Beginnings-eARC

by David Weber

  Iseult shook her head. “Before Lieutenant Kotsukov was ‘transferred' he said the same thing about Upsiders: that they would ultimately kow-tow to the Earth Union's increased restrictions because the Upsiders are simply not self-sufficient in most regards.” The doctor smiled bitterly. “Parsons, if the leaders on both sides are as hardheaded as you and Kotsukov, then there will be war.”

  Parsons snorted disdain but offered no rebuttal.

  Lee kept his attention focused on Iseult. “Doctor, who is Lieutenant Kotsukov, and why was he ‘transferred'?”

  Another uncomfortable silence. Perlenmann ended it, his voice not much more than a murmur; “Lieutenant Kotsukov was our on-site chief of security. He was ex-Customs Patrol and was given a small detachment to help him in his duties here.”

  “A detachment of Upsiders?”

  “No: Dirtsiders, like him. They were drawn from the domestic security administrations of several of the nations of the Earth Union.”

  Lee kept his reaction from showing on his face. “Domestic security administration” was just a nice word for the paramilitary rent-a-thugs who hunted down unlicensed inventors and roughed up dissidents. “So Lieutenant Kotsukov was a strong supporter of the Green and Neo Luddite coalition?”

  “He was a god-damned Dirtsider fascist,” snarled Parsons, “He didn't give a damn about politics except in one way: that Earth was to remain the object of all human veneration and the source of all authority.” Parsons snorted. “Hell, he didn't make it any secret that in his opinion, the Greens were too soft, and the Neo Luddites too boneheaded to be trusted. That didn't go over too well with the home office, I guess.”

  Lee frowned. “I'm curious, Mr. Parsons. How did the Earth Union find out about Kotsukov's political sympathies? As Mr. Perlenmann observed, this is a rather out-of-the-way facility.”

  Parsons' smile was feral. “I guess some concerned citizen must have sent a complaint to his regional advocate.”

  So it was Parsons himself who had been responsible for Kotsukov's “reassignment.” Interesting—and valuable cautionary information, reflected Lee as he picked up his coffee bulb.

  “Okay, so you've got potentially violent extremists in both the Upsider and Dirtsider communities, resentment toward Earth, resentment toward the Outbounders, and someone sabotaged one of your quarterly cargo runs when they took over the Fragrant Blossom—which I'm guessing would have shut you down for quite a while out here.”

  Perlenmann nodded. “All true.”

  “So why do you think it happened now? Which individuals might be behind it?”

  Perlenmann smiled. “That is precisely what we hope to learn from your investigation, Lieutenant.”

  Lee paused in mid-drink; hot coffee slid to a stop in the vicinity of his larynx and burned there. “I beg your pardon?” he croaked.

  Perlenmann simply continued to smile—and Parsons jumped into the silence with all the docility of a scalded wolverine.

  “Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, Perlenmann. You're going to turn the investigation over to him?” Parsons' finger fired an acrimonious beam at Lee. “To another undereducated and inexperienced Dirtside shavetail who's been here for less than three hours?”

  Before Lee's shock at the frankness of the insults could transform into indignant rage, Perlenmann was halfway through a counter. “Lieutenant Strong's dossier indicates that he is not, as you would suggest, a ‘reject,' Mr. Parsons.”

  “Then what the hell is he doing all the way out here? They only send losers to staff the deep space cutters of the Customs Patrol. Everybody knows that.”

  Lee didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice. “Mr. Parsons, my parents are American—Fifthers who are active in the Constitutional Return movement. My assignment here was, I am sure, partly motivated by the Earth Union's willingness to distance me from such a ‘recidivistic environment.'”

  Parsons rolled his eyes. “Great; now we've got an American version of Kotsukov: a Yankee Doodle Dirtsider ready to give it up for the red, white and blue. What did you do, Perlenmann—put in a special order for this guy?”

  Lee kept his own voice level. “Mr. Perlenmann had nothing to do with my arrival here, Mr. Parsons. That was strictly coincidental. Farthermore, I myself am not involved in the Constitutional Return movement. However,” he said, turning toward the Administrator, “insofar as any investigations are concerned, Mr. Perlenmann, I would be going well beyond my jurisdiction if I were to take charge of a civilian inquiry.”

  Perlenmann smiled wanly—and Lee had the distinct premonition that he was about to learn that his jurisdictional knowledge was imperfect. Perlenmann did not disappoint him.

  “Lieutenant, I must point out that while our charter here is through a non-security related agency, the Outbound Operations Administration, we are also officially classified as an Earth Union ‘secure facility.' The safety and secure operation of such facilities are the direct responsibility of the Customs Patrol. Under those terms, I believe your authority in this matter is quite clear.”

  Damned if it isn't at that, thought Lee. If Callisto had only been a commercial refueling depot in the Belt, then it would be a local matter. But since the Callisto facility was where the Outbounder ships were built, and that necessitated the application of proprietary technologies that were subject to security monitoring and protection, it was—officially—a security asset, as well. That meant the investigation was Lee's responsibility.

  He cleared his throat. “You realize, of course, that if you turn this matter over to me, the crime in question can no longer be investigated or tried as industrial sabotage. It becomes an act of treason.”

  Only Perlenmann nodded. The others seemed surprised and suddenly uncomfortable. Lee pressed on, “Mr. Perlenmann, everyone here assumes that the explosion was the result of sabotage, rather than a mechanical failure. Why is that?”

  Perlenmann shrugged. “Because, I am afraid, we have already experienced one smaller incident of sabotage here on Callisto. Our secure document scanner was sabotaged about four months ago. The replacement I asked for should be on board the Blossom. Did you happen to notice it when you reviewed the cargo?”

  Lee nodded. “Actually, I did, because it was a rather surprising item. From what fragmentary records we have”—Lee suppressed a sudden impulse to cross his fingers as he said that—“it was actually included in the priority cargo manifest. But Mr. Perlenmann, I have to wonder if the two incidents are really connected. After all, why would a Solist, or a Spacer, or a militant Dirtsider bother to sabotage your secure scanner?”

  Perlenmann folded his hands. “The Earth Union authorities require that we use our document scanner as a primitive data firewall to protect our mainframe. All incoming data is run though a standalone computer and converted into image files or hard-copy. Those images or hard copies are then run through the secure scanner, which is able to analyze any suspicious code elements without those elements becoming resident on any drive as executable data packages. That way, if viruses or trojans are found, they never make it to the mainframe.”

  Lee nodded. “ But how would it be in anyone's particular interest to sabotage that?”

  Parsons snorted. “Because all the extremists on this rock have their own worries about the administrator receiving a message they don't get to hear first. If there's no secure scanner, then coded orders can't be sent here, because there's no other means of decryption. So if the Earth Union Steering Committee gets taken over by Neo Luddite extremists and orders that Callisto is to be shut down, the Earth Union would have to send it in the clear, which gives the Outbounders a fair amount of warning.”

  “And the Sols?”

  Iseult shrugged. “They fear the opposite: that the most moderate Greens in the Earth Union Steering Committee might begin reversing the current crackdowns and even order the reacceleration of the Outbounder hull construction programs. The Sols would see that as undermining the urgency of their own radical anti-Earth agenda, so, given advance warn
ing, they might successfully undermine that trend with key acts of terrorism.”

  “Okay, so there's reason to suspect both sides of sabotaging the scanner. I'm assuming you already investigated and came up empty-handed?”

  Perlenmann nodded.

  “Okay, so do you at least know how today's explosion was rigged, what kind of bomb was used?”

  Jack Carroll, the blister-faced engineer, pulled a small plastic sleeve out of his breast pocket, pointed at the blackened mass inside the bag. “There was no bomb involved. The saboteur used that electric igniter, slaved to a common wrist-watch.”

  Iseult leaned forward. “Que? How can one have an explosion without an explosive?”

  “When there's still some hydrogen in a fuel tank, you don't need an explosive, Doctor. Just a spark.” Carroll frowned, thinking. “My guess is that the saboteur's first move was to rig the fuel tank's level indicator so that it would read ‘empty' a little prematurely. That would keep the pumps from completely purging the tank after a processing run, which means that some of the liquid hydrogen would remain at the bottom of the tank.

  “But, when the level indicator registers the tank as empty, the cryogenics shut off. So the tank begins to heat up a little—enough to cause the liquid hydrogen to evaporate into its very flammable gaseous form. At that point, all you need is one little spark and wham—you get one hell of an explosion.”

  Lee frowned. “Who on Callisto would have the knowledge and technical expertise to set this up?”

  Carroll's face did not betray what his voice suggested; that only a rank newbie would ask such a question. “Everyone, Lieutenant—with the possible exception of Dr. Iseult and some of her staff. And all the various models of igniters are easy to acquire, since we use them for so many tasks: for burning off waste gases, as starters for auxiliary power plants. They're ubiquitous.”

  Lee sighed. No easy answers there.

  Parsons rose noisily. “If we're just about done, I've got some people in the infirmary that I'd like to visit.”

  Perlenmann hadn't even completed his nod of acquiescence before the fuel ops chief was out the door. Iseult and Carroll were close behind. Lee rose to follow.

  “Lieutenant, a moment—if you please.” Lee regained his seat slowly. Perlenmann smiled. “I trust you've had warmer welcomes, Lieutenant. Although I confess surprise that you are out here at all.”

  “Just luck, Mr. Perlenmann. It was my turn in the patrol rota—”

  “You misunderstand me, Lieutenant. I mean I find it unusual that you are in the Customs Patrol.”

  “Oh. That. Well, unless you were bluffing earlier, you've already seen my dossier.”

  Perlenmann smiled faintly. “I have. Which is precisely why I'm asking what you're doing out here. A history major, with a minor in literature? And with dissident parents? I'm surprised you were even allowed to go to college.”

  Lee smiled, knew it was crooked. “Administrator, that's not the kind of—er, ‘politically incorrect candor' I am accustomed to hearing from a Green official.”

  Perlenmann shrugged. “I don't recall saying that I am a Green. Or anything else, for that matter. However, you will find in the course of your investigation, Lieutenant, that there is a great penchant for affixing labels around here. I suspect you arn't particularly susceptible to that kind of blind partisanship, but allow me to emphasize what you probably already know. It will not help investigator to assume that labels are either useful or accurate.”

  “Probably no better than it does a facility administrator—even one so unusually articulate one as you, Mr. Perlenmann. So tell me, what are you doing in this plush job?”

  The administrator stroked his beard. “Watching myself grow old, Lieutenant. In some ways, my story resembles your own. I started out as a young professor at Cambridge—Political Science—and was a bit of a radical in the eyes of my employers. I insisted on using unabridged original works, which was not a welcome pedagogical method when the books in question were treatises such as The Federalist Papers and Rousseau's Social Contract.”

  “You're English?”

  “Half. My mother was from Munich, which is where I grew up before going to school in Italy. I'm something of an EU mutt, I'm afraid. At any rate, I was accused of proffering the forbidden fruit of free thought—so they sent me here.”

  “It would seem Milton takes a back seat to the Earth Union when it comes to devising suitable punishments for liberty-spouting Lucifers.”

  Perlenmann laughed. “Lieutenant, despite the sabotage and political skullduggery, I am glad to have you here. Please feel free to come by if you need any assistance—or if you wish to borrow a book.” He swept a hand behind him, indicating the innumerable volumes of every height, width, and color, which covered all four walls in serried, sawtoothed ranks.

  Lee had a sudden reminiscent flash of standing in the doorway that led into his great grandfather's library. “I just might take you up on that offer, Mr. Perlenmann.”

  “Good. And Lieutenant, you might wish to introduce yourself to the on-site security personnel. They are, after all, under your direct command while you are on Callisto. Here are their dossiers. You might also be interested in learning that I haven't notified them of your arrival.” Perlenmann smiled. “Nothing like a surprise inspection to boost morale, eh?”

  * * *

  The duty officer's room was in complete disarray: overflowing ashtrays, dishes clotted with ossified leftovers, and a clutter of papers held together by the seamy brownish lacquer of old coffee spills. Through the far door, the tittering of girlish laughter was plainly audible. Moving softly on the balls of his feet, Lee approached the doorway.

  Two double bunks faced away from the door, offering a direct view of the videoflat which had been set up (in defiance of regulations) on the wall opposite. The current cinematic fare: a buxom starlet in a Little Bo Peep costume halfheartedly fending off the advances of three leering, leather-clad adolescents.

  The lower levels of both bunks were occupied. On the left, a broad torso (with a decidedly large central bulge) spanned the width of the mattress. To the right, a small and almost cadaverously lean man was cheering on the video studs in some mishmash of English and Portuguese.

  “Tennnnnn-HUT!”

  The little stick figure on the right jumped so hard and high that he hit the ceiling, rebounded at an angle, caromed off the upper left bunk—and crashed straight into his larger companion, who was just rising. The stick figure went down in a heap. The larger man tottered and unsuccessfully aimed a meaty leg at the stick figure's head. Steadying himself, the big one spat a Slavic growl—”Izvierk!”—and then turned toward Lee, the growl metamorphosing into English. “And who the hell do you think you—?” The big man's mouth froze in a fishlike gape as his eyes hit the gold bar on Lee's left shoulder.

  “You were about to ask me a question, Sergeant Bulganin?”

  The broad Russian snapped his mouth shut—so hard that Lee could hear his teeth clack. Then: “Nyet—I mean, ‘no,' Sir. No question.” Bulganin had pushed himself to attention, but his chin stayed down and his dark brown eyes had hardened into stubborn, lusterless black beads.

  Lee turned his attention to the smaller trooper, whose stare was rapidly shuttling back and forth between the Russian and the American. Eager, observant, waiting to see how things would work out. This one would follow whoever established himself as the top dog, rank notwithstanding. Lee turned his attention back to the Russian. “I take it Sergeant, that you were not informed of my arrival.”

  “That is correct . . . Sir.”

  A long pause on the “sir”; the challenge was starting already. Good. Best to get this over with right away. “And is this the condition in which you maintain your quarters?”

  Bulganin shrugged, did not answer. Lee could feel the little guy's growing excitement; stick-figure smelled a fight brewing.

  “I asked you a question, Sergeant.”

  Bulganin, who hadn't uttered a sound, sneere
d. “I said ‘No, Sir.' My apologies; my speech must be too soft for you to hear.” Stick man giggled.

  Lee took a step closer to the Russian. “That's odd, Sergeant. My hearing is quite good and you don't seem like the quiet type. But, perhaps your speech has become soft”—Lee lowered his eyes to Bulganin's sagging midriff—”along with the rest of you.”

  The black eyes flared then smoldered. “The Lieutenant will please pardon my inquiry: I have seen a uniform and insignia of rank, but I have not seen papers.”

  Lee admired the way the Russian refused to surrender the initiative. Bulganin was tenacious, if sloppy. There was probably a good soldier lurking underneath the blubber. Lee tossed his ID packet on Bulganin's bunk. “Lieutenant Lee Strong, Customs Patrol, USA, New World Collective. Now in charge here.”

  Bulganin smiled faintly, smugly. “I see,” he said.

  “No, you don't—but you will.” Still looking straight at Bulganin, Lee barked, “Cabral!”

  The stick man jumped, rammed back to attention, his eyes wide. “Sir!”

  Lee recited the dossier from recent memory. “Cabral, Eduardo. Senior Rating, Third Interurban Security Force, Brazil. Currently on detached duty to the Customs Patrol.” A rent-a-thug from the favelahs, probably; might as well check. “From Rio, Cabral?”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Enjoying this assignment, Rating?”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Then you don't have the brains you were born with. Bulganin!”—the Russian didn't even flinch as Lee turned back toward him, roaring his name—”First name: Arkady. Sergeant, 18th Security and Protection Group. Twenty-four-year service record. Demerits for brawling, drunken-and-disorderly conduct, and ‘political agitation'—nyet, tovarisch?”

  Bulganin's eyes narrowed at Lee's drift into his nation's contemporary hardline Neo Luddite vernacular. “If we are foregoing standard military address, Sir, I prefer gospodin.”