Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  “The gaijin internet offers access to many merchants,” she smiled back, “and they are happy to deliver.”

  The Embustero: 2710:09:36 Standard

  “Breakfast” was waiting when Terson woke up. He took the pan out of the isolation lock and unwrapped the tasteless S-rat, thankful to have it. The ration, like his incarceration, wasn’t exactly what he expected.

  He expected boredom and isolation, but the terms of his sentence didn’t include a ban on visitors, as it turned out. Besides Markland or Colvard, who appeared like clockwork three times a day bearing a loaf of bread barely large enough to sustain a rodent, Mackey and O’Brien stopped by to talk briefly every few days. His most frequent visitor was Lita Figenshaw; unfortunately, she brought with her books and manuals and tests.

  “It’s not a vacation,” she reminded him when he complained, “it’s a punishment. You’ve still got a long way to go before you sit an unsupervised shift on my ship, and if you’re not available for hands-on I’m going to see to it that you’re a fucking genius in the theory.” It was something to occupy his mind, at least, and distract him from the constant, gnawing hunger that set in after the first few days.

  “Mind a bit of advice from one who’s been there?” Markland asked one afternoon while he watched Terson rip into the loaf. “Save the mid-shift bread to eat with dinner so you’ve got a double portion. Eat slowly, and drink a lot of water so it swells up in your stomach. Makes it easier to fall asleep.”

  Terson made some acerbic comment at the time but followed the advice. There was a bit more relief when Druski insisted they substitute an S-rat for the morning meal, citing the beating he was still recovering from and the unlikely but potentially serious complications that could arise if his ribs didn’t knit properly.

  Terson put the tray back in the isolation chamber, splashed water on his face and looked in the cloudy metal mirror. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellow hue reminiscent of hepatitis. The stitches in his lip had become an irritation, and the skin-adhesive strips used to close the cut over his eye were almost ready to fall off.

  The cell door slid open behind him. The mild excitement gave him a head rush and he held on to the edges of the sink until it passed. Druski dropped her medic’s bag on the bed and opened it. “Ready to have those out?”

  “I’ve been ready for the last four days.”

  Druski waved the pointed scissors at him. “You want to keep that lip, don’t give me any.” He shut up and sat down so she could snip the sutures and pluck them out with tweezers. “I’ve got a message for you from Lad.” Terson pushed her hand aside and pulled the last one out with his fingers. She dropped the scissors in the bag and got out a blood pressure cuff. “You want hear it?”

  “I imagine it involves bumping into him at a barbeque in Hell.”

  “He said to tell you he was sorry, for what it’s worth.”

  “Coming from a dead man, it’s not worth much.”

  The cuff inflated around his arm. “I’ll grant you he was guilty of murder, Joseph, but his mistake was one a lot of people on this ship made. He just acted on it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He was scared. He got it in his head that he was going to get put off the ship after that screw-up with the cargo dirt-side, and decided that if the ship was going to screw him, he was going to screw it and you.” Druski deflated the cuff. “More people feel sorry for him than blame him.”

  Terson balled his hand into a fist. He had more blood on that hand than Hussein had, and for just about the same reason, yet he didn’t feel like a murderer. He didn’t think he deserved to die for the two men floating in the ocean on Nivia. Terson didn’t even feel particularly sorry about it—it was one of those things that just happened sometimes. Somewhere two mothers never saw their sons’ murderer brought to justice, and even though Terson could imagine their pain he would never turn himself in. And that, he thought, makes you worse than Lad.

  Terson heard footsteps in the corridor outside around mealtime and Michelle Lytle entered the brig carrying the tray with his mid-shift loaf. The woman approached his cell slowly, casting a look over her shoulder as if to judge the distance back to the corridor.

  “The faster you feed me,” Terson snapped crossly, “the faster you can leave.”

  Lytle’s head dropped and she shoved the tray into the isolation lock. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t ask for it. Markland said he needed somebody now that—well, after what happened. I won’t bother you again.”

  “Hold on,” Terson said before she could go. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing. You’re sorry for what?”

  Lytle touched the new Warrant Officer insignia on her epaulets, which Terson had overlooked. “They moved me into Liz’s position,” she explained nervously. “I wasn’t trying to get it. I guess they just liked what I did with our shop in the Mall. But I understand why you’re mad; I guess I would be, too.”

  Terson felt like an idiot. “It wasn’t that,” he assured her. “I didn’t even know. I thought you were—forget it. I’m sorry. Congratulations on the promotion, Michelle.”

  “You’re really okay with it?” she asked doubtfully. “Somebody said I’ll have to watch my back when you get out.”

  “I don’t suppose that somebody was Grogan?”

  “No! Well, sort of. I guess the person who told me was repeating him.”

  “You should know better than to believe anything that comes out of his mouth by now,” Terson chided her.

  “He doesn’t have a very good track record, does he?” she giggled, once more the vivacious young woman Terson was used to. But something had changed: she wasn’t as innocent as before, and she lingered, looking away as the laughter died.

  “What’s on your mind?” Terson prompted.

  “It’s…stupid. Trivial. I mean, I got beat up—so what? It wasn’t like he meant to kill me.”

  “But you thought he was going to, right?” Terson asked quietly.

  Lytle nodded as tears began to run down her face. “I’ve never been helpless before,” she sniffed. “Really helpless, like trying-to-fight-gravity helpless. I just lay there getting the shit pounded out of me and I was so scared I couldn’t even scream. But the worst part was when I figured out that even though he could kill me, he chose not to. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so insignificant.

  “But a lot of people have gone through worse, I guess.”

  “Suffering is a relative thing,” Terson said, “no matter what anyone says. What you experienced wasn’t any less traumatic than things that happened to the rest of us. And your emotions aren’t any less legitimate. The only people who think so are the ones who never went through it.”

  Lytle wiped her nose on her sleeve and cast another glance at the corridor. “I better go before somebody comes looking for me,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper: “I brought you something, but it got a little bit squished.” She pulled a sandwich out of her pocket and put it in the isolation lock. It had seen better days, but the sight and smell of real food made his mouth water.

  “You’ll end up in the next cell if you get caught,” Terson whispered even as he began stuffing it into his mouth.

  “I don’t care,” she shrugged. “It’s the only way I could think of to thank you for shooting the fucker who hurt me.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Embustero: 2710:10:29 Standard

  Cormack MacLeod was in a grand mood.

  He strolled through the Embustero’s corridors with a jaunty gait, whistling the tune to a barely-remembered off-color ditty from his youth as the freighter’s crew wound up their preparations for departure. Damn, but it feels good to have mates again! The crew’s cool and cautious attitude toward him had warmed considerably during weeks of refitting; his freely-given help and expertise had won over even those few who knew that it was he who engineered their sudden flight from Nivia.

  Anyone of sound mind and good judgment could just
ifiably hold Cormack responsible for the near-disaster that befell them on the way to Assend but, fortunately, rational thought was not one of mankind’s signature traits. A clever jest, a flattering word and a helping hand could disarm an ardent critic or loosen a prim lass’s knees quick as you please, and Cormack knew well enough that a man in his circumstances could not afford to skimp on any of the three.

  Just look at what happened to poor Joey Pelletier, a solid lad who not only saved the ship (albeit with Cormack’s invaluable assistance) but averted the theft of valuable cargo and brought the culprit back alive. Despite that, he languished in Shadrack’s brig on bread and water, no doubt wondering what his fortunes might have been had he lit out with both cargo and sled instead.

  An uncommonly pragmatic lad was Joey Pelletier, though a bit naïve to think that the rest of his mates would view a mercy killing as the lesser of two evils. Not many did, who hadn’t experienced a friend dying in agony before their very eyes. Cormack could only dare hope that, if his time came under such circumstances, he’d have the company of such a one with a ready blade and the mettle to use it.

  Then again, if events played out as seemed likely, he’d have the lucre to drift from this world to the next with a pleasant chemical drip in his arm, surrounded by a bevy of tearful lasses begging him not to go. The prospect brought a grin to his face that he had to suppress as he cleared a corner and saw the Embustero’s first mate standing astride the open hatchway of Shadrack’s quarters.

  “He’s here,” Markland called within, and stood aside at Cormack’s approach. Cormack cast him a glance as he passed, but got nothing from the man’s impassive mask. The mate followed him in, closing the hatch behind, and posted himself next to the captain’s desk.

  “Mr. MacLeod,” Shadrack boomed with a smile, extending his hand to the empty seat before him. “Do you care for a drink?”

  “Aye, me throat’s a bit dusty,” Cormack replied.

  Markland reached into the small cabinet behind him, emerging with a crystal decanter half-full of amber liquor and a pair of glasses into which he splashed a generous shot before offering them to Shadrack, who passed one on to Cormack.

  “Terran cognac—Courvoisier, to be precise,” Shadrack said, holding his glass up in toast. “Success and profit.”

  “Skoal,” Cormack replied, and they downed the libation together.

  “A considerably more pleasant preface to discussing business than our first meeting, wouldn’t you say?” Shadrack smiled, collecting Cormack’s empty glass and returning both to Markland.

  “Aye, an’ not so drafty,” Cormack agreed, drawing an appreciative chuckle from the captain, and even earning the barest hint of a smile from the first mate.

  “I want to thank you, Mr. MacLeod, both personally and on behalf of my crew, for your assistance,” Shadrack said. “We could not possibly have managed well without it.”

  “Ach, ‘twas nothin’,” Cormack gushed modestly.

  “Oh, I disagree,” Shadrack said, “as does Mr. Markland, I’m sure.”

  The first mate nodded solemnly. “It was not nothing—most definitely something.”

  “Glad of it,” Cormack said. “Ain’t often a man o’ me limited means gets the chance to do good works.”

  “Just so,” Shadrack agreed, “and you certainly deserve to be rewarded for it. I am inclined, therefore, to offer you significant monetary remuneration for your trouble, as well as transport to the nearest major port. It goes without saying that you would travel in the capacity of my personal guest.”

  “Me aims haven’t altered,” Cormack told him bluntly, “nor me conditions.”

  “Of course, of course,” Shadrack replied with a wave of his hand. “I’d hoped they might, though, to spare us unpleasantness.”

  With that a bag descended over Cormack’s head from behind, plunging him into sudden, claustrophobic darkness. He leapt to his feet, throwing his head back like a ram, and was rewarded with an audible crunch and an exclamation of pain in feminine voice. He had but a split-second of satisfaction before hands flung him face-first onto the top of Shadrack’s desk.

  Cormack struggled, cursing, as his arms were twisted behind his back and cold steel manacled his wrists together. He kicked about blindly but only landed glancing blows.

  “Hold him still, damnit!” demanded the woman he’d head-butted—Druski, he was sure. There followed a sharp prick to his right ass-cheek and moments later his ears began to ring. A great wave of sleepy lethargy washed over him. He paused, gathering strength for one last attempt to escape—

  —and awoke to the sight of a string of drool lengthening as it stretched from his lips to the damp spot on his chest. Cormack shuddered involuntarily, sucking in a great slurping breath of air as he forced his head to rise despite the heavy sleepiness that urged his eyes to close once more.

  He was aboard the Embustero’s lander, he realized, strapped into one of the jump-seats in the mid-ship cargo area, alone but for the brute Grogan who rose at Cormack’s movement. “He’s awake, Mr. Markland,” the big spacer called out, then knelt down with a mean grin on his face. He supported Cormack’s chin with one hand and patted him sharply on the cheek. “Hang in there, old timer!”

  “Leave him,” Markland ordered as he entered. Grogan backed away, making room for the mate, who planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You weren’t supposed to wake up, MacLeod. That makes this a bit awkward.”

  Cormack only managed a lame “Fuck ye,” before he was overcome with a huge yawn. He shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it, but whatever Druski had injected him with was still playing havoc with his brain. His chin sank back to his chest in defeat, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Movement woke him next, and this time he came to clear-eyed and refreshed. Inertia nudged him again as the lander maneuvered, and outside the small round viewport by his head he made out stars and the misty curve of Assend’s atmosphere.

  Markland and Grogan sat in seats across from him, Grogan hunched over with his elbows on his knees, looking immensely bored, the mate stiffly upright with arms crossed staring at a spot somewhere over Cormack’s head. A pair of duffle bags was strapped to the deck between him and them, and though he didn’t recognize the luggage he suspected what lay within.

  Grogan perked up when he saw Cormack was alert. “Nice nap, old man?”

  “Aye,” Cormack replied, “dreamed I was corn-holin’ yer mother.”

  “Good to know you got one off,” Grogan chuckled, “’cause it was your last.”

  “Grogan,” Markland intoned without moving his eyes, “shut the fuck up.”

  The spacer fell silent, but the grin never wavered. It wasn’t an amused grin, either, but the knowing variety. The kind a dim cod wore when he knew something unpleasant was going to happen to someone else.

  Cormack began to wonder if he’d seriously overestimated Shadrack’s moral fortitude.

  Figenshaw’s voice emerged from the intercom. “Ten minutes to atmosphere; make secure.” The announcement roused both the Embustero’s crewmen. Markland knelt to free the bags while Grogan advanced on Cormack with a twisted strip of cloth.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Markland demanded.

  “Just maintaining the peace and quiet,” Grogan explained. He forced the gag between Cormack’s teeth and tied it off so tightly it felt like his cheeks would split open.

  “Get his bags,” Markland ordered. The mate stepped to the smaller egress hatch set into the main cargo lock and cranked it open. “Get them up tight against the outer hatch—I want them to blow clear.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Markland!” Grogan picked up one duffle in each hand and offered Cormack a wink. “See you in a minute.”

  Color me fucked, Cormack thought as the spacer stepped through the hatch.

  Terson’s confinement stretched into weeks. Visitors other than Markland and Colbert became infrequent as the pace of activity aboard the freighter picked up. He suspected that t
he Embustero would depart Assend well before he reached the end of his sentence.

  His suspicions seemed to prove accurate when Shadrack appeared early one shift and opened his cell door, motioning him out. “Let’s go, Joseph: I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Terson said, eager for a reprieve of any length or purpose. But instead of heading topside toward the bridge or aft to the lander bay, the Embustero’s captain led him forward to an auxiliary maintenance lock where an aerospace taxi waited.

  The craft undocked the moment the two spacers strapped in and dropped toward Assend’s sickly yellow surface. Terson peered through the port as the freighter receded. Only vestiges of the cocoon’s frame and a few ragged swaths of ballistic fabric remained. The bright flare of torches cutting away the rest flickered at the anchor points. The patchwork pattern on the hull and superstructure would soon vanish beneath a new, unblemished polyacrylic coating.

  “She looks good,” Terson noted.

  “Almost like new,” Shadrack agreed with a satisfied nod. “I can’t wait to shake the dust of this shithole off my boots.”

  The two men leaned back in their seats and checked their harnesses at the first bump of atmosphere. Reentry went without incident and Terson spotted the Embustero’s lander on the tarmac, leading him to wonder if something had happened to Lita or Vasquez.

  “Hm? No, everything’s fine,” Shadrack grunted when Terson voiced his concern. “It’s a time-sensitive issue and we couldn’t wait for a turn-around.”

  They made a quick dash between the taxi and a waiting ground car which carried them to the port offices and parked in a pressurized bay. Shadrack’s uncharacteristically generous expenditure nagged at Terson, but the captain sauntered through the complex with a light step and happy whistle, completely at ease.

  They walked through an unmarked door into a deserted lounge—deserted that was, except for four large, armed Port Security officers who appeared from nowhere as the door shut.