With his position secure and his talisman Sam always by his side, Gus set about cleaning up the neighborhood. First to go were the pimps, not that Augustus St.Clair had anything against prostitution. It was simply good business – pimps were unnecessary middlemen with absolutely no operational value. A healthy streamlining was called for and so it happened. There were a few casualties, of course – there always were, but by the time the restructuring was complete, the sex trade was a better, well regulated enterprise, safer for client and worker alike.
Next to go were the drug dealers, the small time hoods and finally the protection racketeers who prowled the small businesses that dotted the Row. It was necessarily bloody but in the end they followed the pimps either into obscurity or the obituary columns.
As St.Clair’s operation grew by steady increments it began to attract members from rival gangs, absorbing first them and then their entire gangs until five years later Augustus St.Clair’s territory covered half of Atlas Central.
By this time they had come to the attention of the Delph Consortium. A loose cartel of organized crime units scattered the length and breadth of known space. After a period of negotiation St.Clair’s group was granted affiliate status and just two years later they had earned full membership. It was a consortium that had strict rules of governance but one that guaranteed territorial rights and – in theory at least – eliminated the petty feuds that riddled the organizations of old. In any event, with new colonies appearing on an almost yearly basis there was plenty to go around.
Thirty years on, St.Clair had reached the very top of his profession. With a seat on the Delph Council he was respected by his peers and was a major player in the greatest game in the universe. He kept his own counsel, kept his friends close, his rivals closer still and trusted no-one.
Except for Sam, the one constant in his long and distinguished career. Honest, dependable and unfailingly loyal, Sam watched his back and did everything else that was asked of him – and more – without question. He was also far more intelligent that his appearance might suggest which is why St.Clair held his opinions in such high regard.
“Unfortunate that Chumly allowed himself to be identified,” said St.Clair.
“One of those things, Gus,” said Sam. “A crowded station platform, all those people bustling about… it was perfect cover. In the end it was just plain bad luck that someone happened to be pointing a camera his way. You can’t make allowances for things like that. No less likely to have been seen emerging from some quiet back alley if he’d carried out the hit there.”
“Yes… perhaps you’re right. Any misgivings?”
“About Chumly? No. He’s straight. He’ll keep his mouth shut, keep himself to himself and do the time. No worries.”
“Have you spoken to his wife?”
“Yes… I don’t expect she’ll miss him much. If Chumly had a failing it was with women. I don’t think he regarded fidelity as much of a virtue.”
“Or even a conventional requirement, from what I gather,” said St.Clair. “Make sure his wife has a roof over her head and food on the table – at least until his release. After that they’d best sort their problems out on their own.”
“Will do.”
“Were you able to look into that other matter?” said St.Clair, changing the subject.
“Yes, you were right about Deputy Mayor Hanning,” said Sam. “The police were tailing him when he arrived for the drop off today. We’d already called off the meet by then, of course. Hanning hung around for an hour or so and then gave up and went home. He’s probably still wondering why we didn’t show. Do you think he’s been turned?”
“Not according to my sources. For the moment he’s just being watched though it’s only a matter of time before they figure out what he’s been up to... and then the world will come crashing down upon his shoulders.”
“If he’s caught, he’ll try and do a deal with the DA.”
“Yes, I expect he will,” said St.Clair. “But even if he does, there’s very little he can do. We’ve already cut most of our ties with him, and let’s just say that the few remaining loose ends will be easy enough to tidy up. Forget about him, Sam. It was good while it lasted – very good indeed – but the man is history.”
“Forgotten already,” said Sam, who’d been in the game long enough to know that Jimmy Franks, Zak Leonard and Deputy Mayor Hanning were just three more names on the conveyor belt of disposable assets. There’d been plenty before and there’d be plenty more to come.
“There are going to be a few more changes,” said St.Clair. “You know that Jack Hobbs will be leaving us?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“You’ve never liked him much, have you Sam?”
“Hobbs? No, I can’t say I have.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Nothing I can put a finger on, Gus, but there’s something about the man that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“He’s not the man I’d choose to watch my back, if that’s what you mean. But it’s more than that – it’s about respect. I don’t think he understands that it’s a door that swings both ways. That said, I suppose he does his job well enough – though you’d be the better judge of that.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of his worth… which is why we’ll be giving him a suitable send off. And that brings me to the next matter. I have a special job for you.”
Sam listened in silence as St.Clair explained exactly what the special job entailed. By the time he was finished one of Sam’s eyebrows crept up his forehead in surprise.
“Any problems with that?” asked St.Clair.
“No,” replied Sam. “None at all.”
CHAPTER 17: Nemesis
Artemis, Atlas Kuiper Belt
Chuck wasn’t much of a ‘morning’ person; he just wasn’t made that way. Late nights he could handle, which was one of the reasons he’d always been content to work the night shift. Conversely, the early morning shift had been the bane of his life. As far as he was concerned, the early bird was welcome to the damned worm.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, if there was one thing in the universe that Chuck really hated, it was the alarm clock, an infernal contraption that was without doubt one of mankind’s most insidious inventions. Surely mother nature had intended man to be awoken by the first rays of the morning sun – or at a push, morning birdsong – and not some raucous cacophony jolting you out of your slumbers with a start. And the worst thing of all was that damned snooze button, which guaranteed the same punishment every five minutes until you finally summoned up the will to drag yourself out of bed.
Chuck let out a groan as a persistent, low pitched buzzing broke the night, a pulsing amber light throwing shadows across his cabin. He emerged slowly from the fog of sleep and forced open one of his eyes. That didn’t sound like his normal alarm. And an amber light? Really? Yes, there was indeed an amber light flashing away just above his door, though the persistent buzzing noise had stopped. Still with one eye closed he glanced at the clock. 02:30. Really?
“This is the captain,” said Savage over the comm. “Sorry to wake you all at this hour but we have an emergency situation. I’d be obliged if you could meet in the crew room in fifteen minutes.”
“I have just received an urgent communication from sector HQ,” said Savage once the crew was assembled. “A type M comet is on a direct course for the colony of Lyra in the Arcadia system. Our services are required. I didn’t expect us to have to go into action quite so soon but we’ve orders to terminate our trials and make for Lyra at best possible speed.”
“Lyra?” said Chuck. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of the place.”
“To be honest, neither had I. Apparently it’s fourteen light years out from Rubicon and home to some kind of fundamentalist religious sect. The planet itself is virtually uninhabitable with the colonists – some eight thousand of them – living in a dome complex which houses an artificial eco-system.”
“What’s the time frame?” asked James.
“Tight. The comet – dubbed Hellion – is seventy two hours from planet-fall. Even at maximum speed it will take us around sixty eight to reach Lyra. That gives us just four hours to intercept and deflect the target.”
“What are we looking at?”
“Initial scans suggest an object around eight kilometers mean diameter. Typical make up of ammonia, methane and water ice. Relative velocity is thirty thousand kph. Good news is that Hellion is projected to strike the planet at an oblique angle rather than head on. Depending upon the time of interception, an eight or ten degree change in trajectory should be enough. The bad news is that if we fail, Hellion is projected to strike within a few hundred kilometers of the colony. It will not survive,” he said somberly.
“Wouldn’t it be wiser to evacuate?” asked Penny.
“It would. A super freighter in the vicinity had been diverted to Lyra. It’s large enough to accommodate all the colonists until further help arrives, though admittedly with very little elbow room. However, it seems that the colony’s elders have steadfastly refused to leave the planet.”
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“They believe that they were guided to Lyra by the one true god, that the planet is sacred ground, and that their god will surely protect them in their hour of need…”
“Seriously?” said Chuck. “They do realize the peril they are facing, don’t they?”
“I’m assured that the possible consequences of their actions have been impressed upon them,” said Savage. “To no avail,” he added.
“Faith can be a powerful thing,” said Penny.
“Yes, well so can a two hundred terawatt laser array,” declared Angus in an unusual show of boldness.
“Amen to that,” said James. “Praise the Lord and power up the warp core.”
“Yes, let’s get to it, people,” said Savage. “We’ve no time to lose.”
* * *
The Reaper
With the customary clunks and thuds, the Reaper mated with airlock E7-43 on Skydock, Grenedal’s one and only space port. The facility was a sprawling, untidy looking affair, various parts of the original structure having been upgraded, enlarged, and re-engineered at different times during the previous twenty some odd years.
Luckily, the Reaper was assigned a berth on one of the more modern gantries at the edge of the complex. The docking clamps engaged smoothly and locked in position, allowing the airlock tunnel to be pressurized. With the docking procedure complete, Corporal Tully cut power to the thrusters and shut down the main engines.
“We’ll keep the power grid on-line, Mr. Tully,” said Commodore Jacks as Sgt. Fletcher headed off to the airlock. “I want to get underway as soon as Mr. Fletcher returns.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Tully.
The Reaper had returned to Grenedal to deliver a data chip to a contact known to Fletcher from his tours in special ops. Like Fletcher, the contact had ‘retired’ from active service and was now engaged in freelance work – in his particular case, industrial espionage. The Reaper’s role in the operation was simply that of courier, which promised a reasonable return for very little risk. The worst that could happen was that they would be boarded by Industrial Espionage agents, at which point the data chip would go under the hammer. Not the auction kind – rather a two pound mallet from the Reaper’s workshop. A low tech solution to an age old problem.
On Fletcher’s return the Reaper was scheduled to leave for Texiera, yet another fringe world with a growing population and flourishing economy, this time driven by a lucrative rhodium mine owned by Conquest Minerals. One of the most valuable and sought after metals in the universe, rhodium attracted all manner of people – including privateers.
There were vast fortunes to be made in relieving transports of their cargo; one successful heist could guarantee unimagined riches and a life of luxury for the lucky crew and their descendants for several generations to come. On the downside, the rhodium trade was strictly monitored and controlled. It was almost impossible to move large amounts of rhodium into the open market without the right contacts; anything less than a corrupt government official and you were probably wasting your time.
Simpler to work in security. Every shipment of rhodium travelled with its own dedicated security detail – usually two or more escorts for every transport. At least two, but rarely one, as the temptation to become lone wolf might be too great for the solitary shepherd to bear.
The pay was good – extravagantly so – but the work carried risk, because despite the difficulties of selling on the cargo, there were still enough willing to try. Jacks weighed up the risks and decided that the Reaper was capable enough. She had speed, an up to date weapons suite and basic shielding. She’d be at least a match for most of the privateers he’d encountered over the years and in the event that he came up against a superior force he’d cut and run. He was brave but not stupid. There was a time and a place for heroism, but laying down his life in the defence of some investor’s quarterly dividends was above and beyond the call of common sense.
With Fletcher on his way planet-side and Tully looking after the flight deck, Jacks retired to his cabin to check up on the latest news. The first thing he did after logging on to a news feed was to run a search for ‘Commodore D. R. Jacks’ and variations thereof. It was vain, he knew, and a part of him was sorely disappointed to note that neither his name nor the Reaper / Kingfisher had cropped up on any of the news channels during the last few weeks. The media were such feckless friends – had they really forgotten him so quickly? He consoled himself with the knowledge that in the great scheme of things their lack of interest could only be to his advantage.
He was about to return to the bridge when as an afterthought he ran a search for the Artemis. He was most surprised to see the name flash up on all of the major news feeds.
‘Comet-buster despatched to save imperilled colony,’ ran the headline of the Tribune, Earth’s major daily.
A minute later he had all the relevant details at his fingertips. Artemis had cut short her working up trials and was now on route to the planet Lyra in the Arcadia system, ETA approximately forty eight hours from now.
Jacks brought up a star chart, checked the exact location of Lyra, compared speed and distances and then ran the data through the nav computer. The results were surprisingly agreeable. In order to reach Lyra, the Reaper would have to cover twice the distance of the Artemis. It was a lot of ground to make up, but the Reaper had a very distinct advantage for despite all her other technological advantages, the comet-buster just hadn’t been built for speed.
The Reaper could move through super-space almost twice as quickly. According to the nav computer, if the Reaper left immediately the two vessels should converge in Lyra within an hour of each other.
Just to make sure, Jacks ran through the data once again. It was solid. He’d never get a better chance than this – providence had offered up the newly frocked Lt. Poulson on a silver platter and he was damned if he was going to let the opportunity pass him by.
Jacks arrived back on the flight deck just as Sgt. Fletcher returned from his drop-off on Skydock.
“Power up the main engines,” said Jacks.
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Tully. “Course to Texiera is already locked in.”
“Belay that,” said Jacks to Tully’s surprise. “We’re not going to Texiera. Once we’re out of Grenedal airspace lay in a course to Arcadia system. Our destination is the third planet Lyra.”
“Sir?” asked Tully.
“I have unfinished business,” said Jacks, explaining his intentions. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. The rhodium mines will still be there when we’ve finished.”
“Understood,” said Fletcher, unperturbed by the sudden change in plan. Sitting at the nav console he began to feed in the new co-ordinates.
Thirty minutes later the Reaper was streaking through super-space at maximum velocity. Tully was
still seated at the helm, though in reality there was little for him to do while they were travelling through super-space. From time to time he passed a casual eye over the warp core instruments but that was pretty much the sum of his duties. It was just a matter of letting the clock wind down to the Reaper’s programmed exit into real space.
Jacks had once again retired to his quarters; he tended to spend more and more time alone in his cabin and Tully had begun to wonder what he got up to in there. Fletcher claimed that the commodore was assiduous about writing up his personal log. If so, Tully could only imagine what was written there. As far as he was concerned, most of their activities were best left out of any written record.
Tully glanced back at Fletcher who was now sitting at tactical with his feet resting on the edge of the console. Fletcher had even less to do than Tully. As soon as they dropped out of super-space he’d be busy enough getting a fix on the Artemis – and any other ship in the vicinity – but for now he was the flight deck’s most redundant fixture. He evidently thought so himself as he rose from the chair, stretched and made off towards the crew accommodation.
“I’m going to get my head down for a few hours. You OK on your own?”
“I’m fine,” said Tully.
It wasn’t entirely true. He was confident in his ability to look after the bridge; Jacks has made sure that each member of the crew was equally at home at any station on the ship, whether it be flight, tactical, engineering or navigation.
Tully had far less confidence in the mission he now found himself on – for several reasons. The Reaper was tailor made for the job of convoy escort and the Conquest Minerals contract would guarantee regular work at premium rates. Why throw it all away and go chasing across two or three sectors just to settle some grudge? And that’s all it was. A grudge… with pride thrown in for good measure. By now Bruno knew the story of how Sub-Captain Poulson and that cadet had thwarted the commodore’s plans and played a part in his capture.
When Bruno had set that charge on Poulson’s door he’d imagined the man to wholly deserving of the fate. Guilty as charged… though in the final reckoning it seemed he was guilty only of doing his duty. Jacks would be as well just to let it go. If their paths happened to cross at some point in the future, so be it – there was always a time and a place for retribution. But this wasn’t it, especially with Poulson aboard a comet-buster on an errand of mercy. It all seemed somehow dishonorable. The thought made him look up from the console and an image of his mother flashed through his mind.
The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 26