The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2)

by L. J. Simpson

  The previous year Fletcher had wavered, even helping Jacks with a project that was very much on the wrong side of the law. The simple truth was that he felt more loyalty to Jacks than the system that paid his salary. In the end the project had failed, due in no small part to Fletcher himself, who had let his guard down and allowed himself to be outsmarted by that cadet from O1. That still rankled; it was one of the very few times he had failed. Perhaps that was why, when he saw Lenny raving at Jacks on that prison ship, the final step had been such an easy one to take. He was sick of being a tool, a pawn in a game where the few rules that did exist kept changing. At least Jacks always treated him with honesty and a modicum of respect.

  “So, sir, what’s our mission?”

  “We have the ideal vessel at our disposal so I think it’s time to go into business for ourselves, Sergeant. But first, there are a few housekeeping chores that I need to attend to.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “And we also need to think about reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Two’s company, three’s a crew. I think I know just the man.”

  * * *

  Orbital One

  “Hey,” said Archie. “There’s something about Jacks on the news.”

  There were only three people in the crew room, Archie, Duke and Baz. They all turned to look at the screen which showed a SWAT team and a group of paramedics swarming around a small transport. At least one man was being escorted from the vessel by armed police – another was being carried out on a stretcher. The picture then switched to a reporter.

  “We are still awaiting official confirmation but according to our sources, the prison transport which you can see behind me was intercepted just outside the Atlas system by an unknown vessel or vessels. We understand that shots were fired and that there have been casualties. It is believed that the vessel was carrying the saboteur and convicted murderer Commodore D. Jacks to the maximum security facility at Hyperion Base. I must reiterate that we are still waiting for official confirmation but it would seem that Commodore Jacks has been sprung from captivity in what can only be described as a carefully orchestrated operation. His present whereabouts are unknown.”

  Engrossed in the news, Archie, Duke and Baz never heard the door to the crew room open and close again. They turned around to see Chuck staring at the screen, a look of apprehension on his face.

  “Oh, bugger,” he said.

  * * *

  Atlas Central

  There were half a dozen interview rooms at Atlas Central Police HQ. The walls of Interview Rooms 1 and 2 were uniformly white. Room 3 was red, Room 4 blue, and Rooms 5 and 6 orange and beige respectively. The colors were chosen by a psychologist who claimed that for every particular interrogation there was an appropriate hue. Reddish tones were supposed to raise the level of excitement in the room. Blue, on the other hand, was calming. Orange was said to bring out one’s emotions while beige encouraged conversation.

  DCI Burns wasn’t above experimenting with new ideas but for the time being he’d stay with the tried and trusted, which is why he would commence his interview with Zak Leonard – alias Lenny – in Room 1. In the center of the room was a large table with a recording device set to one side. Burns and Mullins entered and sat across the table from Lenny and his attorney who was, by all accounts, a very expensive example of the species. The lawyer’s name was Foley. Burns didn’t know the man personally but was informed by the desk sergeant that he belonged to a firm which had close links the Delph Consortium. Looking at the man’s attire and demeanor Burns could well believe it.

  “So, Mr. Leonard,” began Burns. “I wonder if you could run us through the events of May 10th. In your own words.”

  “My client has prepared a written statement,” said Foley, pushing a paper across the desk. “For the time being he will be making no further comment and we ask that you respect his privacy while he recovers from the savage attack on his person.”

  Lenny gave Burns a smirk and pointed at his shoulder which was still heavily strapped up, his arm in a sling.

  “Is that so,” said Burns, taking the statement and reading quickly through it. He glanced up at the lawyer, who managed to look both business-like and smug at the same time.

  “Give me a moment,” said Burns, getting up and leaving the room. Once outside he spoke to one of the duty officers. “Leave them to stew for an hour and then tell them they can go. Then get Larson in here. On second thoughts, I think we’ll try the beige room.”

  “Room 6, sir?”

  “Yes. Let’s see if we can encourage the man to talk.”

  * * *

  Harland Shipyards

  At about the same time that Lenny was swaggering out of Atlas Central Police HQ, a pair of civil aviation investigators were beginning their inspection of D47, now safely docked in a hangar at Harland Shipyards after being towed in from the edge of the system. The flight data recorders had already been analyzed and showed that D47 had suffered a sudden, catastrophic engine and power failure. With the loss of power, life support had failed, as had the internal cameras and voice recorders. The black boxes had their own built in power supply but with the ship completely dead in space there was very little left for them to record.

  Once the vessel was safely inside and the hangar pressurized, the investigators began by making a visual inspection of the outer hull. There were no obvious signs of meteor damage and a micro-meteorite strike was ruled out by a simple pressure test. Satisfied with the integrity of the hull, they began their internal inspection. It didn’t take long to find the cause of the accident. Running down the ship’s centerline was a half meter wide reinforced steel conduit through which ran all the vital cables and pipe-work. Inspection covers were spaced at regular intervals along the conduit. Near the stern of D47 one of the covers had been blasted off, the screws holding it in place ripped from their sockets. Inside the conduit was a blackened, twisted shambles which could only conceivably have been made by an explosive device. One of the inspectors swabbed some of the residue from the inside of the conduit; analysis of the residue would reveal the type of explosive used and if they were very lucky indeed, which particular batch it belonged to.

  There was no doubt as to the cause of the accident and neither was there any doubt that it was a deliberate act of sabotage. That didn’t mean that the investigator’s job was finished. Far from it. In a profession where close scrutiny and attention to detail saved lives, official procedure dictated that every inch of the ship would be subjected to a meticulous and methodical examination. You never quite knew what might turn up…

  * * *

  Atlas Central

  Sig Larson evidently didn’t have the same connections as Lenny, thought Burns as he and Mullins entered the beige Room 6 where Larson and his attorney were waiting. Unlike Lenny’s legal representative, this young man looked slightly uncertain of himself and fidgeted in his seat. According to the desk sergeant, who seemed to have the low down on every lawyer in the land, this one was a junior associate from a modest law firm on the outskirts of Atlas Central.

  “Mr. Larson, I am DCI Burns and this is DS Mullins. We understand that you have already reported a case of space piracy to the relevant authorities. Please be aware that this interview is in relation to a separate case, the murder of Clive Donaldson, a crew member of the vessel D47.”

  “Is my client being charged with anything?” asked the lawyer.

  “No,” said Burns. “We simply need to ascertain all the facts before we proceed. Mr. Larson, to begin with can you tell us how you came to be in the vicinity of D47 at the time of the incident?” Larson glanced at his lawyer.

  “Is that relevant?”

  “It might be,” said Burns. “But I won’t know until I get an answer.” The lawyer nodded.

  “We were on a run from Atlas to Rubicon. We were just leaving the system when we noticed that the fuel injectors were out of balance. We shut down the engines
to realign the injectors and that’s when we picked up the transmission from the transport.”

  “And this imbalance… is it an unusual occurrence?”

  “Not particularly,” said Larson. “It can happen occasionally.”

  “Could someone engineer it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe…”

  “And then?”

  “We restarted the engines and rendezvoused with D47. We got a hard seal on the airlock and Barnes – at least, that’s what we called him – banged on the door.”

  “And Clive Donaldson opened it?”

  “Yeah, and then Barnes shot him.”

  “Did you actually see Barnes aim and fire?”

  “Yeah… yes. He was standing right next to me, for Christ’s sake. I could hardly fail to see it, could I? He just shot him. Then he told us to release that guy from the cells.”

  “Did you know that Barnes had a gun?”

  “Yeah, I knew.”

  “You were answering an SOS. Why would you take a gun?”

  “Can’t be too careful,” said Larson. “I’ve heard stories of pirates hanging around the edge of the system and luring ships in with fake Mayday calls. It pays to take precautions.”

  “Was Barnes the only one with a gun?

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you know who the prisoner was?” said Burns.

  “I didn’t at the time. I hear it was the renegade commodore that was in the news a while back.”

  “Who opened the cell door?”

  “I did. Barnes had me at gunpoint. What else was I supposed to do? Then just as that commodore came out, Barnes shot Lenny and then he locked us both up.”

  “Why did he shoot Lenny? Why didn’t he shoot you, come to that?”

  “How would I know? Maybe they didn’t get on too well.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “It happens, especially on a small ship. You spend a lot of time cooped up in close proximity. If you don’t have the right temperament for it, nerves get frayed, and then you get trouble. I heard them arguing once or twice.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not their mother, am I? So long as they do their jobs I don’t care whether they like each other or not.”

  “A happy crew is an efficient crew?” said Mullins.

  “I run a business, not a mutual appreciation society.”

  “Quite,” said Burns. “And after that, Barnes and the prisoner presumably made their getaway in your ship. Is there anything else you can remember?”

  “Yeah, there was one thing. The guy in the cell called Barnes ‘Sergeant’,” said Larson.

  “Really?” said Burns. Something interesting at last. “Well, Mr. Larson, your version of the events closely matches a statement received from Zak Leonard earlier today.”

  “Well it would, because that’s what happened.”

  “What can you tell us about Barnes,” said Mullins. “How long had you known him?”

  “About six months. We were looking for another hand and he came with a decent reference and had plenty of experience.”

  “Who gave him the reference?”

  “Guy called Bishop – runs a small freighting outfit out of Regulus Prime.”

  “And what did you make of him? Barnes, I mean.”

  “He was a decent crewman. Didn’t talk a lot but capable and reliable… Right up until…”

  “Yes?” said Mullins.

  “Right up until the son of a bitch shot Lenny and took my ship!” he said angrily.

  Burns looked over at Mullins, who gave a small shrug. “I think that will be all for the present, Mr. Larson. I’ve no doubt we’ll need to speak again so I’ll have to request that you stay planet-side for the next few days.”

  “With no ship I’m not going anywhere, am I?” grunted Larson as he got up to leave.

  “Verdict?” said Burns, once he and Mullins were alone.

  “He’s lying about something.”

  “He and Lenny both. Larson’s account matches Lenny’s statement almost word for word, like they were up rehearsing all night. It smells of rodent.”

  “And why did Barnes shoot Donaldson three times on a high power setting and then dial it right down to shoot Leonard?” said Mullins. “Three kill shots for a guy he’d never met and then a stun shot for a guy he didn’t get on with? It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

  “Me neither. Do we have any pictures of the wound to Leonard’s shoulder?”

  “Yeah, they took a few at the hospital.”

  “I want you to have a word with the pathologist – see if he thinks the shots that killed Donaldson came from the same gun.”

  “Will do, sir, but it’s hard to say with plasma rounds. Might be able to tell if they were the same caliber but that’s about all.”

  “Either way, there’s something bigger going on here,” said Burns. “How did Barnes manage to engineer all this on his own? How did he know Jacks was on that transport and how did he manage to get the Kingfisher to exactly the right spot at the right time?”

  “Someone with military connections?” said Mullins. “Larson said that Jacks referred to Barnes as ‘Sergeant’.”

  “It’s possible. Either way, that’s just about the only lead we have at present. One lead, two corpses and a bunch of assorted villains laughing at us.”

  “The police commissioner will not be pleased, sir.”

  “Police commissioners rarely are, Mullins. After you’ve talked to the pathologist, go back over Jacks’ career. See if you can find out who this mysterious Sergeant Barnes is. While you’re doing that I’ll run a check on that Bishop character. After that I think I’d better go over to Orbital One and have a word with Chuck Poulson.

  * * *

  The Cascades Club, Atlas Central

  “How did it happen?” said St.Clair. His forefinger tapped on the desk as his eyes drilled into Jack Hobbs, sitting on the opposite side of the desk. For the usually impassive St.Clair this was an overt sign of displeasure.

  “We don’t know,” said Hobbs uncomfortably. It wasn’t the right answer to give when St.Clair was in this kind of mood but it was there was little else he could say – apart from the obvious, that one of the Reaper’s crew, a man that he was supposed to have vetted – had turned against his crewmates and helped Jacks escape.

  “And the police have interviewed Larson and Leonard?”

  “They were both briefed on what to say.”

  “It’s a bad business,” said St.Clair coolly, which was the verbal equivalent of pulling out a plasma rifle and aiming it at the centre of his forehead. “Put the word out for information – offer a reward if you have to. I want him dead. Clear?”

  St.Clair then turned away before Hobbs could reply.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hobbs quietly as he got up to leave.

  * * *

  Chumly generally thought of himself as a good fellow, a man’s man. He lived in a man’s world, a world of adventure and danger; one where only the strongest and fittest survived to collect a pension. He held all the prerequisite skills in abundance, some of them natural, picked up during his formative years in the backstreets of Atlas Central. Others he’d honed to perfection over the years under the watchful eye of Sam. He knew how to drink, how to fight, frighten, threaten, bear grudges and inflict pain – all in the most efficient manner.

  And naturally, in order to be a real man in a man’s world you had to know how to be a ladies’ man as well. In this respect Chumly was a natural, the quintessential lovable rogue with hawkish good looks and a permanent twinkle in his eye.

  Being a fair and liberal minded sort of fellow, he allowed his women a fair amount of freedom. He didn’t dictate to them. He didn’t tell them how to cook, how to clean or how to dress, just so long as he came back to a clean house to find his dinner on the table and his woman – who might or might not be his wife, depending on what day of the week it was – dressed in an appropriate manner, which could
be anything from an elegant evening dress to a g-string and very little else, all depending on his mood.

  In return he expected his women to obey three simple rules. Don’t ask questions, don’t talk back and don’t talk to other men.

  Chumly’s lawful wedded wife stopped asking questions just a few days after arriving back from their honeymoon. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than Chumly promptly disappeared for several days, coming back late one night about as drunk as a man could get. He was less than impressed to find no food on the table but managed to hold his temper until his bride asked him where he’d been. That’s when she learned about rules number one and two. She learned about number three a few weeks later when she confided in an old school friend. The friend in question had the misfortune to be a man; he left the system just as soon as he was discharged from hospital.

  Chumly hadn’t climbed far enough up the consortium ladder to be able to keep a mistress tucked away in an apartment somewhere; his pay grade didn’t quite allow for it, though that didn’t stop him from playing the field expertly and diligently. He still went home once or twice a week just to keep up appearances but spent the other nights elsewhere – sometimes at the Cascades where he was ostensibly employed on the security detail, but more often in the arms of one of his lovers who came and went almost as regularly as the tide, and with Atlas having two moons there were more than enough of those.

  The exception was Alice, the one girl that Chumly had never quite managed to tame and the one girl among many that he held a grudging respect for. For years they’d had an on/off relationship, but one where Alice had always managed to dictate the terms – not a situation Chumly was used to. There were times when he would rant and rave, and on one occasion he even raised his hand… but the blow never fell, whereby Alice just laughed – not at him but at the absurdity of the situation. Stumped for words, Chumly had jammed his hat on his head and stomped out of her apartment. Chumly, one of the most feared men in Atlas Central, sulking off into the night.