Embustero- Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  “Have a seat, Joseph,” Shadrack invited.

  Terson glanced pointedly at the toughs. “I think I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” The Embustero’s captain looked away, searching for words. “There’s no gentle way to tell you this, Joseph. You won’t be aboard when the Embustero breaks orbit. You did what you had to, but the rest of the crew—the majority of them, anyway—won’t abide it. I know you have friends aboard, but it’s better this way. Port Security will hold you here until we’re well away, then you’re free to do as you please.”

  “You didn’t execute Lad Hussein,” Terson said.

  Shadrack shook his head. “He’s in sick bay, sedated. I’ll release him as soon as we jump. You have to understand: they’ll forgive Hussein. They won’t forgive you.” He started for the door.

  “You’re a weak man, Shadrack.”

  The spacer paused for an instant, whether stung by the accusation or considering a retort Terson couldn’t tell, but continued without any acknowledgement. The security officers followed, securing the door behind them.

  Terson stared at the barrier for several moments. His parting shot at Shadrack wasn’t enough to flush the shock and hurt—if anything they would grow worse as the numbing surprise wore off.

  A few minutes later the door opened again, admitting one of the security officers followed by a woman in business attire. “Captain Shadrack has arranged quarters for your stay,” she said as if abandonment and incarceration were the norm. “If you would come with me, please…?”

  Terson heaved a sigh and followed. He was less surprised at the largess than he might have been otherwise; the Embustero was still several weeks away from departure, to outward appearances, but there was nothing to prevent her from breaking orbit and completing the superficial work in another system. Shadrack wouldn’t spend a single euro more than necessary, hence Terson’s transfer and detention had to indicate imminent departure.

  The suite they led Terson to was clean and modern but modestly appointed—more than comfortable enough for a few days. The sound of eating utensils scraping against dishes led him to the next room where he found Cormack MacLeod sitting at a table shoveling food into his gullet like he wasn’t certain of his next meal. There was an angry welt across his cheeks and a red knot on his forehead. Marks on his wrists spoke of bindings or handcuffs, and his fingers appeared slightly swollen.

  “Top ‘o the morning, Joey!” the old man exclaimed. “Grab yerself some grub while it’s hot, eh?”

  “What did you do?” Terson asked, peering at the knot. “Piss off the muscle?”

  “Nay, not them,” MacLeod explained. “Markland. Least I got off easier than that bastard Grogan.”

  Terson looked around quickly. “They dump him, too?”

  “In a manner o’ speaking.” MacLeod put down his fork and regarded Terson gravely. “Joey,” he said, “Markland put Grogan out the airlock on the way down.”

  EPILOGUE

  Assend: 2710:10:36 Standard

  Hours turned into days and days into a week before the door opened abruptly and the woman entered with a bright smile. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she chirped, “You’re both free to go after you watch this.” She set a video disk on the low coffee table. “I’ll be right outside with your packages.”

  The two men stared at the disk for a moment, then Terson shrugged and pushed it into the reader in the base of the video screen. Shadrack’s somber face appeared:

  “The Embustero will be gone by the time you see this, if everything goes as planned. Both of you have reasons to be angry with me—maybe even hate me—but I ask that you put that aside. Whatever trouble you might revisit upon me will certainly sweep up members of my crew who are innocent of any slight done you.

  “Joseph: You called me weak. Maybe you’re right, but influential members of my staff counseled me to kill you both and my weakness was all that kept you alive. As it is, I’ve given orders I must live with for the rest of my life. My guilt is compounded by the shame that I could not bring myself to do what I ordered others to. If these acts are considered strength by your reckoning, I pity you.

  “MacLeod: I was mildly surprised to see that Markland obeyed my orders in your regard, though I suspect it was due more to your inability to harm us than respect for my decision.

  “If either of you are still inclined to track us down or put the authorities on us know this: an unexpected financial windfall allowed Neuchterlein to replace drive components which he assures me will alter our drive signature. We were able to purchase documents and transponders for several identities. Hopefully those won’t be necessary, as I believe we’ll also be able to come to a satisfactory settlement with our creditors, allowing us to return to legitimate shipping.

  “I’ve left each of you a significant sum in separate port accounts: Joseph’s full ship share plus portions of Hussein’s and Grogan’s, and MacLeod was paid going wages for services rendered plus the remainder of Hussein and Grogan’s ship shares.

  “Godspeed, gentlemen, and may we never meet again.”

  “I ever lay me one good eye on that double-crossin’ bastard again I’ll ram his knob so far up his arse he’ll give himself a hummer every time he clears his throat,” MacLeod swore.

  The woman waiting outside handed each of them a thick envelope. “Directions to your lodging are inside, as well as your account numbers and passwords. I highly recommend you memorize and destroy them as soon as possible. Here is my card if you need anything.”

  “Lucky if it’s enough for an hour with an ugly whore an’ a shot o’ cheap booze,” MacLeod muttered.

  Terson turned his back to MacLeod and opened his envelope. According to the document inside, he’d been put up in a very comfortable room at the same hotel the Embustero’s ground crew had used.

  MacLeod, of course, went straight for the account statement. “Jehoshaphat!” The old man turned, wide-eyed, to Terson. “Is this right?”

  Terson pulled out his own document and looked at the account balance. His breath caught in his chest: six million euros! “I don’t believe it!”

  “Aye, laddie!” MacLeod whooped. “Two million apiece’ll keep us in booze an’ bitches for months!”

  Terson opted not to correct the old man’s assumption and quickly folded his printout, slipping it into a pocket out of sight. “You enjoy yourself,” he told Macleod. “I’m getting passage off this shithole before the sun sets.”

  MacLeod’s face sobered. “That’ll be a wee bit trickier than ye think.”

  Bastard’s scheming already, Terson thought with an inward sigh. “It shouldn’t be a problem, with all the ships in orbit,” Terson replied.

  “Aye,” MacLeod agreed. “Which one ye willing to trust your life to with two million cash in your pocket? And say ye do find an honest vessel—honest enough not t’thump ye in the noggin, anyhow—how ye intend to convince’em you’re an honest bloke?”

  “Come on!” Terson exclaimed. “There have to be ways for people to get off this dirtball!”

  “Aye,” MacLeod agreed again, “aboard the same ship they arrived on.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “Remember all them beggars outside the port? Them’s those who got scratched from the out-bound manifest, or missed lift, or lost a ship on the ground. Only sure way out for them now is cannon fodder with the jihadists, crusaders or pirates.

  “’An it’ll be us, too, iffen we don’t have us a good, solid plan.”

  Here it is. “And you’ve got a solid plan?”

  “Firm,” MacLeod nodded. “Need a bit more lucre to get solid, but I got a plan for that, too.”

  I know I’m going to regret this, Terson thought. “And what’s that?”

  MacLeod slapped him on the back to get them moving toward the lobby. “First lemme tell ye the story o’ poor Miles Stoyko an’ a certain shyster name o’ Sherman Jones…”

  THE END

  Watch for the next Terson Reilly adventure

  Coming
in 2015

  See what’s new and upcoming in the Pale Boundaries Universe at:

  www.facebook.com/PaleBoundaries

  AFTERWORD

  I don’t do this for the money.

  Let’s face it—if you divide the amount of money I’ve made writing by the hours I’ve spent writing, it averages out to a few tenths of a cent per hour. And that’s rounding up. The same is true of the vast majority of fiction authors, particularly those of us who do this as Independently Publishing authors (otherwise known as Indies, or self-published, or talentless hacks; take your pick).

  So why do it?

  Mainly because it’s a heck of a lot of fun! We get to take these words rattling around in our heads, put them on sheets of paper in an order pleasing to the mind, tweak their presentation to please the eye, wrap it all up in artwork created by a graphic artist who’s in the same boat we are, and turn it all into something we can hold in our hand as a book (physical or otherwise). Could anything be cooler?

  The answer, of course, is yes.

  Getting that book into the hands of someone who enjoys reading it is way cooler—and that’s where the danger lies. Getting that book out there is easy to do; so easy that we run the risk of publishing before it’s ready. No harm in that, if we’re just passing it around to our family and friends who will say it’s a masterpiece no matter what, but reality hits hard when it’s in the hands of a stranger.

  The reader’s definition of ready isn’t necessarily the same as ours. When we ask someone to offer up time and treasure for the privilege of experiencing the world and people rattling around in our heads, we owe it to that someone to make sure the work is the best we’re capable of.

  And the reader owes us nothing.

  It is the reader’s privilege to like or dislike it for any reason. It is the reader’s privilege to tell us what he or she thinks or to be silent. Feedback is rare. It is the most exhilarating, and painful, part of the writing process, but also the most important. It is our obligation to accept criticism, good or bad, kind or contemptuous. It is our obligation to reflect on it and, difficult as it may be at times, to be thankful for it.

  And sometimes you hear from someone who says something that’s better than any Five Star Review you could hope for.

  Shortly after I published my first book I donated several dozen copies to Operation Paperback (www.operationpaperback.org), a non-profit that ships new and used books to deployed military service members. A few months later I got a Facebook message from a young lady who said:

  “I just finished your book…and wanted to express my gratitude. I’m in the military and have been overseas for nearly six months. I read as much as I can to keep me preoccupied. Your book helped me get lost in the world you created…and for that I really wanted to personally thank you. I don’t know how or why yours caught my eye…but it did and I had a blast reading it. So thanks.”

  And that, I realized, is the real reason I do this.

  About the Author

  Scott Cleveland holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Eastern Washington University. Consequently his day jobs have included house painter, radar maintenance technician, and he is currently employed as a network management and cryptographic systems technician. He resides in Eastern Washington with his wife, Carol.

  How This Book Was Made

  The files for this book were created on a PC. The pages were created in Microsoft Word, and the cover in Microsoft PowerPoint. PDF files were created with Adobe Acrobat Pro. The interior text font is 11-point Garamond with 14-point line spacing. The chapter title font is 24-point OCR-A II. The cover font is Verdana