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

by L. J. Simpson

  “Three plasma rounds in the chest goes a lot further than bending the law, I’m sure you’ll agree,” said Burns.

  Larson paused for thought as the waiter arrived with their dishes. Yes, three plasma rounds in the chest was indeed crossing a line, and Lenny had arrived on board the Reaper packing a very big gun. Even more difficult to explain away.

  “Off the record?” he asked.

  Burns nodded, whereby Larson took out his data pad and laid it on the table. Thumbing an icon on the screen, the pad began to emit a low pitched hum.

  “It’s a jamming device,” said Larson. “It prevents conversations being recorded.”

  “You don’t trust me?” inquired Burns.

  “It’s nothing personal. Let’s just say the events of the past few weeks have taught me to be a little more circumspect about the company I keep.”

  “Carry on,” said Burns.

  “I do the occasional contract for the Delph. It’s mostly courier work but with the occasional passenger run thrown in. I was contracted to take Lenny to a point in space from where we would rendezvous with D47. At first I thought it was just a snatch but then I learned about how that Commodore knocked off one of their capos. Then Lenny turned up with that damned great gun and after that it didn’t take a lot of working out – it was going to be a hit. And if you’re asking me why I didn’t back out, the answer is that you can’t. You don’t go against the Delph, not unless you’re harbouring some kind of death wish. But I tell you straight, if I’d known Lenny was going to kill that crewman I’d have stopped him. That’s the truth.”

  “Well, the recording we have supports at least part of your story.”

  “What recording?”

  “The voice recorder in D47’s airlock captured everything that was said. It’s the only reason I haven’t arrested you on the spot.”

  “Well then,” said Larson. “And the rest you know. Lenny and I were locked up in the cell on D47 until we were rescued. The Delph’s legal guys briefed us on what to say in the police interview and that was that – until a pair of hoods arrived on my doorstep and tried to cash in my chips. Which, in a roundabout way, is why we are here.”

  “Do you want to give evidence against the Delph?”

  “Very tempting, but no thanks. If I implicate any of them in anything at all, they absolutely will not stop until I’m dead. It’s one of their codes of honour. And let me tell you, they take their codes of honour very seriously. That’s why Lenny’s pushing up daisies. If I disappear quietly, the chances are that they’ll leave me alone… well, probably. There’s already a price on my head if you didn’t know.”

  “We didn’t,” said Burns truthfully.

  “Well there is. Not a large one, but large or small I’ll be just as dead if I stay here. So you see, I’ve rather run out of friends. The Delph are after me, you lot are after me… my options are pretty limited. Of course, if I could just get my ship back it would solve all my problems at a stroke… Then I got to thinking that it might be to your advantage too. Without my help it could take you years to catch up with Jacks and Barnes – or Fletcher or whatever his name is. That’s if you ever do. The Kingfisher, as I believe you know her, is a very capable ship, and as I understand it, Jacks is no fool either. It’s up to you, but it seems to me that we are in a position to help each other. To cooperate, as they say. I’ve told you my terms, Chief Inspector. The ball is in your court.”

  “You said that you would need access to some special equipment to track your ship.”

  “That’s right,” said Larson. “I’ll need access to TacNet.”

  “The Tactical Tracking Network… That comes under the auspices of the military.”

  “I know. Essentially, it does the same job as the civilian transponder network, but TacNet utilises sub-space frequencies. They can detect emissions from ships travelling at warp – providing they are within range of one of the tracking arrays. If Jacks stays out among the fringe worlds he’ll be safe enough, but if he ventures towards the centre it will be a different matter. You’ll be able to plot his course and hopefully arrange a reception committee for him somewhere along the line.”

  “That’s if the military grant access to TacNet.”

  “Oh, I think they will. In fact, I think they’ll bend over backwards to help. They want Jacks back in custody even more than you or I. After all, he was one of their own, and the Delph isn’t the only organization infatuated with codes of honour. Dangle Jacks in front of them and they’ll soon agree.”

  “You might be right at that,” said Burns. He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m going to recommend to my superiors that we accept your offer.”

  “Will they agree?”

  “Probably, given the circumstances. You do understand that even if we drop the present charges against you, you’ll have put yourself on the radar of every law enforcement agency in known space. I’d advise you to be very careful about the kind of work you get involved in from now on.”

  “Like I told you,” said Larson. “Once this is all over I intend disappearing off everyone’s radar.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “However, there is one more condition I insist upon.”

  “Which is?” said Burns.

  “When you do go after Jacks, I want to be there for the kill.”

  * * *

  Atlas Central Police HQ

  “Sergeant Mullins,” said the desk sergeant, “There’s a lady waiting to see you in interview room three. A Mrs. Lane.”

  “Who?”

  “A Mrs. Lane. Says she has some information about a murder and needs to speak to a detective.”

  “Did she happen to mention which murder in particular?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Yes, but she wouldn’t say – quite adamant that she needed to talk to a plain clothes officer. Perhaps she’s bumped off her husband and she’s come in to confess.”

  “I’d best go and find out then, hadn’t I?” said Mullins.

  “Yes, you had. And be careful,” said the desk sergeant with theatrical concern. “She might be dangerous.”

  Mrs. Lane didn’t look like someone who’d just murdered her husband, though you could never really tell. Not all killers looked the part. In her late thirties, Mrs. Lane was smartly dressed and sat upright with her hands clasped lightly in her lap.

  “Mrs. Lane? I’m Sergeant Mullins. I understand you want to speak with us.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant,” she said. “It’s about my bag.”

  “Your bag?”

  “Yes. My bag. I had it stolen a few weeks ago. Such an inconvenience, you know. It had my credit cards, driving license and everything in it.”

  “And you reported it to the police?”

  “Yes, of course. We were at the rail station, you see. My husband Alex, myself and the two little ones. My husband is an architect, you know. That’s why we were there – at the station, I mean. Alex was off on one of his business trips. Off all the time, he is – works for Timmins, Elliot and Brown. You may have heard of them?”

  “No, I’m afraid not…”

  “Oh well, never mind. Anyway, as I was saying, he had to go away on business for a few days and we went to the station to see him off, as we always do. He does miss the children, you see. A wonderful father, he is.”

  “I’m sure...”

  “And then after the train had left I took the children to that little cake shop just outside the station. They do such delicious éclairs. Do you know it?”

  “I think I may have been there...”

  “And that’s where it happened. I put my bag down – just for a second, you understand, and when I turned around, it was gone. Just like that.”

  “I see, and you say that you reported the incident to the police?” said Mullins patiently. Perhaps Mrs. Lane really was a serial killer after all, her preferred modus operandi being to stun her victims with inconsequential chit-chat before plunging a
large knife between their ribs.

  “Oh yes. I spoke to an Officer Blower. A very polite and most thorough young man. He took down all the particulars but warned me that in cases like this it’s very difficult to recover the stolen items. Of course I realized that already, but there’s no harm in trying. I expect the thieves just take what they can use and throw the rest in the garbage, don’t they?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that with petty theft that is often the case… Mrs. Lane, if you’ll forgive me, I’m not quite sure what assistance I can be. This kind of incident is usually looked after by the uniformed branch.”

  “Oh yes, I know,” said Mrs. Lane brightly. “And so they did. Officer Blower got in touch with me just yesterday and told me that they’d recovered some of my things. It seems that a few days ago they caught the thief red handed and found all manner of things in his apartment.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear it, but I still don’t see…”

  “Well, it turned out that the cash and credit cards had gone, which I’d expected, of course, but the police found my wallet and data pad in his apartment… along with this.” She laid an expensive looking camera on the desk. “It was in my bag with all the other things and I’d forgotten to take it out. We’d been to the wildlife park just the day before, you see. And then Alex’s train was late and we thought we’d take a few snaps on the platform. Little George is at that age, you know – interested in planes and trains and that sort of thing – anything that makes a noise and goes very fast.”

  “Really?” said Mullins, a light flickering on somewhere at the back of his brain.

  “There are some lovely shots of Alex with the children. But then… you see, it was the day of that terrible accident when that young man fell under the train. It was on the opposite platform, you see... and well… I think it’s best if you take a look for yourself.”

  She picked up the camera and switched it on, passing it over to Mullins without looking at the screen. The first half of the image folder was filled with portraits of all the flora and fauna residing in Atlas Zoo, the pictures all expertly composed, all in high resolution and all in perfect focus. Mrs. Lane was evidently a very competent photographer. A final image of a pair of giraffes making eyes at each other was followed by several pictures of Alex Lane, little George and little George’s even littler sister, all posing in front of a stationary maglev train. The next batch was of a train approaching the opposite platform; Mrs. Lane had obviously taken them in rapid succession as the train pulled in. And there, in full color and perfect clarity, was Jimmy Franks. As Mullins thumbed through the images it was like watching one of those old flicker movies. The first shot showed Jimmy standing upright at the edge of the platform. In the next shot his back was arched, his chest thrust forward and head thrown back, one arm stretched out to the side. The next showed him teetering on the edge of the precipice, one bystander reaching out for Jimmy’s flailing arm, another staring with mouth wide open in surprise. The next four shots recorded Jimmy’s final moments as he tumbled from the platform and under the wheels of the oncoming train.

  “I remember that you appealed for witnesses,” said Mrs. Lane somberly.

  “Mrs. Lane, I can’t tell you how valuable these pictures are,” said Mullins. “We’ll need a statement from you and we’ll need to keep hold of the camera for a while. I’ll make sure you get a receipt.”

  “Of course. I just hope it’ll be of help.”

  Mullins flicked through the images once more before looking up. “Oh, I’m sure they will, Mrs. Lane. In fact, I think I can guarantee it.”

  CHAPTER 14: A Picture Tells a Thousand Words

  The Artemis

  From: Commander in Chief, Fleet Science Directorate.

  To: Science Vessel Artemis.

  Authorization: PQZ25

  Message: Being in all respects ready for duty, SV Artemis is ordered to proceed to Area 713/88, Atlas Kuiper belt.

  Objectives:

  1) Rendezvous with objects GR-850Z, GR-417R, GR-449G.

  2) Conduct trials in accordance with Mission Orders 456-783-001A.

  i) Validate asteroid intercept and deflection protocols.

  ii) Obtain experimental data regarding efficiency of rail gun vis a vis phased laser against live targets.

  3) Proceed Rubicon system to join 2nd Science Flotilla on completion of trials.

  Message ends.

  The flight deck on the Artemis was quite unlike anything Chuck had ever seen before. In his admittedly limited experience, the bridge of every military vessel he’d encountered had been designed with just two goals in mind – function and practicality. All else was secondary. Standard deck plating covered every inch of the floor and the walls were generally some kind of drab, uniform grey. The seats and controls were a model of ergonomic correctness, all designed to reduce back stress, minimize muscular strain and evoke a well balanced posture among the crew, whose only consideration was to be the smooth, efficient running of their vessel and the successful completion of their mission. Stirring stuff, the only drawback being that despite the undoubted ergonomic benefits, every seat Chuck had sat in had been lacking in actual comfort. Surely anyone fighting for freedom and democracy had the right to do so with a little more padding beneath their rump.

  Standard commercial vessels on the other hand – of which Chuck had considerably more experience – were generally less austere, but in a profit oriented industry the working conditions were never the main priority, bridges tended to be small, pokey and equipped with the most basic (cheapest) bridge furniture that the owners could get away with and still retain the crew. On his last billet before joining O1 Chuck had invested in his own chair, consigning the original to the garbage chute, a common practice among long distance space-farers.

  By contrast, the bridge of the Artemis was bright and airy with the deck covered in a layer of plush carpet tiles. The workstations were all dazzling white and sported an array of spotless touch-screens. But the best part was the chairs, each upholstered in soft, dark blue leather with red piping, the like of which Chuck had never seen outside first class on a hyper-liner. As he sat at one of the auxiliary engineering stations the only thing he felt in need of was a tray table, a friendly cabin attendant and an in-flight movie.

  “Like the feel of the place?” asked James.

  “I’ll say,” said Chuck.

  “Well, no point skimping on details – especially when you’re a private company designing a vessel paid for by the government. I chose the bridge furniture myself, by the way. If you have to spend eight hours sitting at a console running diagnostic routines, you may as well do it in style. How’s it going, by the way?”

  “Preliminary diagnostics are complete,” said Chuck, scanning the data on his console. “Power cells are fully charged, the power grid is stable and the sub-light engines are in full stand-by mode. I’ll run a couple of start-up simulations but I’d say we’re good to go. How about you, Pen?”

  “Main and auxiliary reactors are operating within normal parameters. Hull integrity is at one hundred percent and atmospherics right on the button.”

  “Angus?”

  “Navigational array up and running, com links open.”

  “Great,” said James. “All we need now is a captain.”

  Lt. Commander Savage appeared on the bridge thirty minutes later, sitting down in his chair on a raised platform in the centre of the bridge. James and Angus were seated a few meters in front – James at the flight controls and Angus at the communications and navigation array. Chuck and Penny were off to Savage’s right at their engineering stations.

  “Well, everyone,” he said. “Are we ready for departure?” It sounded more like an inquiry from a vaguely interested passenger than a seasoned master and commander. Chuck deduced that Savage had either chosen to discard his military persona or had simply forgotten to bring it along. Either way, James was correct – he was much better when simply being himself.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jam
es. “Pre-flight checks are complete and we are ready for engine start.”

  “Very good,” said Savage. “Bring the engines online.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  A distant thrumming reverberated through the Artemis’s airframe as her sub light engines began to spin up, the thrumming giving way to a steady hum as the engines stabilized.

  “Green lights across the board,” said James.

  “Thank you, James. Request departure clearance if you please, Angus.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Angus. “Orbital One confirms we are cleared to depart.”

  “Very well,” said Savage. “Upload the flight plan into the AI and await my order.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” said James. “Val has the co-ordinates locked and is standing by.”

  “Val?”

  “The AI, sir. Now we’re operational we thought it best if it had a name. Being gender neutral, we thought Val might be a good choice.”

  “Call me old fashioned but I prefer to think of the AI as female,” said Savage. “After all, Artemis was a goddess, you know – the protector of small children and animals but also fond of the hunt. Quite apt, considering our mission.”

  “Protector and hunter rolled into one. Can’t argue with that,” said Penny.

  “Quite so,” said Savage. “All stations ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  “Engage.”

  James raised his finger theatrically. He held the pose for everyone to see and then gently tapped the ‘initiate’ icon.

  ‘Engaging manoeuvring thrusters,’ said Val.

  A succession of dull thuds echoed through the superstructure as the thrusters fired, a series of short bursts which pushed the ship slowly away from O1 and into open space. Craning his head to the left, Chuck saw first Orbital One and then Atlas disappear from view until all that could be seen through the screen was a vista of stars. A few more bursts of the thrusters aligned the Artemis on the correct heading.

  “Main engine firing in five, four, three, two, one, ignition.”

  Chuck found himself being pushed back into the soft leather of his chair as a low rumble – felt more than heard – announced that the main engines had fired exactly on cue.