CHAPTER 9: Boom
Atlas System
Bruno Tully made his final pre-flight checks and engaged his thrusters, allowing the nav-computer to align the Plover on an exact heading for Orbital One. A quick burst with his main engine and he was on his way, ETA thirty minutes. Just right – he had an appointment to keep and it was in his nature to be punctual.
Located half way along Bravo Section in Orbital One, Tommy Tonka’s Total Repairs was a one man operation. Tommy – that was his real name, though ‘Tonka’ unsurprisingly wasn’t – had spent the previous fifteen years in the employ of others. Good, honest labor, and something that he’d taken pride in, always committing to a fair day’s work in return for a fair day’s pay. But Tommy had always yearned to be his own boss. He felt he had it in him and was smart enough to realize that it made far more sense to make a profit for yourself than to make it for someone else. All you needed was capital – which had taken the fifteen years to amass, and the courage make the decision – which he’d had all along. It also needed a small slice of luck, and in truth he’d been fortunate to find these premises; the half derelict Orbital One was the one place within his budget that had space for rent. Outfitting the small hangar with all the necessary equipment had just about cleaned him out but it was a gamble that was beginning to pay off. Partly because of the all the contacts he’d made during his years as a flight mechanic, but mostly because he was damned good at what he did. He was quick, he was efficient, and thanks to the low rent he could also afford to undercut many of his competitors. Business was brisk and his work book was full. He’d just turned around a private shuttle with ignition problems and within the hour was expecting another vessel – the Plover – which was booked in for a pre-test inspection. Looking at the docket he noted that the thing was over fifty years old; there were sure to be a whole bunch of problems to be fixed and that bode well for the Tommy Tonka bank account. Happy days.
Exactly on schedule, Bruno reduced speed and began the final approach to Tommy Tonka’s hangar. Still half a kilometer out, he could clearly see the legend ‘TT-TR’ splashed across the front of the doors in huge, bright orange letters. Right on cue, the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit space inside, rows of blinking lights set along Orbital One’s hull indicating the way in.
Bruno checked his position and then slaved his nav-system to Orbital One’s air traffic control network. After that, the final maneuver was done automatically. A short blast of the thrusters sent the Plover coasting towards her target at a couple of meters a second. Arriving at the threshold, the nav systems fired another quick burst, slowing the Plover to a dead stop almost exactly in the center of the hangar. As the hangar doors slowly closed, the artificial grav-units slowly spun up, the increasing gravity bringing the Plover gently down to the deck plating. By the time the gravity had reached its optimum value of 0.85G, the air handlers had restored the hangar’s atmosphere.
Shutting down the Plover’s power grid, Bruno peered through the cockpit windows and saw a hatch in the far wall of the hangar swing open. Tommy strode through the opening and gave a friendly wave up to where Bruno sat.
“What have we here?” said Tommy as Bruno exited the Plover’s airlock. “A Slingsby Type 11 if I’m not very much mistaken.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Bruno.
“Haven’t seen one of these for a while… Can’t say I ever expected to see one again, to be honest. Where did you pick her up?”
“Over at the Magmox yards.”
“Ah,” said Tommy knowingly, just about keeping the skepticism from his voice. Within trade circles, the Magmox yards didn’t enjoy the greatest of reputations. And neither did Type 11s of the Plover’s age. “How much did you pay for her?”
“Eight thousand. The guy at Magmox said she was an honest little ship.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow and blew out his cheeks. An honest little ship? He’d heard that one before. In the trade it meant that the ship wouldn’t be hiding her problems – they would be plain for all to see. “Fair enough price, I guess,” he said. “Not much more than scrap value. So what’s the plan?”
“I’m thinking of restoring her,” said Bruno. “The idea is to fit her out as a private yacht. Convert the rear passenger area into a small lounge with a nice little galley and put a luxury cabin in the stern.”
“How about the flight deck?” said Tommy.
“Probably install a modern flight control system but I want to keep the rest as original as possible. Maintain the feel of the old girl.”
“Is she still certified?”
“Only up until the end of the month. That’s when the inspection is due, and that’s really why I’m here. I know I took a bit of a chance on the old bucket so I’d be grateful for an honest opinion. Give her a good look over and tell me what needs doing.”
“Gotcha,” said Tommy. “Take a couple of hours to check her out. I’ve got a waiting room out in the back.”
“Anywhere I can get a bite to eat?”
“Not here, but there’s a place called Mo’s Cafe over in Alpha Section.”
“Where’s that?” asked Bruno. He already had the layout of O1 committed to memory but it did no harm to ask.
“I’ll show you the way,” said Tommy. He led Bruno through the hatch in the far wall of the hanger and then up two flights of stairs to Deck 1, Bravo section. At the top of the stairs Bruno found himself in a wide, curving corridor that circumnavigated the whole station.
“Just continue down this corridor for about a hundred meters,” said Tommy. “You’ll come to the security door that separates Alpha and Bravo sections – it’s usually manned by a marine guard. Just show him this card.” He produced one from the top pocket of his coverall and passed it to Bruno. “He shouldn’t give you any trouble but if he does, just tell him to give me a call. After you go through the checkpoint just stay on the same deck and you’ll find the café about fifty meters on the right. OK?”
“Got it,” said Bruno. “See you in a couple of hours.” He gave Tommy a wave and set off down the corridor. On the way to the security door he passed several small businesses that had sprung up along Bravo section. There were a couple of storage facilities, a lease-hire company and transport depot. It wasn’t exactly bustling but there were enough people about to make Bruno’s presence unremarkable.
He arrived at the security checkpoint to find a bored looking marine sitting behind a bare metal desk. Clad in utility fatigues, the soldier stood as Bruno approached, legs spread wide, head tilted to one side and a hand resting on his holstered sidearm. Bruno had met his type before – the ‘Look at me, I’m a marine’ type. They weren’t plentiful, but there was one to found in most companies. As a general rule you could find them in front of a full length mirror, perfecting their swagger or, as in this particular marine’s case, their most intimidating ‘at ease, but ready to administer deadly force at a moment’s notice’ pose.
For most visitors to Alpha section, the marine would have been a pain in the butt, but from Bruno’s point of view he was a welcome bonus. He’d be more interested in himself than the unremarkable shuttle pilot standing before him.
Bruno presented the card that Tommy had provided and waited with feigned patience as the marine gazed at it intently. After an exaggerated pause he returned the card then waved Bruno through the body scanner. No alarm bells sounded as Bruno passed through and with a grunt from the marine he was on his way.
Alpha Section was home to Orbital One’s admin and support staff. Fifty five people whose combined endeavors kept the aging space station one step ahead of the scrap heap. More than seventy years old, O1 had some years since relinquished her role as the Atlas system’s primary transport hub. She had been usurped by Phoenix Station, a great, shining city floating majestically in space – an engineering miracle universally regarded as mankind’s greatest ever technological achievement.
No longer considered a glamorous off-world posting, O1 struggled to attract the ablest p
ersonnel and truth be told, half the crew of O1 were but one step ahead of the scrap heap themselves. But the bonding experience of surviving the Commodore Jacks regime the previous year – not to mention the certain knowledge that half of them wouldn’t be able to hold down a job anywhere else – had resulted in a closely knit group whose collective frailties somehow managed to cancel each other out.
Against all expectations, Orbital One not only functioned smoothly but was even turning a reasonable profit. The Titan Corporation had leased the whole of Delta Section, and small businesses like Tommy’s repair shop were snapping up premises just as soon as they could be prepared. There was indeed life in the old girl yet.
By the time Bruno entered Mo’s café the lunchtime rush had abated but there were still a number of customers sitting at various tables. Not too crowded, not too empty – just right. He ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee and retreated to a table in the far corner. On his data pad there was a photograph of the target, one Chuck Poulson, an operations officer. Soon to be a dead operations officer. Bruno didn’t know what the man had done to have his card marked by the Commodore and frankly didn’t care. He’d received his orders and that was enough.
The Ops staff worked a three shift cycle, changing shifts at 6am, 2pm and 10pm Atlas time. According to his intelligence briefing, the target would be working the afternoon watch, beginning his shift just thirty minutes hence. How Commodore Jacks had come by the intelligence, who could say, but that’s why Jacks was a commodore and he was just a corporal. If the intel was accurate, it would give Bruno ample time to plant the device and be on his way. And if it wasn’t, he’d just have to come up with an alternative… but gazing up at the two men entering the café, he realized that probably wouldn’t be necessary.
The target arrived along with another man, younger, perhaps twenty five or six years old. The café owner greeted both men with a smile. The man called Poulson smiled back.
Bruno caught most of the conversation, in which the target seemed to be teasing the younger man – whose name was Baz – about a visit to somewhere called Madame Fifi’s, which was quite plainly a bordello. Baz’s face turned bright red and Maurice, the café’s owner, guffawed loudly.
“Do you fancy a visit yourself, Chuck?” asked Maurice.
“Good grief, no,” said the target. “My heart belongs to Dolores.”
“And the best thing that could happen to you. And Dolores too,” said Maurice. “Only young once, you know.”
Bruno found himself taking far more interest in the target than was good for him. He certainly seemed a pleasant enough sort of chap, but who knew what dark secrets he might be hiding. Either way, it did no good to dwell on the matter. Maurice passed a couple of brown paper bags over the counter and the two left with a friendly wave.
Bruno waited thirty seconds and then followed the pair out of the café, turning left onto the main corridor along Deck 1. Fifty meters on, there was a staircase that led down to Decks 2 and 3 and the entrance to The Avenue, the slender, hundred meter long spoke that joined Alpha Section the station’s hub where the Ops room was located. Standing at the entrance to The Avenue, Bruno could see the target receding into the distance. It was time to go to work.
Bruno retraced his footsteps back to Deck 2, the residential zone that lay underneath the administration areas above. Quickly taking his bearings, he made his way to a small corridor leading off the main walkway. There were three apartments on each side. The target occupied Room 2G-6, the last apartment on the right.
Like everything else that Bruno had seen in Alpha Section, the corridor was clean but decidedly shabby, the carpet worn, the decor faded. Even the floor gave slightly under his feet as he strode along.
Arriving at the target’s door, he gave the bell a couple of rings just to make certain there was no-one home, fervently hoping that no-one answered the call – if anyone did, it would pretty well ruin both their todays, the only difference being that Bruno would still be in a position to enjoy tomorrow. Whoever answered the door wouldn’t be having one. Thankfully, the apartment remained reassuringly quiet.
Next, he took out his data-pad and called up a six digit number supplied by Commodore Jacks. According to the commodore, the number would over-ride the key-code on just about any door on the station. Bruno started typing the number into the door’s keypad but before he’d even hit the last button, the words ‘system error’ appeared on the screen to the accompaniment of a very negative sounding double buzz. He double checked the number and tried again – with the same result. And then a third time.
Damn! thought Bruno. It wasn’t the code – it was the blasted key-pad. Ancient didn’t cover it – the numbers were so worn as to be barely legible. It followed that the pad’s innards were likely in much the same state. At the bottom right corner of the key-pad was a reset button, obviously rarely used as the letters were still clearly visible. He jabbed his finger down on the button several times before entering the code once more, pressing each button slowly and firmly. At last he was rewarded with a few faint clicks as the lock disengaged. Bruno turned the handle and the door opened inwards – somewhat noisily, to his vexation, but he was inside.
He made a quick search of the apartment simply to check that the quarters were still assigned to the target. They were; a file with the name C.A. Poulson lay on a table top in the lounge area. Looking around, Bruno concluded that the target was a well ordered person, with a place for everything and everything pretty much in its place. No clutter, no mess. That was about to change.
Bruno returned to the front door and removed his belt, fixed to the inside of which was a strip of the high explosive Tetranox. He peeled the explosive away from the belt and rolled it into a thin cylindrical shape roughly fifty centimeters long. With the aid of some lengths of duct tape also taken from inside the belt, he fixed the cylinder horizontally to the back of the door, about half way up. With the cylinder fixed firmly in place, he then molded it into a triangular section, one side flat against the door, the opposite apex facing away. That would ensure that the blast went outwards into the corridor, thus – according to jargon – maximizing results and guaranteeing an outright kill. Maiming the target did nobody any good. Even, it was argued, the target himself – or herself, as the case may be. Death was an equal opportunity employer.
Finally, Bruno removed a detonator from the back of his belt buckle. Small and round, it was designed to trigger at the slightest movement. A cap at one end held the delay timer; a half turn should do it. Bruno twisted the cap through one eighty degrees and armed the detonator by pushing the cap inwards until it clicked. He pushed it into the Tetranox and then exited the apartment, closing the door behind him. The detonator would become active in one hour, by which time Bruno aimed to as far away as possible.
* * *
Earth, San Francisco Bay
It was early afternoon when Horatius Elgar Haveloy-Basham – or just Bash to his friends – cast off his mooring lines, headed out of the marina and into the bay. It had been a still, cloudless day, the prevailing westerly wind reduced to a mere zephyr with barely enough power to fill his sails. But with the midday sun came a gradual heating of the land, warm air rising to be replaced by cooler air drawn in from the ocean, creating the sea breeze that was the friend of sailors everywhere. And sailing, he’d discovered, was the true love of his life, somehow usurping his former love, that of the law.
As a young man, all he’d ever wanted to do was practice law – to prowl the halls of justice and ensure that all were guaranteed their day in court, an opportunity to put their case before their peers – twelve good citizens, honest and true – and be judged without prejudice or malice, purely on the evidence presented.
He made it his mission to memorize the myriad of edicts, ordinances and statutes that laid the foundations upon which the whole of modern civilization rested. Noble words and noble ideals, but after twenty five years as an attorney and a further ten years on the bench he’d come to the
bitter conclusion that the law was just a tool to be manipulated by the wily, the scheming and the clever.
His position of Chief Justice forbade any manipulation on his part, for he was charged with upholding the letter of the law, even when it appeared to interfere with the application of justice, as it all too often did. All too frequently, courtroom battles were won not by the party with right on their side, but simply by those with the most adroit and experienced council. Experts could be produced to support or refute virtually any claim as necessary. Discrediting a witness became more important than discrediting the testimony and swaying the jury by fair means or foul was just part of the game. Bash had forgotten how many times he’d been required to tell the jury to ‘disregard that last remark’ after one council or another had crossed the line. A feigned apology might ensue but the damage would already have been done – a seed would have been planted and with careful nurturing it could be encouraged to bear fruit. What kind of fruit would depend entirely upon which side of the courtroom the attorney happened to be seated.
By the time these denizens of the legal profession had finished their work, the truth became almost entirely subjective, a shape changing, ephemeral entity, to be molded into whatever form was desired to prove the required innocence or guilt.
And while the lawyers were playing their games, the judicial system itself was mired in its own procedural complications. Evidence had to be shared, catalogued, verified and checked for admissibility. Witnesses and jurors had to be interviewed and screened, and at all costs the defendant’s rights must not be impinged upon. Though nobody would care to admit it, that renegade commodore had hit the nail firmly on the head when he said that the system was flawed and the bureaucracy governing the apparatus bloated beyond all reasonable measure.
Bash held the tiller lightly as he edged out of the marina. Once clear of other traffic he’d cut the engine and raise the mainsail of his vessel, a twenty eight foot wooden sailboat. Hand-built at considerable cost in a local boatyard, the Rocket’s design was based on that of a nineteenth century fishing boat. Expensive – almost extravagantly so – but she was worth every penny. She necessarily lacked the cutting edge design features found in contemporary boats, but in their place she had character, charm and a timeless grace that her modern sisters would never know. Merely by closing his eyes, Bash could imagine a time centuries before when a fisherman might be piloting a boat just like this out into open waters, carefully measuring the wind and the tides as he filled his lungs with the same sea air.
The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 13