Execution. Somewhere in the ship, nine volunteers pressed a button on the ninth ring and Lad Hussein was dead. A few minutes later the dirge bell sounded again, six times, for Mourning, and as the last ring faded the shipwide played “The Endless Flight.” The dirge bell followed with three rings for Return to Station.

  Terson felt a vague horror at being able to pinpoint the exact moment of a man’s death through a physical confirmation of the event. It destroyed any sense of distance, no matter if he and Hussein had been separated by a ship’s bulkhead or a planet’s horizon.

  The dead showed their faces that night, each one assigning him the measure of his guilt in their deaths with Virene’s voice in their throats.

  Nivia: 2710:09:35 Standard

  Hal could not recall ever seeing the Old Lady so furious.

  “The two of you have gone too far!” she raged. “How dare you interfere with an operation in this way?”

  “I did what I thought best,” Hal said coldly.

  “What you thought best resulted in the permanent loss of material the Family desperately needed to recover!” the Old Lady snapped. “Not to mention the grave wounding of a vital Family operative—wounds he may or may not ever fully recover from, assuming he survives!”

  “There was no way to foresee those events, ma’am,” Tamara said quietly.

  “Exactly! Things are quite capable of going wrong without any assistance from the two of you! What were you thinking?”

  “Reilly’s appearance was sudden and fortuitous,” Tamara explained. “We had to act quickly.”

  “Which begs the question of how you became aware of the operation in the first place,” the Old Lady replied. “Do you care to explain that?”

  “My position allows access to information not directly related to my stated assignments,” Tamara said neutrally.

  “Hmph. A situation that has already been remedied, I assure you.”

  “I think that’s too extreme a measure,” Hal objected.

  “Not in my judgment,” his mother said. “This goes beyond the law of unforeseen consequences: it adds to a pattern of behavior that casts doubt on your judgment, an issue I distinctly recall taking up with you once before. There are Committee members who openly covet control of the Chair. I have enough support to hold off a vote of no confidence, but that support weakens with each setback. It will erode that much faster if it appears that I cannot maintain control over my own offspring.”

  “I understand,” Hal muttered.

  “Good. And I hope you are equally understanding of the news I’m about to deliver: the Committee feels that the current living arrangements you and Tamara have settled into require formal sanction and recognition. Therefore, as of one hour ago, the two of you are a married couple.” The Old Lady chuckled in the stunned silence. “Perhaps that will keep you occupied and out of trouble.

  “I’ll expect to see formal announcements distributed immediately after whatever ceremony you wish to have, if any, but they will go out this week.

  “Congratulations and best wishes.”

  The circuit disconnected; Hal and Tamara stared at each other. “I guess we should have seen that coming,” he said after a moment.

  Tamara swallowed and licked her lips. “Hal, I’m—I’m sorry. I know you never wanted to marry me. I’m sure we can find an arrangement to suit us both.”

  “No,” Hal sighed, “that’s what my parents had, and if it comes to that for us it will be in spite of my best efforts. And I never objected to the idea of being married to you, Tammy—I just didn’t want to be manipulated or forced into it. With that said…”

  He knelt next to her wheelchair and clasped her hands between his. “Tamara Cirilo, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Hal and Tamara’s wedding took place in one of the vacant offices on the second floor, attended by the small cadre of Onjin who remained on Nivia to engineer the takeover of Sorenson’s fast-failing company.

  It was a brief, casual ceremony; the couple wore semi-formal attire purchased at the last minute and read their own simple vows as there was no one to officiate. Refreshments and congratulations followed before everyone went back to work, including the newlyweds.

  The Sorenson Project, as it became known, had been stymied by the loss of the Fort’s data network and the deeply imbedded pathways leading from it to the gaijin system. Creating a personal or corporate identity capable of withstanding close Federal scrutiny without them ranged from extremely difficult to downright impossible.

  Ironically it was Neil Sorenson’s illicit penetration of the Onjin network that offered the best chance of regaining those capabilities. Sorenson Exports was not nearly as tough a nut to crack and the security flaws through which he’d gained access to the Fort’s network weren’t as well hidden on his side. Like water seeping through cracks in limestone it was only a matter of time until Hal’s technicians carved a tunnel through which they could exploit those capabilities once more.

  Already they’d managed to block or redirect the Minzoku’s clumsy explorations, buying time to gain full control while gathering invaluable intelligence on what the Minzoku were doing. The Onjin now knew, for instance, that any attempt to rescue their comrades was futile. Den Tun had virtually emptied the Fort, dispersing the captured Onjin among Minzo
ku settlements all over the continent. He kept the techies, however, and their counterparts at the new base of operations were confident that they would soon make contact. On-site agents would accelerate the recovery tenfold.

  Hal appeared at Tamara’s office at day’s end where she traded her crutches for the chair and allowed him to wheel her back to their quarters. “I hope you don’t plan to carry me across the threshold,” she teased when they arrived.

  “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid,” Hal chuckled as he punched in the entry code and swung the door open. His eyes opened wide and Tamara’s breath caught at the sight inside: the suite glowed in the illumination of dozens of candles. The subtle aroma of sweet incense wafted through the air, complimenting the fragrance of modest floral bouquets decorating the furniture and mantles.

  Gentle Minzoku folk music played quietly in the background and Dayuki poised regally in a fine silk kimono beside an elaborately set table in the center of the main room. A long buffet table stood on her opposite side laid out with fresh meat and vegetables ready to stir-fry in an alcohol-heated wok.

  “Oh, Hal, it’s beautiful!” Tamara gushed. “You didn’t have to do this!”

  Dayuki executed a graceful bow before Hal could blurt out his own surprise. “Hal-san, Tamara-san, welcome. It is customary among my people for the bride’s maids and groom’s men to bathe the maarusi on their wedding night. This symbolizes the washing away of the old life to make way for the new, and serves to infuse the unwed with the couples’ good fortune. It is said,” she added with a smile, “that one marriage leads to another due to this, but I suspect it has less influence than the sake the maids and bachelors share afterward.

  “I offer Tamara-san my humble services, if she wishes. Hal-san, I am afraid, must bathe alone.”

  “I am honored,” Tamara said.

  Hal caught Dayuki’s ear when she floated forward to take control of the wheelchair. “How on earth did you do this?” he whispered.