Outpost

by W. Michael Gear

  She began to tremble, hated herself for it. “Your life hangs by a thread, Captain.”

  “I’m not your enemy,” he said softly. “Hell, I’d get you out of this mess if I could. You want to space out of here? Count down the seconds until you invert symmetry? And then what? You and the crew living day by day for the next two years as your guts crawl, hounded by nightmares that when the day comes, Turalon is not going to pop back into Solar System. Talk about slow torture and psychiatric agony. You might consider yourself a rock, but your crew—what’s left of it—is going to disintegrate. Their wildest imaginations are going to have free rein.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Yeah,” he said, reading through the brave front she tried to project. “I’d be scared shitless, too.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m better than this.”

  The trembling had started in her hands. Images of the bone temple, the broken, desiccated skeleton slumped in the doorway, flickered behind her eyes. Herself, ducking out of the—

  “Donovan plays by its own rules,” Cap told her. “The saying is that some people come here just to leave, some come to stay, and others come to die.”

  “Maybe I don’t buy the quaint local shit?” If you leave, you will die. A shiver played down her spine. She could feel Freelander out there beyond the hull and across that short measure of space.

  “How’s Abibi taking it?”

  “Like the officer she is.” When he arched his brow in question, she relented. “Okay, she’s as scared as I am.”

  “So, why are you going?”

  “Cap, I’ve got a fucking fortune in metals, clay, and gems in this ship’s hold.” She stood, pacing, tucking her shaking hands against her sides.

  Come on, get it together, damn you.

  “This load is everything. A masterstroke. Sure, it doesn’t make a blip on The Corporation’s annual profit sheet, but think of the symbolic effect it will make: Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, gold, silver, and rare elements. That’s treasure. Opulence that speaks to the hearts and souls of men. It’s mythic. Jason and the Golden Fleece. Sinbad. King Solomon’s mines.

  “I can walk into the Board, toss a case on their shining table and crack it open to spill jewels and nuggets like a waterfall. ‘There it is, ladies and gentlemen, the wealth of Donovan.’”

  “Quite the scene.” He cocked his head. “Assuming you get there.”

  Kalico rubbed her forehead. “Abibi and her people have spent days scouring the Freelander logs. They’ve got nothing. Just crazy hypotheses from people losing their minds. In an attempt to figure it out, Orten’s people even tried to break into the computers. Tried using a mining excavator from the cargo. Didn’t work so well in freefall.”

  “So?”

  “So, the answer’s in the qubit core someplace. Data we can’t access here. Don’t have the skills or the computational power to analyze if we could.” She gestured futility with her now steady hand. “You’d have to get Freelander back to Earth. What if it took another hundred and some years? And who’d space in her?”

  “Spiro says the crew thinks it’s haunted.”

  “Maybe it is, Cap.” She pressed her lids together as if to squeeze out the visions. “I saw things. Heard things. Flitting images at the corners of my eyes. Shadows that seemed to be there, then weren’t.” She took a breath. “I saw myself emerge from that temple of bones. Passed myself in one of the corridors while Chan was experimenting with the generators.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Who the hell knows? Maybe afterimages from whatever dimension, universe, or reality she inverted to. What Chan calls a bubble or taint. God help us, we’re way beyond our understanding of physics with this thing.”

  “Kalico, here’s my advice: give it a rest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He waved around. “Turalon. Leave it in orbit. Keep the crew on rotation, but learn more about the planet. That wealth you’re so proud of will wait, and you might hit on something even more spectacular. Might even be in the biology if Cheng has the right idea about the molecules.”

  She stared at him, trying to scry out his motives. “Have you lost any sense you might have ever had?”

  “Actually, my suspicion is that I’ve gained some.”

  “Jesus, Cap. Have you forgotten why you were assigned this duty? What your record looks like? Insubordination? Dereliction of duty? And that fortune you’ve spent the last two years accruing? Everything hinges on my report to The Corporation.” She pointed. “And at the moment—”

  “I’m here to tender my resignation.”

  “—I’m . . . not . . .” She stopped.

  “Back on the record: Supervisor Aguila, I hereby tender my resignation from the Corporate Marines. I do, hereby, forfeit any pay, benefits, and privileges which might have been due me. I hereby state and declare that this action is made of my own free will and accord, and that I am not now, nor have I been, under duress. Upon return to Port Authority I will surrender all military equipment to Lieutenant Spiro.”

  He stood, gave her a respectful nod.

  “Cap, if you do this . . . If you walk out of this room . . .” Anger swelled, driven by desperation. “So help me God, Captain, go through with this . . . and, well, by all the powers in the multiverse, I’ll break you like a dry twig!”

  His expression went from determined to grim, eyes hardening. Snapping to attention, he saluted, palm cutting the air like a blade. Pivoting, as if on an axle, he turned and strode from the room.

  Like water draining from a jug she felt her insides empty. Rage dulled into a deep-seated and aching pain. Slumping into the chair, she dropped her head into her hands.

  56

  The cards fluttered as Dan practiced his false deal. The snap they made was the sweetest music he’d ever heard. The Jewel had exceeded his expectations. As a measure of his success, Tyrell Lawson was over at the machine shop and involved in the process of manufacturing him a new safe. The old one just wasn’t big enough.

  Around him, the Jewel was bustling. He’d designed a pretty good casino. Folks on Donovan were not only competent, but, by damn—as opposed to back in Solar System—when you hired them to do a job, they actually worked their asses off and got it done. Something about the planet’s ethic that if a person didn’t, he was likely to end up dead.

  A thought which—as Dan remembered Exman’s windpipe crushing under his gripping hands—brought a smile to his lips.

  That said, with the exception of one local named Art Maniken, the rest of his crew were hired from Turalon transportees. People he’d known aboard ship who’d landed and found themselves without a job suitable to their training. Men and women who were thankful for the opportunity to work inside, out of the elements, in a clean environment, and for wages that allowed them to live at a higher standard than their peers.

  And unlike Donovanians, they understood authority. Didn’t have that independent, screw-you streak to their personalities.

  Which meant that Dan didn’t have to threaten.

  Much.

  That was the thing about the soft meat. Unlike the Donovanians, they took orders.

  The downside when it came to soft meat? They were a festering lot. He glanced over at the corner table where Fig Paloduro and Abdul Oman had their heads together over a bottle of Inga’s brandy. They came here to talk in private, away from the Donovanians, away from lips that might spread rumors.

  Dan liked plotters. The fact that they were involved in something they didn’t want talked about meant he had a handle on them—an advantage he might be able to exploit someday. And most of the transportees were ripe for the recruiting. Angry, scared, desperate, unhappy, and trapped: it couldn’t be a more fertile ground for revolution and revolt.

  “Provided they can control it,” he whispered under his breath. Con
trol. That was the random variable that left him uneasy. His operation lay squarely astraddle of the two populations: dependent upon the triumvirate’s acceptance and the transportees’ clientele and cheap labor.

  Over the snap of the cards as he shuffled, he could hear male banter; Angelina’s more melodic laughter as she worked a mark at the craps table; the click of chips; the slapping of dealt cards onto the tables. Calls for bets rose above the rest, all followed by the occasional curse as luck went against a wager. Rarer—but unfortunately necessary—were the whoops of joy as a long shot came in.

  Dan smiled to himself as he dealt out a trey, four, five, six, and seven of hearts. He’d practiced for days to develop the trick of dealing out a straight flush. Even with an implant it took remarkable concentration and practice.

  “Sir?” Art Maniken, the big-boned miner and brawler, stepped up to the table. He’d owed Dan more than he could pay. A fact that had landed him a job as bouncer, enforcer, and faro dealer. The guy had really taken to it, delighted to be finished with backbreaking labor on his claim.

  Dan looked up, arching an eyebrow.

  Art inclined his head toward the door. A knot of spacers, in uniform, were staring around uneasily and blinking in the light after traversing the dark streets.

  “They’re not supposed to be here,” Dan said softly. “Explicit orders from Captain Abibi. And believe me, that woman means it.”

  He stood, pulled his fancy black vest with embroidered quetzals straight, and set his cuffs. Walking up, he gave his best smile.

  He knew one of them, Petre Howe from hydroponics. He’d worked for the guy as part of his punishment after the Nandi episode. Petre had been fair. Required of Dan no more or less than the job had demanded.

  Now the man grinned uneasily and shifted awkwardly. “Hey, Dan.”

  “Petre.” Dan gestured broadly toward the tables. “Would you and your party like to come in, maybe away from the door where anyone nosy might report you to the good Captain?”

  The worried glances among the others told Dan everything he needed to know. From their uniform patches, they came from all over the ship: a com specialist, kitchen staff, two from engineering, and a slim woman from atmospherics.

  Dan shepherded them back past the roulette wheel and craps table, heedless of the stares they drew.

  “Now,” Dan told them, clapping his hands together. “What can I do for you? You’re more than welcome to try your luck, but understand, while I’d dearly love to take them, Corporate credit vouchers can’t be redeemed on Donovan. It’s cash only at the tables.”

  “Got a private place we can talk?” Petre asked.

  Dan measured the nervous glances the crewmembers were giving each other, the distrust with which they viewed The Jewel’s patrons.

  “Sure. Right through that door.” He shot a wink at Allison where she sat behind the cage clicking chips and led them into the back.

  He closed the hallway door behind him, gestured them into Angelina’s room, and seated himself on the high stool before her mirror and wardrobe. She’d made the place into a saucy, yet feminine, boudoir.

  “Dan,” Petre began hesitantly, “we’ve been hearing about you. That you’re the kind of man who can get things done. That you do things for people.”

  “That depends on what kind of things you need done, Specialist Howe. What the risk is. And it depends on what’s in it for me.”

  The five crewmen looked back and forth.

  “You’ve heard about Freelander?” Petre asked.

  “Yeah. The ghost ship. People eating each other. Bones made into a temple. Spirit writing on the walls. A century lost in some time dimension beyond the explanation of physics. Not that I believe the stories, but I’m told the spirits of the dead are walking the corridors, all pursued by Captain Orten’s howling ghost.”

  The five were glancing, owl-eyed, back and forth, shifting nervously.

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “I take it those aren’t exaggerations?”

  At their continued silence, he concluded, “Obviously not. So, what brings you to me in search of some service that could get you all spaced?”

  “We want out,” Petre said, glancing anxiously at Dan. “It’s all over the ship. Some of the load specialists and a shuttle pilot stole an aircar. Slipped away. Flew someplace in the interior to some abandoned camp.”

  “We want to go,” the Asian told him.

  “Who are you?”

  The Asian bowed slightly. “Chan Tzu. This is Rita Valerie. Ngomo Suma. And this is Ashanti Kung.” He indicated the petite African woman last. “They’ve got a marine guard on the aircars. We had to bribe our way past the gate. But we understand that you might help us.”

  Dan took a deep breath. “Mutiny on the Turalon. Oh, Supervisor Aguila, someone, it seems, has dealt a deuce right in the middle of your royal flush.”

  “What does that mean?” the woman introduced as Rita Valerie asked.

  “It means,” Dan replied, “that I’m sensing one hell of an opportunity.” A beat. “And a whole lot of risk.”

  “I couldn’t think of anyone else to go to,” Petre said. “We’re ship people.”

  “What can you pay? And I told you, Corporate credit doesn’t cut it.”

  Again they looked back and forth.

  “We have ourselves, Dan.” Petre spread his hands wide. “It’s like with The Corporation. We’ll write you a contract. Our labor. Anything you want us to do if you will get us away from Port Authority. We’ve been working on Freelander. Cleaning, fixing her up, restoring systems. We’re not stupid. That ship’s worth a fortune to The Corporation. The captain is going to pick someone to space her back to Solar System . . . and we’re all junior seniority.”

  “I hadn’t heard they were going to space her back. Just the opposite. I heard they were going to leave her in orbit when Turalon spaced.”

  “No one’s said it,” Ngomo Suma muttered uneasily. “But why else would they have us fixing systems? Putting atmosphere back to normal, scrubbing filters?”

  Ashanti Kung snapped, “It’s bad enough to face a spacing on Turalon. But I’d rather be flushed out a lock than space on Freelander. I’m not going back!”

  He met her hot stare with a mild gaze.

  “Contract,” Petre said. “We’re yours if you can keep us from having to go back to either of those damned ships.”

  “Twenty years?” Dan asked to get an idea of their desperation.

  Again they looked back and forth.

  Finally Petre said, “Five.”

  “Ten,” Dan countered.

  “Seven.” Petre shifted uneasily, avoiding the eyes of the others.

  “Ten. Period. You understand, I will essentially own you. What used to be called an indenture. You will have no rights. No court. No place of appeal. My word is law.”

  Again they glanced back and forth. Ngomo and Chan Tzu looked sick, hesitant.

  “I don’t know,” Rita Valerie told him.

  “Just like a contract with The Corporation,” Dan told her. “The same thing. I provide living space, an allowance for food, and you do what I tell you.”

  “Works for me,” Petre said. “I know you, Dan. I’ll trust you to treat me as fairly as I treated you.”

  The others were still unconvinced.

  “All right, here’s how it goes,” Dan told them, pushing through them to the door. “We’re going out front, and I’m going to be loud and adamant. ‘Sorry, people! Can’t help! That’s illegal.’

  “You’re going to look sad and disappointed. You’re going to nod and say, ‘We understand.’ And then those of you willing to indenture yourselves to me for the next ten years will meet me at the back door in a half hour. By morning I’ll have you out of Port Authority. I’ve got a friend. Owns a mine about twenty klicks out. You’ll be fed, have to work as he tells you
to, and then after Turalon ships out, you’ll be brought back here to a more sanitary and comfortable environment.”

  He glanced around. “Does that suit?”

  Petre and Rita nodded, relief behind their eyes. The others were still looking uncertainly back and forth.

  “All right, my friends. Let’s go. Oh, and make it look good for the crowd.”

  In a line, he watched them file out of Angelina’s room.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “If only I had another two or three ghost ships up there in orbit.”

  He orchestrated their exit, loudly proclaiming, “Nope! Sorry, folks. Can’t do it.” And watched them vanish into the night.

  When he opened The Jewel’s back door a half hour later, all five of them were standing there ready to sign.

  As he had known they would be.

  57

  A soft rain fell from low-hanging clouds. While the overcast and precipitation weren’t enough to halt operations at the shuttle pad, the moisture that turned the hard pack into sticky clay was. The skid loaders, tires caked with slimy goo, had been idled immediately after the first one got stuck in its own tracks after depositing a sialon crate atop a precarious pile of previously stacked crates. The place was starting to look like a mad child’s mess around the perimeter. Freelander’s cargo was being dumped willy-nilly wherever the field crew could find an open spot.

  Talina sniffed at the humid air, her hair frizzed and beaded with rain. The earthy smells of wet clay, spicy vegetation, and the faint tinge of exhaust all mixed with the scents blowing in from the Gulf.

  Beside her, Shig, wearing a raincoat, slopped along in the viscous and slippery mud.

  The shuttles looked like grounded raptors, their downswept wings glistening and gray as they dripped water. Angled as they were, the forward-facing windows created the impression that the craft were scowling and disgusted with the world, while in the rear their lowered ramps dispelled any illusion created by their sleek lines. People lounged in the shelter of the holds, some reclined, others swinging their feet as they waited out the rain.