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

by L. J. Simpson

  How uncomplicated life must have been then, for both fisherman and judge alike; a time when the seas still teemed with fish, and when there was in effect but one criminal offence – that of breaking the law. And in that simpler age there was often but one punishment; the ultimate penalty – death by hanging. Petty thief or brutal murderer, the gallows catered for all.

  He was reminded of a case in the year 1809, in lands not so far away, where an eleven year old boy was hanged for the heinous crime of stealing a spoon. The text book had failed to mention exactly what kind of spoon the miserable urchin had stolen, though Bash wondered in what circumstances that could possibly be relevant.

  As the wind touched his cheek he reflected that bloated as it was, the present legal system was, perhaps, not so flawed after all.

  * * *

  Orbital One

  Clipboard in hand, Tommy was just ticking off the last few items on his report when Bruno arrived back in the hangar. “Welcome back,” he said. “Did you find the café all right?”

  “Yeah, no problems,” said Bruno. “All done with the inspection?”

  “Just finished,” said Tommy, holding up the clipboard. “So, what do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

  “The good,” said Bruno.

  “Well, the good news is that your hull integrity is fine – there’s almost no corrosion and there are no signs of any collision or meteorite damage. The propulsion system is also in pretty good shape. It’s not the original engine and from what I can tell it’s had an upgraded drive train fitted within the last four or five years. Believe me, that’s a big bonus with a Type 11.

  “No problems in the cockpit. Nav, coms and flight controls all check out OK. The air handling systems are also in reasonable shape. A few leaks in the pipe-work but that’s to be expected in a ship of this age. If you’re serious about turning it into a pleasure craft you might want to upgrade oxygen generators. However, in the light of the other problems…” Tommy’s voice trailed off as he looked down at his worksheet.

  “That bad?”

  “It’s not good,” said Tommy. “The power grid is pretty well shot. The whole system has degraded, resulting in a sizable power drain somewhere along the line. Even so, some of the buffer relays are overloaded just in standby mode. Push the ship too hard and even a small power spike could blow the whole lot. On top of that, even if everything was on the top line, the present system just doesn’t conform to the latest set of regulations. The only solution would be to rip the lot out and replace it. Doable, but not cheap.”

  Bruno grunted.

  “But the real nail in the coffin is the engine mountings – they’re all showing signs of fatigue cracks. I’m afraid you’ve failed the airworthiness test right there.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s a difficult job.”

  “Difficult doesn’t cover it. The mountings are built into the main load-bearing trusses, which means you have to replace the whole assembly. And only way to go about that it is to chop off the back end of the ship – completely. Then remove the engine, the inner and outer hulls, strip down the interior… I could do it here, but you’re looking at several weeks work and a pretty big bill at the end of it.”

  “Needs a bit more than tender loving care, then.”

  “Major surgery,” agreed Tommy. “Have a think about it if you want, and if you’re still interested, I can fit you in at the end of the month. It’s either that or take it back to Magmox and ask for your money back.” Not that they’ll give it to you, mind. But there’s no harm in trying, he thought.

  Bruno scratched the back of his head and shuffled his feet as if considering his options. Tommy waited on patiently.

  “I guess I’ll give it some thought,” said Bruno finally, a disconsolate look fixed on his face. “I’ll be in touch.” He paid the bill and then trudged dejectedly back up the steps to the Plover’s airlock.

  Giving Bruno a final wave, Tommy disappeared from the hangar to begin the decompression sequence. A few minutes later he watched as the Plover reversed slowly out of the hangar and out into open space. With the navigation lights blinking merrily away – at least they still worked – the little ship turned through one hundred and eighty degrees and headed off in what was probably the general direction of the Magmox salvage yards. Tommy shook his head slowly. He almost felt sorry for the man. Almost, but not quite, because business was business and what the guy should have done was get advice before parting with his money and not after.

  One born every minute, he thought.

  Bruno’s disconsolate look lasted just as long as it took him to exit the TT-TR hangar, after which his face hardened. His mission complete, all he wanted to do now was put as much distance between him and O1 in the shortest possible time. He did indeed head off towards the Magmox yards, but not to get his money back; the Plover was an expendable asset. As soon as he was over O1’s visual horizon he changed course and headed out-system.

  His destination was Koss, a small moon circling the planet Dionysus, one of two hulking gas giants which orbited far, far from the sun. There he would wait and all being well, he would rendezvous with the Reaper some forty eight hours later.

  With the course locked in, he brought the main engines on line and prepared for the burn that would shoot him on his way. Mindful of Tommy Tonka’s warning about the power grid, he set the engines at twenty five percent. A five minute burn should do it. He gave the instruments on final check and then hit the ignition switch. He was on his way.

  * * *

  Earth, San Francisco Bay

  The wind was picking up nicely, thought Judge Basham as he moved out into the bay on engine power. The weather forecast had predicted force 3 winds coming in from the ocean – a gentle breeze. He mentally accessed the sailor’s handbook, which he could recite with the same accuracy as the legal constitutions with which he was so familiar. ‘Force 3: 7-10 knot winds. Expect large wavelets. Crests begin to break; scattered whitecaps.’ For a boat of the Rocket’s proportions, they were perfect sailing conditions.

  Away to the west, he could see the Golden Gate Bridge, still standing there in all its glory. Unused for more than a century, they said that its upkeep exceeded that of its successor – the even more spectacular Diamond Bridge. It was probably true. Some also complained that the old bridge was a redundant relic and an unnecessary drain on the city finances. That might also be true – or at least half so – but so much of ‘old earth’ had already been discarded. Surely some things were worth saving, even if it did put an extra penny on everyone’s tax.

  Off to the northeast lay Alcatraz Island, beautiful, historic and to this day, infamous. Built in an age when the onus was on retribution rather than rehabilitation, its bare cells of concrete, brick and steel were a formidable reminder of a less enlightened age... Or so said the modern breed of ultra-humanists, those champions of human rights who claimed that incarceration was a crime in itself. Bash had long since come to the conclusion that as far as crime and punishment were concerned, the only truly enlightened people were culprit and victim. Everyone else was just guessing.

  The amazing thing about Alcatraz was its commercial success. An endless stream of people was prepared to pay good money to spend a night in one of the nine foot by five cells. True, many of the cells were now equipped with a whole range of modern amenities, but some were kept as spartan as the day they were constructed, intended – according to the brochures – to provide the customer with a truly authentic experience.

  Apparently the most popular cell was B-181, one time home to the infamous Alphonse Capone. Spectacularly rich from his gambling, prostitution and bootlegging interests, he was eventually convicted of tax evasion, though undoubtedly guilty of far more. After enjoying an almost regal lifestyle in other facilities, he was sent to Alcatraz to serve out the remainder of his sentence in a more conventional prison environment. It took time, but Capone eventually confessed to the warden that Alcatraz had him licked. Now that, t
hought Basham, was enlightenment.

  Bash steered north. His plan was to head up past Alcatraz and then turn on an easterly heading, running before the wind before turning back south and circumnavigating the island. Then it was back to the marina followed by dinner and cocktails at the yachting club.

  He cut the engine and let the Rocket drift for a while, savouring the motion of the sea and the touch of the wind on his face. There was barely a cloud in the sky and with not the slightest haze, visibility was excellent. What an absolutely perfect day.

  He roped the tiller in position and made his way to the base of the mast, undoing the ties that held the mainsail in position along the way. In days of yore the sail would have been raised by muscle power alone. Block and tackle made the job easier, but Bash went one step further; one of the Rocket’s few concessions to modernity was an electric winch with which to raise and lower the sail.

  Toggling the power switch, his hand closed around the actuation lever and with a last check of the wind he flipped it to the ‘raise’ position. Even as he did so he noticed a pair of wires protruding from the back of the winch box. If he’d lived a few seconds longer he may have wondered what they were for, but even then it would have been an idle thought because whatever else Judge Haveloy-Basham might have been, he was no electrician.

  BOOM!

  The Rocket disintegrated, torn asunder by the three kilograms of Tetranox sitting underneath one of the bench seats in the small cabin. Basham disintegrated along with it, boat and owner blasted high into the air at the head of a plume of smoke and fire. As the shattered remains fell back to earth, a dozen stunned fish rose to join the rest of the flotsam, all bobbing gently on the surface of the water.

  As the smoke cleared, a flock of seagulls swooped down to claim the free bounty, cawing loudly as they fought for the tastiest morsels.

  CHAPTER 10: Hit and Miss

  Atlas Central

  “Interview number five, commencing at 17:30 Atlas Standard Time,” said DCI Burns as he switched on the recorder in the beige interview room at Atlas Central Police HQ. “Conducting the interview are DCI Burns and DS Mullins.”

  Zak Leonard sat alongside his ever present attorney, a sullen expression fixed upon his face. To Burns’ disappointment, Leonard had remained stubbornly silent since his outburst at the time of his arrest. On the occasions when he had opened his mouth it wasn’t to utter anything that could be used in court, and certainly not something that could be repeated in front of a lady.

  It happens, thought Burns. Some prisoners just took longer to wear down than others. The good thing was that Lenny had lost his smugness. The haughtiness was still there, but he had enough sense to realize that he was stuck between a rock and a very hard place, the Delph on one side and a long jail sentence on the other. It was no place to be.

  So Burns and Mullins would keep plugging away in the hope that Lenny would implicate someone further up the chain before he went to trial. And even if he didn’t, the DA was confident that they had enough to get a conviction. The voice print was an exact match and neither Lenny nor his lawyer had even tried to deny that the words were his.

  “We’ve been going over the coroner’s report,” opened Mullins. “According to which, Clive Donaldson was shot three times with an unusually large caliber weapon – all three shots grouped closely together in the center of his chest. One of them went straight though his heart. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”

  “All raises a lot of questions,” said Burns.

  Lenny just stared straight ahead, his face a mask.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” asked Mullins.

  “My client declines to respond,” said Foley.

  “Another thing is the weapon. Not the kind of hardware you come across every day. Where’d you get the gun?”

  “Don’t remem–”

  “My client declines to respond,” interrupted Foley.

  “A few days ago you said that you knew things,” said Burns. “‘Tell Hobbs I know things.’ Your words, Lenny, not mine. What is it that you know, Lenny?”

  Lenny opened his mouth to speak but Foley got in first.

  “My client declines–”

  “Yes, we know,” said Mullins. “Your client declines to respond.”

  “This is doing you no good at all, Lenny,” said Burns. “You know that, don’t you? How old are you? Twenty three, twenty four?”

  “He’s twenty two,” said Mullins.

  “Twenty two. Carry on like this and you’ll be close to fifty by the time you get out. Is that what you want? Do you know what you are, Lenny? You’re a stool pigeon, and the man sitting next to you is here to make sure you toe–”

  “If you’ve no further questions my client would like to return to his cell,” interrupted Foley.

  “If he wants to go back to his cell, all he has to do is ask,” Burns shot back. All eyes fell on Lenny, who just sat there, motionless. Foley frowned.

  “No…? So as I was saying,” said Burns. “The man sitting next to you is here to make sure you toe the line. And while he’ll be going home to a five star meal and a comfortable bed, all you’ve got to look forward to is twenty five to thirty in a top security facility of the magistrate’s choice.

  “And if you haven’t figured out what that means, Lenny, I’ll give you a few pointers. You’ll be woken up at six in the morning and fed a nice, healthy breakfast. It’ll taste like crap but it’ll give you all the vitamins, proteins and carbohydrates you’ll need for pacing up and down that cell of yours all day long. Yeah, they’ll let you out for a while each day to have a couple of turns around the exercise yard, and maybe even for your session with the resident shrink. Yes, Lenny, free counseling, and if I were you I wouldn’t turn my nose up at that because if you’re really lucky, it might even be a woman. And if it is, make the most of it because as like as not, she’s the only woman you’ll be seeing for a very long time.

  “Imagine that, Lenny, no more nights out with the guys, no more chasing the ladies, no kissing, no canoodling, no wife, no kids, no family outings to the sea… and by the time you get out you’re going to be a bit old for starting a family. What a waste, Lenny, what a complete and utter waste, and for what? You’ve been used like an old oil rag. You know that your mate Larson’s done a runner, don’t you? Whoever tipped him off didn’t bother doing the same for you, did they? Left you to carry the can all on your own. And you think the guy sitting next to you is your friend? Do you think he’s here to represent your interests? Get real. He’s here to protect the men who pay his salary – the same men that are leaving you to rot in jail!” Lenny glanced sideways at the lawyer and then looked Burns straight in the eye.

  “Who sent you, Lenny? Who gave you the orders? Who put the gun in your hand?!” By the time Burns had finished, his voice had risen several decibels and his face was mere inches from Lenny’s.

  “Inspector, you are overstepping the mark,” warned Foley.

  “Really?” said Burns. “So tell me, which part of all that did I get wrong?”

  “I want to go back to my cell now,” said Lenny, visibly perturbed.

  “Fine,” said Burns. “Use the time to consider your options, Lenny. You’re going down whatever happens, but there’s the easy way and there’s the hard way. Unless you start cooperating, the only thing going in your favor is that the death sentence has been abolished. Take him away.” He turned his back and motioned to the duty officer who took Lenny by the arm and escorted him out of the room. Foley followed closely behind.

  “Interview concluded at 18:10 AST,” said Mullins, switching off the recorder with a flourish. “Defending council has left the room and did not look at all happy.”

  “No, he didn’t, did he?” said Burns. “And neither did Lenny. I think it’s getting to him, you know. He’s probably been told that he’ll be looked after.”

  “And right now he’s trying to figure out what that means…”

  “And pretty soon he’
ll come to the conclusion that the best deal he’s going to get is thirty years back pay, by which time he’ll be too old to enjoy it. Must play on a man’s mind, sitting all alone in that cell, realizing that you’re going to spend the best years of your life banged up in jail.”

  “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”

  “I seriously doubt if the thought ever crossed his mind,” said Burns. “We’ll let him stew overnight and have another go in the morning.”

  “Anything else needs doing tonight?” said Mullins.

  “No,” said Burns. “Get yourself off home.”

  “And you?”

  “I think I’ll stay a while – I want to go through what the Atlas PD has on Jack Hobbs. He’s the one common denominator in all of this. He was there when Jimmy Franks got press ganged, which links him to the salvage scam, and unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s the one who ordered Chumly to push him under that train. And as for the Donaldson murder…”

  “In it up to his neck.”

  “No argument there. Lenny’s the key to all this. Get him to talk and we could go right up the chain.”

  Three hours later Burns was still sitting at his desk. Atlas PD had a raft of files on Jack Hobbs, connecting him with a whole range of activities – some legal, some not. He’d been arrested only once – several years previously – but the case had never made it to trial. The prosecution’s case had been watertight, right up until the moment when the key witness suddenly disappeared. Missing, presumed dead, he’d eventually turned up on a distant world living a life of luxury. The witness in question had been a director of one of Atlas’s largest banks. In a typically astute piece of Delph business he’d been paid off and resettled on a planet having no extradition treaty with Atlas. The Delph could have had him killed, but they needed him – or at least, people like him, the captains of industry and the players in the higher echelons of the financial houses, the people necessary to turn the Delph’s dirty money into pristine, usable assets. In the long run it paid to make sure they were well looked after even after they’d outlived their usefulness.